Page 15 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

"Corbin?"

That voice. It stops my heart, then restarts it at double speed. I look up slowly, certain I'm hallucinating.

But she's real. Tessa kneels opposite me, her eyes wide with disbelief that surely mirrors my own. She looks different somehow—wearing practical hiking clothes, not the fashionable but impractical outfit she had on the mountain. She looks like she belongs here.

"You're here," I say stupidly, unable to form a more coherent thought.

"So are you." Her smile blooms slowly. "I was buying supplies before heading up to look for you."

The realization hits me with physical force: she came back.For me.

We both rise, forgotten items still scattered at our feet. I'm vaguely aware of Old Jimmy, his great-nephew, and a few customers watching us with undisguised curiosity. The reclusive mountain man and this beautiful stranger staring at each other like nothing else exists.

"I thought you might have forgotten," I admit, my voice rougher than I intend.

Tessa shakes her head, stepping closer. "I couldn't forget if I tried. The city felt wrong. Empty."

"My cabin, too," I confess, the words coming easier than expected. "Without you there."

Someone behind us makes a small sound of surprise. I've lived in this area for years, and these people have never heard me string together more than necessary words for transactions.

Tessa notices my discomfort with our audience. "Maybe we should continue this somewhere else?"

Relief washes through me. "Yes. My place isn't far."

This is a lie—it's a two-hour hike—but distance has a different meaning on the mountain. Willow quietly rings up Tessa's supplies without interrupting our moment.

Outside, in the clear mountain air, I finally feel like I can breathe again. Tessa stands before me, real and solid and somehow more beautiful than my memory had preserved.

"I quit my job," she says suddenly. "Packed what mattered and left. Two days was all I could stand."

The sacrifice she's made hits me with sobering clarity. "Tessa, your whole life—"

"Was waiting to begin," she interrupts, stepping closer. "I've never felt more myself than I did with you on that mountain. Even when I was cold, hungry, and terrified, I felt... alive."

Her words echo my own experience so perfectly that for a moment, I can't respond. Instead, I reach for her hand, twining our fingers together.

"Let's go home," I say simply.

The hike back to my cabin passes in comfortable conversation, punctuated by comfortable silences. I show her landmarks along the way, pleased by her genuine interest and quick observations.

"I had your directions memorized," she says proudly. "I was going to find your lightning-struck pine tomorrow."

"I'm glad we found each other before that," I admit. "The directions weren't exactly Google Maps-friendly."

She laughs, the sound carrying through the forest like music. "You gave me just enough information that someone who didn't belong here couldn't find you, but someone determined enough might."

The insight surprises me. She understands me better than I realized.

When we crest the final ridge, and my cabin comes into view, I watch her reaction carefully. It's larger than the cave where we sheltered, certainly, but still modest by modern standards—a solidly built two-room structure with a covered porch with smoke curling from the stone chimney.

"You left it burning?" she asks, noticing the smoke.

"Banked the coals this morning. Old habit for cold nights."

Her smile is warm and understanding. "It's perfect, Corbin. Exactly how I imagined."

Inside, her appreciation seems genuine as she explores the space. Her fingers trace the bookshelves built into the walls, packed with well-worn volumes. She examines the solar setup, the rainwater filtration system, and the wood stove.

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