Page 43 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"Don't sound so surprised. It's 2025, Matthews. Welcome to modern journalism." Another pause. "But if you're thinking of staying in Nowheresville for a man, make damn sure he's worth it."

The conversation ends with practical details—salary negotiations, benefit discussions, start dates—but my mind has already leaped to possibilities previously unconsidered.

Outside, the rain has stopped. Sunlight breaks through the dispersing clouds, illuminating mountains still draped in rapidly melting snow. Somewhere up there, Jackson Hart continues his self-imposed isolation, unaware that parameters have shifted, that impossibility has transformed to potential.

The question remains whether he's ready to step beyond the boundaries he's established and whether the connection we forged is strong enough to overcome three years of carefully constructed walls.

Whether, given actual possibility rather than hypothetical longing, he would choose me over the comfortable familiarity of his grief.

Chapter11

Summit Fever

The morning dawnsclear and bright, mountain peaks gleaming against a flawless blue sky. Two days until my departure from Angel's Peak, two days to find closure before returning to a life forever altered by this detour into the wilderness.

My new hiking boots—purchased yesterday from the town's outfitting store—sit by the door, properly broken in after hours of wearing them around my room. Beside them rests a backpack filled with essentials: water, high-protein snacks, first aid kit, emergency blanket, compass, trail map. Everything Jackson taught me during our forced confinement.

Mabel carefully eyes my preparations as I double-check supplies in the guesthouse's cozy kitchen. Her gray hair sits in its usual perfect bun, hands busy kneading dough for the day's bread despite her attention fixed firmly on me.

"You sure about hiking alone, dear? After what happened last time?" She dusts flour from her fingers, worry etched in the creases around her kind eyes.

"I'm prepared this time." The confidence in my voice isn't feigned. "Weather report's clear, I've got proper gear, and I've logged my route with the ranger station."

Her eyebrows lift at this last detail. "Pete know where you're headed?"

"Lookout Point. Same trail as before." My fingers trace the topographic map spread across the table. "Need to face it, I guess. For closure."

Understanding softens her features. "Some mountains are like that. Need conquering twice—once for survival, once for peace."

The observation surprises me with its insight. "Exactly."

She wraps a homemade energy bar in wax paper, tucking it into my pack. "Jackson know you're going up?"

The question sends an unwelcome pang through my chest. "No. And I'd prefer he didn't."

Not after our last encounter, the memory of which still burns beneath my skin. Not after the silence that followed his gentle rejection. Two days of avoiding town spots where we might intersect, of focusing on interview transcriptions and photo editing rather than impossible hopes.

Mabel's knowing look suggests she understands more than I've shared. "Your secret's safe with me, dear."

The trail looks different in sunlight—less threatening, more inviting. Spring's first tentative efforts brighten the path with tiny wildflowers pushing through melting snow patches. Birds call from awakening trees. Nature in transition, winter reluctantly releasing its grip.

My pace remains deliberately measured, respecting the mountain rather than challenging it. Each step feels like reclaiming something lost—confidence, perhaps, or simple joy in the wilderness without fear shadowing appreciation.

The spot where I slipped on my first disastrous hike appears around a bend, instantly recognizable despite its transformed appearance. Ice has melted, revealing the treacherous rocks that sent me sliding toward near-death. I pause, studying the terrain with new understanding.

Not the mountain's fault. Mine, for rushing, for ignoring warnings, for placing ambition above safety.

The climb continues, muscles warming pleasantly with exertion. My breathing remains controlled despite the elevation, my lungs expanding fully in the crisp mountain air. The familiar burn of physical effort feels cleansing, purifying, washing away lingering regrets with each forward stride.

Approaching the cliff edge where Jackson found me triggers a flood of memories—the rope appearing like magic through blinding snow, his voice cutting through disorientation, strong hands pulling me to safety. The beginning of everything that followed.

The view from the cliff stretches magnificently in all directions—mountain ranges layered to the horizon, valleys etched with silver rivers, forests creating textured carpets of green and white.

Worth the climb.

Worth the risk—the calculated, prepared risk, not the reckless gamble of my first attempt.

Settling on a sun-warmed rock, I extract my notebook and pen from the pack. The article may be finished, submitted, and accepted, but private observations continue to form, demanding expression.

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