Page 17 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

Scout emerged first, his German Shepherd form unmistakable even through the rain-smeared glass. My heart leapt painfully as Mack appeared behind him, tall frame bent slightly against the downpour. Relief weakened my knees momentarily before apprehension returned full force. What would I say to him? How could I possibly make this right?

Before I could assemble my scattered thoughts, the kettle whistled shrilly. I removed it from the heat just as crackling static emanated from the radio on the counter. Usually silent, the emergency channel Mack monitored suddenly burst to life with an urgent transmission:

"—repeat, overflow warnings for Miller Creek and eastern junction of the Ashwood River. Heavy rainfall has caused accelerated runoff from higher elevations. Chief Thornton requests immediate evacuation of zones three through five. Repeat: immediate evacuation of zones three through five."

The back door swung open as I absorbed this information. Mack entered, water streaming from his jacket and hair, creating dark puddles on the hardwood. Our eyes met briefly—his distant, heavily guarded—before he crossed to the radio without a word, adjusting the dials to turn up the volume.

"Fire Chief Dawson reporting riverbank erosion threatening Lindstrom Orchard and adjacent properties," another voice announced through the static. "All available personnel requested for sandbagging operations. Over."

Scout shook vigorously, adding to the indoor deluge, then trotted to his bed near the fireplace. The normalcy of the dog's behavior contrasted sharply with the electric tension between Mack and me.

"—access roads to northern properties already compromised," the dispatcher continued. "Requesting four-wheel drive volunteers for welfare checks on Fire Mountain residences. Over."

Mack stood motionless before the radio, water dripping steadily from his clothes to form expanding circles at his feet. He seemed unaware of his soaked state, attention fixed entirely on the emergency broadcast.

"That's your brother they mentioned, isn't it?" I ventured, desperate to break the suffocating silence. "Ian? Coordinating evacuations?"

He nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin that discouraged further questions.

"Sounds serious," I pressed gently. "Especially the orchard. Wasn't that where you helped last autumn?"

"Yes." The single syllable emerged flat, emotionless.

I watched him struggle out of his sodden jacket, his movements stiff from cold and exertion. His obvious discomfort spurred me forward despite his clear desire for distance.

"They're asking for four-wheel drive volunteers," I said, gesturing toward the radio. "Your truck could—"

"Not my problem." He hung his jacket on a wooden peg, still avoiding my gaze.

The callousness of his response, so contrary to the man who'd pulled me from a wrecked car during a storm, stunned me momentarily. "How can you say that? These are your neighbors—Mrs. Lindstrom—they could lose everything."

"They have emergency services. Trained personnel." He moved toward the kitchen, maintaining maximum possible space between us. "One person won't make a difference."

"That's not true." I followed, caution overridden by disbelief. "You know these mountains better than most. You have skills—"

"Skills for destruction," he interrupted bitterly. "Not useful."

"That's not who you are." My voice softened despite the frustration building inside me. "I've witnessed how you operate in a crisis. When you found me after the crash, you knew exactly what to do—how to assess injuries, how to transport me safely."

"Basic training," he dismissed, filling the kettle with mechanical precision. "Nothing special."

"And what about navigating flood conditions with your truck?" I gestured toward the radio. "They need help with welfare checks and sandbagging. That's you, Mack."

"Still constructing your hero narrative?" His laugh held no warmth, just jagged edges. "Looking for more inspiration for your bestseller?"

The barb struck its intended target, but I refused to flinch. "This isn't about me or my writing. This is about people who need help, including your brother."

"Ian doesn't need my help." A muscle worked in his jaw. "He's the reliable Thornton. Always has been."

"This isn't about sibling dynamics," I countered. "It's about doing what's right. About using your abilities instead of hiding up here, convincing yourself you're worthless."

His hands stilled on the kettle, shoulders tensing visibly. "You don't know anything about me. About what I've done—or failed to do."

"You're right," I acknowledged, softening my approach. "I don't know what happened overseas. But I see who you are now—a capable man who rescues strangers, who provides shelter and safety, who possesses exactly the skills needed in this emergency."

"You see what you want to see." He turned, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that burned with emotion.

"I seeyou,Mack," I insisted. "Not some fictional creation. You. And right now, you're hiding from yourself more than anyone else. You can do this. I know it.”

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