Page 35 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Tomorrow, reality awaits. But tonight, we burn in the darkness, clinging to fantasies we know won’t survive beyond these stone walls.

Chapter9

Descent

Sunlight streamsthrough the frost-rimmed window, illuminating dust motes dancing in golden beams. After days of relentless gray, the brightness feels almost intrusive, harsh in its clarity.

The storm has broken.

Jackson stands by the window, surveying the transformed landscape outside. His profile cuts a sharp silhouette against the brilliant white world beyond the glass, features set in that familiar mask of professional detachment.

"Clear skies." He speaks to the window rather than to me. "Wind's died down. Temperature's rising."

The words hang in the shelter's still air, their implication unmistakable. It's time to leave.

Our cocoon of isolation, with its intensities and revelations, must be abandoned. Reality beckons from the base of the mountain—my article, his guiding business, the separate lives temporarily entwined by circumstance and chemistry.

Sleep-warmed blankets pool around my waist as I sit on the cot. Cold air nips at my exposed skin despite the sunlight, raising goosebumps along my arms. Jackson turned away during this small vulnerability, offering privacy where none has existed for days. The consideration feels oddly painful after the intimacies we've shared.

"How soon can we head down?" My voice emerges steadier than expected.

"Noon." He moves to the woodstove, stoking the dying embers without looking my way. "Need to pack supplies, check conditions along the route first."

The awkwardness between us settles like a physical presence, taking up space in the small shelter. Last night's whispered wish—"I wish things were different"—hovers unacknowledged in daylight.

Breakfast consists of the last protein bars, consumed in silence punctuated only by the occasional crackle from the woodstove. Jackson packs methodically, equipment disappearing into his backpack—rope, emergency supplies, the half-empty first aid kit.

"You'll need to wear this." He finally approaches, holding out climbing gear—a harness similar to the one used in my rescue. "Snow's unstable after the storm. High avalanche risk."

Our fingers brush during the exchange, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm despite everything. Jackson quickly withdraws, turning back to his preparations.

"I'll need to secure you to my line." His voice remains professional and impersonal. "Whole mountain's a death trap right now for solo hikers."

"I won't argue this time." A weak attempt at lightening the mood.

The ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing. "Smart woman."

The praise shouldn't affect me, yet warmth blooms in my chest regardless. Pathetic how eagerly my heart responds to the smallest crumb of approval from this man.

By mid-morning, preparations are complete. The shelter stands ready for its next emergency occupant—wood stacked, supplies organized, surfaces wiped clean of our presence. Only memories remain as evidence of what transpired within these stone walls.

Jackson steps outside first, scanning the terrain. I follow into blinding brightness. The sun's reflection off pristine snow momentarily overwhelms me after days in the shelter's dim interior.

The world has transformed into a breathtaking winter wonderland—snow blankets every surface in crystalline perfection; icicles hang from rock outcroppings like nature’s chandeliers, and the sky stretches into endless blue above—beauty disguised as deadly danger, much like the man standing beside me.

"Stay close." Jackson secures the shelter door, locking away our temporary sanctuary. "Step exactly where I step. Touch nothing without asking first."

He approaches with the climbing harness, kneeling to help me into it. His hands move with professional efficiency, adjusting straps with precision, but something has changed. The fingers that checked my buckles tremble slightly, barely perceptible but unmistakable to someone who knows the steady certainty of those hands.

"Too tight?" His voice betrays nothing, eyes focused on equipment rather than my face.

"It's fine."

Jackson double-checks each connection, tugging testing straps that are already secure. The caution might seem excessive to an observer, but understanding dawns with painful clarity—he's replaying Emma's accident, determined not to repeat history.

"Ready?" He finally meets my gaze, eyes the color of glacier ice reflecting the brilliant sky.

"As I'll ever be."

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