Page 44 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Words flow about perspective gained from elevation, the difference between conquering nature and conversing with it, and mountains as mirrors reflecting human arrogance and resilience.

Time passes unmarked as thoughts transform into sentences on the page. The sun tracks higher, warming my shoulders through the lightweight hiking jacket. Birds soar on thermals below my perch, tiny specks riding invisible currents with effortless grace.

"You came back."

The voice behind me sends my heart lurching against my ribs. I turn slowly, knowing exactly who stands there before visual confirmation arrives.

Jackson Hart—breathtaking against the sky, sunlight catching in his dark hair, expression unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. His chest rises and falls with slightly elevated breathing, suggesting he climbed quickly after discovering my presence on his mountain.

"Needed to finish what I started." My voice emerges steadier than expected.

He approaches cautiously, stopping several feet away—close enough for conversation, distant enough to avoid accidental contact. "Pete radioed. Said you'd signed the trail log."

Of course. The ranger would naturally inform Jackson of a solo hiker on his mountain, especially one with my history.

"Worried I'd need rescuing again?" The question contains more bite than intended.

Jackson removes his sunglasses, revealing eyes that match the sky's impossible blue. "Concerned. There's a difference."

His gaze shifts to my equipment, assessing with professional attention. Proper boots. Appropriate layers. Well-packed bag. Water bottle within easy reach. Every detail is scrutinized and, judging by his slight nod, approved.

"You've learned." Something like pride colors the observation.

"Had a good teacher." The acknowledgment costs nothing yet feels significant.

He settles on a rock nearby, hands dangling between knees, attention fixed on the panoramic vista rather than me. The silence stretches, not entirely uncomfortable.

"I visited Emma today." The confession emerges unexpectedly, his voice pitched low enough that I almost miss it.

My breath catches, unsure how to respond to this unexpected vulnerability.

"There's a memorial. Near where it happened." His profile remains stoic, controlled. "First time I've gone in months."

"Why today?" The question escapes before wisdom can contain it.

Jackson's jaw works beneath his beard, emotions visibly processed before speech forms. "Needed to talk to her. About things. Changes."

Hope flutters unwelcome in my chest. "What kind of changes?"

"Realizations." His hands clasp together, knuckles whitening momentarily. "That I've been using her memory as an excuse. For hiding. For not living." A deep breath expands his chest. "It's not what she would have wanted."

The admission hangs between us, weightier than the surrounding mountains. My fingers itch to reach for him but remain firmly in my lap, giving space for whatever needs to emerge next.

"You're leaving." Not a question but a statement of fact.

"Day after tomorrow." The reminder sends an unexpected pang through my chest. "Back to Burlington."

Jackson nods once, accepting without visible reaction. "Article finished?"

"Submitted. Accepted." A smile tugs at my lips despite the conversation's heaviness. "Cover feature."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Congratulations. You earned it."

"Without exploiting you." The clarification feels important. "Your privacy remained intact. I promised."

Something softens around his eyes—gratitude, perhaps respect. "Thank you."

The opening presents itself naturally, heart pounding as words form. "My editor offered me a staff position. Travel division, my own column."

---