Page 19 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"Quick learner." The words emerge reluctantly, as if praising me costs him something.

"Good teacher." The exchange feels significant, a small bridge spanning the chasm between us.

By midday, our activities have warmed the shelter marginally. Jackson rations two protein bars between us for lunch—sustenance without satisfaction. My stomach grumbles in protest, accustomed to more substantial fare.

"Gets easier." Jackson notices my expression as I chew the bland, dense rectangle. "Hunger. Body adjusts."

"Speaking from experience?"

He nods once. "Ten days stranded on McKinley. Rescue delayed by weather. Similar to this."

"Ten days?" The prospect of seven more days like these three sends panic skittering through me.

"Different circumstances. Worse injuries. Less shelter." His gaze travels to the window, where snow continues to fall steadily, if less violently than before. "We're fortunate by comparison."

Fortunate. Not a word I'd have chosen for our situation, yet his perspective shifts mine slightly. We have shelter. Heat. Food. Each other. The last thought lingers uncomfortably.

The afternoon stretches endlessly before us. Without power for light, the shelter dims as clouds thicken outside. Jackson lights our precious lantern, conserving fuel by keeping the flame low. The resulting shadows dance across the stone walls, creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite the cold.

"We need distraction." Jackson retrieves a battered deck of cards from a shelf. "Mental activity helps combat cold."

He deals a hand of gin rummy, explaining rules I already know, but allow him to review. The normalcy of the activity strikes me as bizarrely comforting—two people playing cards while a blizzard rages outside, as if this were some planned vacation rather than a survival scenario.

Three hands in, the game has generated more conversation than the previous days combined. Jackson reveals small details about himself—preferred climbing routes, a surprising fondness for classical music, and his grandfather's role in establishing Angel's Peak's first rescue team.

My journalistic instincts prickle with interest, but I resist the urge to interrogate. This fragile camaraderie feels too valuable to risk.

During the fourth hand, my gaze drifts to the shelf where Emma's photograph sits partially hidden. In the lantern's soft glow, the frame catches light, drawing attention like a beacon.

Jackson follows my glance, his expression shuttering immediately. The comfortable atmosphere dissipates like smoke.

"Your fiancée was beautiful." The words emerge before wisdom can contain them.

His hands still on the cards, knuckles whitening. For several heartbeats, I'm certain he'll retreat behind anger again, ending our tentative connection.

Instead, he carefully places his cards face down.

"Yes." The single syllable carries volumes of pain.

Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken grief. I've crossed a boundary, yet something tells me it needed crossing.

"Would you tell me about her?" My voice softens, setting aside the journalist for simple human connection. "Not for the article. Just... because."

Jackson's jaw works beneath his beard. His eyes remain fixed on the tabletop, seeing something far beyond the weathered wood.

"Emma Mitchell. Twenty-nine when she died. Environmental scientist. Specialized in alpine ecosystems." The words emerge stilted at first, facts without emotion, as if reading a biography. "Expert climber. Better than me on technical ascents. Fearless. Brilliant."

He rises abruptly, moving to retrieve the photograph. His fingers trace the frame with reverence before he returns to the table.

"Three years ago. Leading a group of university researchers up the north face. Routine climb—challenging but within their abilities." His voice changes, roughening. "Storm warning came through late. Too late. Should have turned back immediately."

The photograph trembles slightly in his grip.

"Emma wanted to push forward. Just another hour, she said. They needed specific samples from the summit. Important research." His eyes finally meet mine, haunted. "I agreed. Against my better judgment. Against everything I knew about the mountain."

The confession hangs between us, heavy with self-recrimination.

"The storm hit faster than anyone predicted. Visibility dropped to nothing. Temperatures plummeted." His thumb brushes Emma's smiling face. "We were making our descent. She was leading the second group."

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