Page 15 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Jackson sits at the small table, working on the generator again. Judging by the fresh coffee and rekindled fire, he’s been up for hours. His movements are precise and focused as if the machine before him holds all the answers to the universe. He hasn't acknowledged my waking, though the creaking of the cot surely gave me away.

"Morning." My voice sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet shelter.

Jackson's shoulders tense slightly, the only indication he's heard me. His attention remains fixed on the generator's innards, the screwdriver twisting harder than it seems like it should.

Two can play at this game. I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, testing my ankle. The throbbing has subsided to a dull ache—painful but manageable. Using the makeshift cane, I make my way to the woodstove, where a pot of water sits warming.

The routine of morning ablutions provides welcome distraction. The cold water against my face stings pleasantly, washing away the lingering cobwebs of sleep. My reflection in the small mirror hung by the door reveals tangled hair and shadows beneath my eyes. Not my best look, but vanity seems ridiculous under the circumstances.

"Coffee's hot." Jackson's voice, when it finally comes, is neutral, professional—as if yesterday never happened.

"Thanks." I pour the dark liquid into a metal mug, the rich aroma momentarily overwhelming the shelter's persistent scents of wood smoke and close quarters.

The generator suddenly sputters, lights flickering before stabilizing. Jackson mutters something under his breath, adjusting a component with quick, sure fingers.

"Problem?" I venture, sipping the strong coffee.

"Fuel line's clogged. Been fighting it all morning." He doesn't look up. "Running on borrowed time."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning when it dies, it dies." Now he glances up, those piercing blue eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to his work. "We lose power. No lights, no radio, no heat except the woodstove."

The implications settle heavily. "How long do we have?"

"Hours, maybe. Not days." He tightens a connection with grim determination. "Need to prepare while we can."

Jackson outlines our contingency plan. We’re to melt extra snow for water while we still have the electric kettle. Move essential supplies closer to the woodstove. Inventory the lantern fuel. Check our wood supply.

We fall into an uneasy rhythm, working around each other in the small space, carefully maintaining distance while completing necessary tasks. The deliberate avoidance of yesterday's events hangs between us, an invisible barrier more solid than the shelter's stone walls.

The generator coughs again, lights dimming momentarily.

"Not good." Jackson straightens from his crouch beside it. "We need to conserve what power remains. Essential functions only."

"What's essential?" My notebook lies on the table, beckoning. Perhaps this forced working relationship provides the perfect opportunity for my article—professional distance as a shield against whatever sparked between us yesterday.

"Heat. Communication. Light, but only when absolutely necessary." He moves to the radio, cranking it with practiced turns of his wrist.

"Angel's Peak Base, this is Hart. Radio check, over." His voice takes on a formal quality when speaking into the device.

Static crackles before a response comes through. "Copy, Hart. Reading you five-by-five. Status update?"

"Generator failing. Will maintain scheduled check-ins as long as possible. Storm status?"

"No improvement. System stalled over the range. Expect another forty-eight hours minimum. How are your supplies?"

"Adequate. Will update at next check-in. Hart out." He sets the radio aside, expression grim.

Two more days, at least. The knowledge should dismay me, but beneath the practical concerns lies an unexpected flutter of something else. Two more days with this complex, frustrating man who kisses like he's drowning and I'm air.

Ridiculous thoughts. Focus on the article.

I retrieve my notebook and pen, settling at the table while Jackson checks our wood supply.

"Mind if I ask you some questions? For my article?" The professional tone comes naturally, with years of interviews lending confidence to my voice.

Jackson pauses, arms full of split logs. "Your article."

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