“Sounds good.”
They walked in amicable silence to the Valley Loop Trail, following it until it intersected with the Falls trail, switchbacks passing through oak forest, their progress slowed by red-faced tourists who huffed and puffed their way uphill.
“Good grief.” Dean apparently got sick of the human traffic jam because he picked up speed and began to thread his way through them, passing them quickly.
Mitch was right behind him. It felt good to get some motion, his heart thrumming in his chest, fresh air in his lungs. As they neared Columbia Point, the trail became sandy. Dean didn’t stop to look at the view of Yosemite Valley but pressed on, pushing himself.
They passed Oh My Gosh Point with its incredible view of Half Dome, their progress slowed by tourists with cameras. They were roughly halfway to the top now, a pleasant burn in Mitch’s quadriceps. More switchbacks led to chaparral and then manzanita scrub.
When they reached the top, Dean didn’t take the stone steps to the overlook but instead headed over to the water—not the safest place to be. He knelt, splashed water on his face, then scrambled up a boulder, and sat looking out over the valley.
Mitch climbed up to sit beside him, pulled out his water bottle, and took a deep drink. Below them, Yosemite Valley stretched out like a climber’s dream, Half Dome rising above the green forest. But Mitch’s thoughts drifted to Megs.
When didn’t he think about her?
Over these past few weeks, she’d become an obsession. He loved the sound of her laugh, loved her sharp tongue and her quick wit. And those gray eyes…
The sun was beginning to set, its rays turning the top of Half Dome a flaming shade of red-gold, turkey vultures soaring on the last of the thermals, jays squawking in the nearby trees.
Dean broke the silence. “Thanks for coming with me. There are days when I want to jump. If I did, I’d do it here at night when the tourists were gone. Long, fast drop, rock-hard stop. But don’t worry. With you here, I wouldn’t do that.”
Mitch stared at him. He’d known that Dean carried memories of the war, but he hadn’t realized the weight of those memories was so heavy. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Dean laughed, a harsh sound. “It’s the most fucked-up bullshit ever to kill some scared kid your own age just because your two governments decided to have a war. I can still see the shock in his eyes, the fear. He hesitated—and I pulled the trigger.”
“I don’t see what choice you had. It was kill or be killed.”
Dean nodded. “That’s what I tell myself, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. Maybe he would have just let me pass by.”
“Maybe—or maybe he’d have gotten over his surprise and killed you.”
Dean said nothing, and Mitch realized he was shaking, his face screwed up in anguish, tears on his cheeks. Mitch wanted to tell him that it would be okay, but how could he say that? He hadn’t fought in Vietnam. He didn’t know how it felt to kill.
“Thanks for trusting me with that.” He put his arm around Dean’s shoulder. “I can’t begin to know what you’re going through, but I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Megs waiteduntil the lump in her throat loosened enough to let her speak. “Mitch is so good about keeping people’s confidences. I knew that Vietnam haunted your father, but I never knew he’d thought of ending his life. Mitch never told me.”
Kurt wiped his eyes. “My mother said he’d found peace before he died.”
The sharp edge of regret pressed in on Megs, Dean’s death a tragedy she’d never put behind her. “That’s true. He found peace with your mom, with climbing, with you and your little sister. He talked about you often. He told us he thought you were a good little hiker and might climb one day, too.”
Kurt smiled. “I’m sorry to say he was wrong about that. I love the mountains. I hike and camp, but climbing…”
His words trailed off, but he didn’t have to finish. Why would any child take up the sport that had killed their father?
“I guess I understand now why he didn’t hold a grudge against Gridwall.”
Kurt nodded. “My mother told me that he never judged draft dodgers. He believed Vietnam was a mistake and understood why a man might choose self-preservation over country. He never spoke of the war in front of us kids, but killing that young soldier stayed with him for the rest of his life.”
“Is all of this why you became a minister?” Megs had learned a few things from Mitch about reading people. “Is it your calling to help people cope with their pain?”
Kurt seemed to consider this. “That could be. I believe God suffers with us, shares in our grief and pain. Losing my father was the worst thing that has happened to me. Easing the pain of others, giving them solace, isn’t a poor way to spend one’s life.”
“No, it certainly isn’t.” Megs was about to find another entry that featured Dean when Kurt’s phone beeped.
He slipped it out of his pocket. “I have to go. There’s been a serious accident, and there are folks in the ER who are getting bad news.”
Megs’ stomach knotted at the thought. “Damn, you’re strong—just like Dean.”
