Freefall. Jill Sorenson

about falling. It was a repeat of yesterday’s close call on Angel Wings. Only this time, her harness hadn’t held. The nylon had snapped, sending her hurtling toward the ground, her arms and legs flailing.

      The nightmare faded and she let out a slow breath, trying to orient herself. She was in a single-man tent. With Sam.

      He hadn’t kept his distance; it was impossible in the cramped space. He also hadn’t kept his sleeping bag to himself. The thick, down-filled fabric covered them both, so he must have unzipped it to share with her. Underneath that layer, she had the safety blanket, which wasn’t big enough for two.

      She felt cozy, insulated from the chilly morning air. And a little guilty, because he’d put her comfort above his own.

      They’d been sleeping spoon-style, with her back to his front. Her head was pillowed on the crook of his right arm. His left was locked around her waist in a manner that could only be called possessive.

      He stirred behind her, mumbling something in his sleep. His lips brushed against the nape of her neck.

      She’d always melted when a man kissed her there. Sam had paid special attention to this erogenous zone during round two on that ill-fated night. He’d dragged his open mouth all the way down her tingling spine.

      Hope forced the memory aside and tried to ignore the feathery sensation, to no avail. Her skin prickled with awareness and her nipples tightened in the cups of her sports top. She had to extricate herself from this predicament ASAP. When she touched his arm, attempting to remove it from her person, his muscles tensed. He tightened his grip on her waist and brought her closer, aligning her bottom with his lap.

      Oh no. Was he awake?

      She couldn’t tell for sure, but the quickening of breath, along with an obvious erection, indicated some level of awareness.

      The best strategy at this point would be to say something and move away from him. But she stayed right where she was, her mouth closed and her body humming with arousal. He rewarded this choice by lifting a hand to her breast, brushing his thumb over her nipple. When she didn’t protest, he buried his face in her hair.

      She gasped as he nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear. His heartbeat thumped against her back and his erection prodded her buttocks.

      “Melissa,” he groaned, smoothing his hand down her belly. He traced the cleft of her sex with his fingertips.

      And then the name registered.

      She shoved his arm away and scrambled upright. “Melissa?”

      He blinked at her in confusion. His eyes were bloodshot, dark with desire, and there were sleep lines on his lean cheek.

      “You just called me Melissa,” she prompted.

      “You’re...Hope.”

      She couldn’t believe he had to reach for the information, as if they hadn’t spent the past twenty-four hours together. As if he didn’t know her. “Are you sure? Because you thought I was someone else a second ago.”

      He stretched out on his back and looked up at the ceiling of the tent, raking a hand through his hair. The sweatband he always wore on his right wrist was pushed up over his palm, revealing a piece of tattooed script. They both noticed it at the same time. As he read the insignia, his eyes filled with anguish and his throat worked in agitation.

      She grasped his forearm, holding it still.

      R.I.P., Melissa.

      “Who is she?”

      He tried to speak, but the words were strangled. Shaking his head in apology, he covered his face with one hand and rolled onto his side, shutting her out.

      Hope couldn’t bear to watch him cry. It seemed like a foreign level of emotion for a controlled risk taker who never even flinched. He clearly didn’t want her to witness this breakdown, or to offer him comfort in any way. So, instead of staying with him, she unzipped the tent and walked away.

      It was a chilly, misty morning. Her muscles groaned in protest as she sat down to put on her boots, so she did some yoga stretches.

      Hope didn’t feel good about leaving him alone. He’d taken care of her and kept her warm last night. On the other hand, he’d thrown her out of his bed after their first encounter, and added injury to insult by forgetting her name—again.

      She owed him nothing.

      When he emerged from the tent a few moments later, his eyes were red-rimmed, but clear, and his mouth was set in a tight line. He laced up his hiking boots in silence. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

      A hint of indignation seeped back in. “Did you mean to touch me that night you took me home from the lodge?”

      He flashed a sardonic smile. “Yes.”

      Apparently she wasn’t worth a repeat performance. He didn’t offer any further explanation, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

      She’d done a Google search on him the morning after their one-night stand, struck by the awful suspicion that he was married or in a serious relationship. The internet search had brought up articles about his business endeavors, his climbing feats and his entrapment in San Diego. He’d been linked to various women, including an Italian supermodel, but she hadn’t found any information about wives or current girlfriends. Not even on Facebook.

      She’d closed her laptop, resolving to forget about him. Faith was the only person she’d mentioned his name to. The female rangers she worked with were friendly, but asking them about Sam’s love life would only provide gossip fodder. Rumors that he was gay, or unable to perform since the coma he’d suffered during the San Diego earthquake, were baseless. She just wanted to put the humiliating experience behind her.

      Sam broke down camp while Hope ate her last granola bar, her thoughts churning. Together, they set off toward Kaweah.

      Her stiff muscles loosened up and her resentment faded. He’d lost a woman he loved. If he wasn’t over her, he shouldn’t have taken Hope to bed, but whatever. He’d been drunk. He’d made a mistake.

      She knew how hard it was to let go. Better than anyone.

      By the time they reached the base of the mountain, she’d brushed off her hurt feelings. She wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, and his apology seemed genuine. She suspected that he was struggling with severe depression. Anyone who free-soloed at night had one foot in the grave.

      Hope had worked a number of suicide scenes. Sierra National Park was a popular place for cliff jumpers. It was wide open, with few witnesses and many high points to leap from. Often the bodies were unidentifiable, and it was difficult to distinguish between a purposeful death and a falling accident.

      The thought of finding Sam’s body at the base of a cliff, his internal organs obliterated and bones crushed, chilled Hope to the core.

      At midmorning, the sun was burning through a haze of clouds and the air felt heavy. They might be in for rain, another complication she didn’t need. Instead of moping about it, she put a spring in her step, following her mantra to stay positive.

      Kaweah was bustling with activity. As they arrived, a team of investigators headed up the path to Angel Wings.

      She stopped to speak with Deputy Phillip Meeks, the leader. He was a young man, former military, kind of a hotshot. A more experienced deputy wouldn’t be amiss, but at least Meeks was strong and fit. She showed him the pictures on her camera, pointing out the exact location of the drug stash.

      “You’ll want to take East Slope, the trail on the left. It’s faster.”

      “Ten-four,” he said, wearing the ghost of a smirk.

      Meeks had been at the bar the night she’d gone home with Sam. He might have seen them leave together, but he hadn’t run his mouth about it, as far as she knew. Long Pine was a small community, and members of local law enforcement were a tight-knit