Page 39 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

No contest, really. Some lines shouldn't be crossed.

Standing at the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass, movement catches my attention. A familiar truck crawls past the guesthouse, slowing almost imperceptibly before continuing down the street.

Jackson.

My heart stutters against my ribs, an unwelcome reminder of feelings I've been working to suppress. What is he doing here, in town, passing my temporary home?

Before reason can intervene, I grab my jacket and notebook—a journalist's armor—and head into the gentle rain. Professional pretense. That's all this is.

The walk to Jackson's base cabin takes forty minutes, enough time for doubt to build with each step. The rain intensifies, soaking through my inadequate jacket and plastering my hair to my forehead. By the time his property comes into view, rationality has almost won.

Then I spot his truck in the driveway, recently arrived judging by the water still dripping from its frame. He's here. The knowledge propels me forward before courage can fail.

The wooden steps creak beneath my weight, announcing my presence before my knuckles can meet the door. Three sharp knocks echo in the afternoon quiet, followed by heavy silence.

Just as I'm considering retreat, the door opens—barely enough to reveal Jackson's face, surprise quickly masked by carefully constructed neutrality.

"Cloe." My name emerges flat, a statement rather than greeting.

Rain drips from my hair onto my already-soaked shoulders. "Can I come in?"

His hesitation speaks volumes, but mountain hospitality apparently outweighs personal reluctance. The door widens grudgingly, revealing Jackson in worn jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle. The domestic setting strikes me oddly—this man of wilderness framed by kitchen counters and bookshelves.

"You're soaked." He disappears briefly, returning with a towel that he offers without touching my hand.

"Thanks." The terry cloth smells like him—pine and something clean, masculine.

The cabin feels different in daylight—warmer and more lived-in than during our brief post-rescue stop. Climbing guides line bookshelves alongside dog-eared classics. Coffee rings stain the handcrafted table. A half-completed crossword puzzle lies abandoned beside an ancient leather armchair—evidence of a solitary but not austere existence.

"What brings you up the mountain in this?" Jackson gestures toward the window where rain continues its persistent assault.

A dozen potential answers race through my mind—the article, closure, simple curiosity. None quite reach the truth lurking beneath.

"I saw your truck." The words emerge before I can censor them. "Passing the guesthouse."

Something flickers across his features—discomfort, perhaps embarrassment at being caught. "Supply run to town."

"The guesthouse isn't on the route to the supply store."

His jaw tightens, and a familiar tension gathers in his shoulders. "What do you want, Cloe?"

Direct. Unavoidable. Typical Jackson.

"Clarity, maybe." My fingers twist the damp towel. "My editor wants more for the article. About you."

His expression shutters immediately. "We've been through this."

"I'm not asking for permission." My chin lifts slightly. "I'm telling you, I refused."

Surprise registers briefly before suspicion returns. "Why?"

"Because some things matter more than career advancement." The newspaper resting on his kitchen counter catches my attention—open to an article about backcountry safety. "Like privacy. Like promises."

Jackson's posture shifts subtly, wariness giving way to something less defensive. He moves to the kitchen, filling a kettle with practiced movements. "You should warm up."

The tentative peace offering hangs between us. I nod, shrugging off my wet jacket, draping it carefully over a chair by the woodstove.

Silence stretches as he prepares tea, his back deliberately turned. The domestic normalcy of the scene contrasts sharply with the undercurrent of tension vibrating between us. My eyes track him involuntarily, memory overlaying the present—those hands on my body, those shoulders beneath my fingers.

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