By Your Side (17 page)

B
LAMING HERSELF FOR HER SISTER’S ASSAULT?
Fletcher didn’t know what to say. Or do. But he didn’t like that Macy had gone quiet. “Want to walk a little? Is your leg okay for that?”

“Sure.” Her eyes met Fletcher’s. The gratitude in their sad depths said he was doing the right thing after all. “I’d like that.”

“Let’s go.”

They continued along the path leading toward yet another giant sequoia. The crowds had thinned considerably; folks were heading back before darkness encroached. They’d have to do that too, but right now
 
—

“I think I told you that my mother died when I was six,” Macy said, her voice blending with their soft footfalls on the path. “I sort of pieced some things together later and found
out she was a fashion model. She did a lot of runway work on the West Coast. A few top magazines too. One of them called her ‘spectacularly Nordic.’ I had no clue what that meant. But she was amazingly beautiful.”

Fletcher noticed how the sunset glow highlighted the planes of Macy’s face. He wasn’t at all amazed her mother had been beautiful too.

“It was important to me, made me feel important, I guess
 
—back then. That stack of old fashion magazines and some newspaper clippings were all I had. I read them to Leah like they were bedtime stories. And filled in the huge gaps with fiction. I told her she could be a model too. I must have said it a hundred times. She was about ten then and ate it up. She loved to pretend . . .” Macy’s breath escaped in a groan. “I shouldn’t have done it. It feels like I set her up.”

“What do you mean?”

Macy stopped walking. “This man stopped her in a mall. . . . He told her she was special and that he’d see to it everyone in the world knew it too. He said he represented a Los Angeles modeling agency and that he could arrange to have her photos taken for free. Because she was that ‘special.’ Leah wanted to believe it. She trusted him.” Macy squeezed her eyes shut. “They found her in an abandoned warehouse in Modesto. Incoherent from drugs. Her jaw was fractured. The police figured there were three men
 
—” She shuddered.

“Hey . . .” Fletcher reached out, grasped Macy’s hand, and drew her to him, hugging her close. “Shh,” he whispered into her hair, desperate to still her shivering and stop her pain. “Shh. It’s okay.”

“But it’s not,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “It was never okay after that. Leah ran away. Started drinking, got involved with drugs. I tried so hard to find her.”

“And you did.” Fletcher cradled the back of Macy’s head in his palm. “You’ve found her, Macy. And you’re helping her. That’s huge. Like a second chance.” He thought of his sister. “That doesn’t always happen. Trust me.”

She’d stopped shivering. Her sigh warmed his skin.

“All right, then.” Fletcher stepped back a little and searched her eyes. “Tell me about this house you’ve found.”

They’d started to walk again. Fletcher was still holding her hand. Macy wasn’t going to overthink it. Right now it felt okay
 
—more than that, really. She knew it was probably this place as much as it was Fletcher Holt, but for the first time, it felt better to talk than to keep all this stuff bottled up inside.

“It’s a little house,” she explained. “A bank foreclosure. But you can feel that it was a real home for a long time. You know, with kids. And dogs probably.” Macy remembered Elliot down on his hands and knees checking the carpet with observable disgust. “Dogs definitely. And trees in the yard. It’s been empty awhile and the previous occupants took some things. Like the stove, a few faucets, and even the front door hardware.” Macy dared to smile. “But I can fix that.”

“Hiking boots . . . and a tool belt, too?”

“I’m more determined than handy, I’d say. I never thought I’d be doing this at all. But . . .”

Fletcher gave her fingers a squeeze. “But you want a second chance with your sister.”

“Yes.”

“I can understand that,” Fletcher said with a sigh.

“Because you lost your sister.”

“Yeah.” He tugged Macy aside as a trio of kids raced toward them, heading the other way. A beleaguered mother followed behind, shrieking at them to slow down and be quiet.

The boisterous family disappeared in the distance, leaving Macy and Fletcher alone in the quiet again. They stood alongside the path, shadows beginning to deepen around them. “Did you say your sister was three? At the time of the accident?” Macy asked as gently as she could.

“Right.” Fletcher looked up the trail. “’Bout the same size as that feisty one in the lead just now. Beth was like that
 
—no one could stop her.”

Except a drunk driver.
It was Macy’s turn to give Fletcher’s fingers a squeeze. “Were you injured?”

“Mom’s ankle was broken in three places. I had a gash in my chin. The impact threw us. But I was still able to get up and try to
 
—” Fletcher’s grimace said it first. “I tried to haul Beth out from under the car; she was whimpering and fighting to get her breath. Choking. I kept trying, but she was pinned tight.”

Macy stepped close. Fletcher’s eyes looked smoky dark in the shadows, his expression somber. She reached up, rested her palm against his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”

“Long time ago.” He swallowed and took a slow breath. “But this thing with my mother . . . the cancer. She’s been
through too much, Macy. I’m going to make sure she gets past this. If it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Macy managed, barely above a whisper. Somehow she’d moved closer until there was no measurable space between them. Her fingers brushed the stubbled warmth of his cheek. “And Charly’s strong. Really strong.”

His eyes held hers. “You are too. Strong, caring. Beautiful inside and out.”

“Fletcher . . .” Macy wasn’t sure if she’d risen on tiptoes or if he’d leaned lower. But somehow her arms were around his neck and his lips found her cheek. A tentative kiss. Warm and gentle, but more than enough to make her heart flutter like a captured bird. She breathed in the clean, masculine scent of him: skin-warmed cotton flannel, a hint of musky soap. The perfect mix with mountain air and redwoods . . .

“Thank you,” Fletcher told her, his lips brushing her brow. “For inviting me along. I didn’t know how much I needed a day like this.”

“You’re welcome.” Macy leaned back, leaving her hands exactly where they were
 
—fingers sifting the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “I needed today too. And . . .” She decided to risk it. Trust the moment, even in this uncharted territory. “I’m glad that the first person I invited here was you.”

Even in the dark, Macy saw the crinkles at the corners of Fletcher’s eyes. He held her gaze long enough for her knees to feel wobbly again
 
—if she’d been on the cables of Half Dome, she’d be a grim statistic. Then he leaned in a fraction of an inch closer . . .

“It’s all right,” Macy whispered, hearing her heart in her ears. “I want you to kiss me.”

“I’m glad.” Fletcher chuckled, hitching her closer against him. She felt his heartbeat through his shirt. “Are you always this direct?”

“With most things.” She smiled at him. “I have no map for this.”

“My turn, then.” He slid his pack from his shoulders. Dropped it. “That’s better.”

Macy’s skin shivered as Fletcher swept his fingers along her face, then cradled it in both hands. He leaned lower, touching his lips to the corner of her mouth. Brushed her lips very lightly, more of a nibble than a kiss. He took a breath before capturing her mouth again, slowly and more deliberately this time . . . warm and still gentle. A lingering kiss that hinted at passion held respectfully in check. It sent Macy’s pulse racing nevertheless. She twined her arms more securely around his neck, responding to his kiss, and
 
—

“Marmots!” a youthful voice shouted. Far too close.

“What?” Fletcher drew back, confusion in his voice and hands still knuckle-deep in Macy’s hair.

A flashlight beam blinded them.

“Oops, sorry, sir, ma’am. A bunch of marmots are all over your pack. I think I scared ’em. No, there’s still one
 
—see?”

“I . . . We . . .” Macy laughed, fighting a breathless wave of giddiness. She stepped away from Fletcher, catching sight of the remaining animal bandit. “Thank you for letting us know. We appreciate it.”

“Right,” Fletcher added. A frustrated lie was never more painfully obvious. “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problem.” The boy pointed. “I think he was trying to steal a treat.”

Fletcher’s lips twitched. “I can relate.”

“We should probably get headed back too,” Macy told him after the boy bounded away. “The last tram leaves in less than fifteen minutes.” She read pure reluctance in his eyes. She’d been right earlier: she had no map for this part of their day.

“We walked up here.” He hefted his pack. “We could hike back out
 
—no reason to wedge ourselves into a tram with a crowd of people.”

“Except that it’s getting dark.”

“Flashlight.” He patted his pack. “I think we covered that point when we first planned this adventure.”

She smiled. “We still have a long drive home. You have to work in the morning.”

“And you don’t.” Fletcher reached for Macy’s hand as though it was a given. “Did you take those extra days because of what you have going with Rush? The house purchase?”

“It worked out that way.” Macy decided she liked that they were walking hand in hand, almost as if they were a couple. She decided, too, that honesty was still in the air. “I was at the bank because of the house. But I didn’t plan to take extra days off. My boss, the ED director, suggested I take a little time. Because of what happened there.”

“Not a bad idea.” Fletcher’s fingers tightened very slightly over hers. “Seth Donovan, the law enforcement chaplain
 
—you know him
 
—met with the bank employees. He did one of his not-so-subtle checks on me too.”

“He and Taylor talked with the hospital staff. About Andi Carlyle and now the shooter. I didn’t go.”

“Because you handle things fine alone.”

“Yes. And it’s not like I’m having any issues.” A single nightmare
 
—so real it had sent Macy to the bathroom to wash the horrifying sensation of blood from her hands
 
—didn’t mean she was suffering from critical stress. This mountain getaway was all she needed to get things back on track.

“You probably heard the speculation that your being at two of the scenes wasn’t a coincidence,” Fletcher said. “The reporters are reading a lot into it.”

“Sharks. Sense a little blood in the water . . .” Macy regretted the analogy immediately.

Fletcher nodded. “Keeping things stirred up. Whatever it takes.”

Macy decided not to mention her conversation with Taylor. The hint that some of the hospital staff might share the media’s absurd fantasy. Probably the same people who refused to say the word
quiet
in the ER for fear it would conjure up a horrific bus crash. “There’s no reason for that sniper to target me.”

He ran his fingers down his jaw, surprised once again by the feel of his skin. Plucked smooth like the carcass of a pintail duck
 
—minus the buckshot holes.
“Shoot ’em through the wing, Son; makes the dry plucking a lot easier.”

He closed his eyes, remembering the primal smell of singed feathers and congealing blood.

He’d shaved the beard. Had to. The same way he’d
changed the plates on the Buick. Twice now. You couldn’t be too careful. He told himself it was why he was here right now. Caution, not curiosity or . . .

“They say you’ve got a case of the paranoia, boy. And these pills will keep your brain trackin’ up better . . . stop you from imagining things that aren’t real.”

His teeth ground together. He was here out of caution. Period.

He’d arrived in the parking lot around six fifteen, still light, and parked near the administrative annex. His second trip here today. Twice as much risk, but he’d had to do it that way because there were eight-hour shifts and twelve-hour shifts. The twelve-hour graveyard shift started at seven. But maybe they didn’t call it graves here.