Freefall. Jill Sorenson

or her profession, or her feelings.

      And the way he’d acted afterward—Jesus. He couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.

      Since then, he’d tried not to think about her. He’d convinced himself that she wasn’t special; any woman would feel fantastic after a long stint of abstinence. She wasn’t beautiful; he’d had beer goggles on.

      He’d really been kidding himself.

      Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her bite into the apple. Her white teeth pierced the fruit’s ruddy skin. She was flushed from the hike, dewy with perspiration, her tank top plastered to her chest. No, he didn’t need alcohol to find her attractive.

      “How do you know Owen?” she asked.

      “Owen?”

      “Owen Jackson.”

      He blinked a few times to dispel the sexual voodoo. “We met in San Diego during the earthquake.”

      She arched a curious brow, crunching on another bite of apple. He hadn’t spoken to the media about the incident, but it was widely reported that he’d almost died in a freeway collapse. “You were in a coma.”

      “Most of the time,” he agreed. “A group of us were trapped in the rubble. Owen used my climbing equipment to get out and find help.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes.”

      “And now you’re friends?”

      Sam wouldn’t go that far. Even his close friends didn’t talk to him anymore, and he avoided his family. He’d alienated everyone who loved him. “We’re friendly enough,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

      “I was just wondering.”

      “Has he given you any trouble?”

      “No. He works hard.”

      “He seems like a good kid,” he said, shrugging. “I owed him one, and I thought he deserved a second chance.”

      She nodded, finishing her lunch.

      It occurred to him that she might be interested in Owen as a man. The “kid” was in his early twenties, but prison had matured him beyond his years. Although he had some issues, he wasn’t half as screwed up as Sam.

      “How old are you?” he asked, suspicious.

      “Twenty-eight.”

      He let out the breath he’d been holding. Most park rangers were college graduates, and she was hardly jailbait. “You look younger.”

      “How old are you?”

      “Thirty-two.”

      “You look older.”

      He acknowledged this truth with a wry smile. Even before grief and illness ravaged him, the sun had stripped any hint of youth from his skin. “I owe you an apology,” he said, surprising them both.

      She almost choked on a mouthful of water. “For what?”

      “I...wasn’t myself that night.”

      “Who were you?”

      “I don’t know.”

      Hope didn’t seem impressed by this nonexplanation.

      “The way I reacted was rude,” he said, feeling lousy. “I’m sorry. I could have handled it better.”

      She still looked skeptical, and he couldn’t blame her. There was no polite way to tell the woman you just had sex with to get out of your house. He shouldn’t have brought it up; his behavior was inexcusable.

      “Let’s just forget about it,” she said, forcing a smile.

      Sam wasn’t relieved that she’d let him off the hook. On the contrary, her words plucked a painful chord inside him. He’d never forget anything on purpose. Every memory he’d been able to retain was precious to him.

      She rose to her feet and brushed off the seat of her pants.

      “Do you want me to carry your pack?”

      “No, I’m okay.”

      As they continued toward Angel Wings, the silence became increasingly uncomfortable. His apology, though sincere, hadn’t cleared the air. If anything, it made the situation worse. Tension swirled between them, thicker than ever.

      The last two miles of the path were the most challenging. He didn’t want to exhaust her before the climb, so he let her walk in front of him. This way she could set her own pace, rather than struggle to keep up.

      Her other physical attributes were just as fine as her face. She had an athletic build, taut and toned, but not skinny. She was curvy in all the right places. Her cropped jogging pants clung to her slender thighs and cute ass. She had long, graceful arms. If she climbed with as much gusto as she did everything else, they’d have no problems reaching the summit.

      Sam wasn’t looking forward to the ascent. He didn’t partner anymore. Not with men at his skill level, not with women at any level. The idea gave him hives. He didn’t want to hold Hope’s life in his hands.

      Angel Wings rose in the distance, a massive wall of pale gray granite. This angel had dirty wings, feathering high into the sky. Mighty Valhalla stood directly across from her. Both monoliths had smooth faces, ribbed with cracks and handholds, etched by ancient glaciers. It was the stuff of climbers’ dreams.

      Hope stopped and flashed a smile, more genuine than the one she’d offered earlier. “Which route did you take up Valhalla?”

      He fell into step beside her, following her gaze to the wall. There were five or six charted routes with fixed pitons. Climbers could follow a trail that had already been blazed, or strike out on their own. “North Arete.”

      The smile fell off her face. “You free-soloed North Arete?”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s impossible.”

      He didn’t argue. It was the most difficult route on Valhalla, and a challenging free solo, but hardly impossible.

      “It hasn’t been done. Not even in the daytime.”

      “I did it.”

      She squinted into the distance. “How?”

      He rotated the elastic band on his wrist, uncomfortable. A climbing feat didn’t exist without a witness, so there was nothing to brag about. Glory and record-breaking no longer appealed to him. “Never mind.”

      But clearly, she did mind. “You free-soloed a 5.12 route in the middle of the night? Are you crazy?”

      “Maybe.” Probably. Yes.

      “Next you’ll tell me you BASE-jumped off the top.”

      He smiled at her horrified expression. “That’s illegal.”

      “So is backcountry hiking without a permit,” she said, her dark eyes flashing.

      “I don’t free-BASE,” he said. Some young daredevils were combining free-solo climbing with BASE jumping. Sam wasn’t tempted. He liked the freedom of climbing without gear; the sensation of falling just made him nauseated.

      “I’d arrest you in a heartbeat if you did.”

      Oddly, this conversation thrilled him more than the risky climb. He pushed the limits because he felt dead inside. Although he still had some capacity for fear, he’d lost his sense of self-preservation.

      What he’d retained, in overabundant amounts, was concern for others. He couldn’t belay a partner without anticipating a fall. His intense anxiety interfered with his love for the sport. He didn’t want to be responsible for another climber. Often, he didn’t trust the gear. Solo-climbing had become his only solace.

      Partnering