Page 46 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"You'd do well here." The observation emerges casually yet lands with seismic impact. "In these mountains. Given time."

My head snaps up, searching his expression for meaning beyond literal words. "Is that an invitation, Jackson?"

His eyes widen fractionally, caught in unplanned implication. "An observation. Professional assessment."

The clarification extinguishes fragile hope with brutal efficiency. "Right. Professional."

Rising from the log, I shoulder my pack with deliberate independence. "We should continue. Daylight's limited."

The remainder of the descent passes in heavy silence, the distance between us expanding beyond physical measurement. Each step reinforces what words have confirmed—whatever connection formed in crisis cannot survive in normal life. Whatever he felt wasn't enough to overcome boundaries built from grief and habit.

When the trailhead parking area appears through thinning trees, relief mingles with disappointment. The adventure concludes where it began, a circular journey leading nowhere new.

Jackson pauses as our paths prepare to diverge—his cabin up the service road, town in the opposite direction.

"Will you be at The Pickaxe tonight?" His question emerges stiff, formal. "Locals usually gather for anyone leaving town. Kind of tradition."

The invitation, if it can be called that, holds nothing beyond community courtesy. "Probably not. Packing to do. Early flight."

He nods once, accepting without challenge. "Safe travels then."

Three years of guiding experience, rescue training, wilderness survival expertise—and these inadequate words are all he offers as a goodbye? The mountain man retreating to emotional isolation with the same efficiency he navigated the physical terrain.

His hesitation lasts three heartbeats—I count them against my will, foolishly monitoring for signs of reconsideration. Then he turns, striding toward his waiting truck without a backward glance.

Watching his vehicle disappear around the bend, an unpleasant understanding crystallizes. Some summits remain unconquerable—not because of physical limitations but because the mountain itself refuses approach, prefers isolation to the risk of connection.

Jackson Hart has chosen his path, and it doesn't include me. My choices narrow accordingly, options collapsing to the single logical direction: forward, away, back to the life temporarily interrupted by mountain misadventure.

The trip back to town stretches longer than physical distance warrants, each step weighted with recognition of what almost was but never would be. The adventure concludes as most adventures must—with a return to ordinary reality, extraordinary possibilities fading to memory with increasing distance.

Two days until departure. Two days to pack belongings and bury unreasonable hopes. Two days to accept that sometimes, even when physically rescued, hearts remain in peril long after their bodies reach safety.

Chapter12

Uncharted Territory

My suitcase liesopen on the bed, nearly packed. Clothes folded, toiletries arranged in zippered compartments, hiking boots—still bearing Angel's Peak soil—wrapped in plastic to prevent dirtying other items. Tomorrow morning's flight demands preparation, organization, and finality.

Mabel's homemade scones sit untouched on the bedside table, her concerned hospitality impossible to refuse but equally impossible to consume past the permanent lump in my throat.

Each item placed in the suitcase feels like dismantling the person I've become here, reverting to the Cloe who arrived two weeks ago—ambitious, independent, and utterly unaware of what the mountain wilderness could teach about survival and loss.

A knock at the door interrupts my methodical packing ritual. Probably Mabel with more food I won't eat or questions about my return plans that I can't answer.

The door opens to reveal not Mabel's concerned grandmotherly presence but Jackson Hart—his tall frame filling the doorway, his expression unreadable, his gear pack slung over one powerful shoulder.

Words abandon me completely. He stands perfectly still, seemingly content to let the silence stretch between us. Finally, his throat clears with manufactured casualness.

"Weather window's closing." His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away. "Last chance to see Mirror Lake before you leave."

The invitation lands like a stone dropped in still water—unexpected, creating ripples of confusion and unwelcome hope.

"Mirror Lake?"

"The place I told you was worth every step." His fingers tighten imperceptibly on the strap crossing his chest. "Four miles round trip, moderate difficulty. Best at sunrise when the mountains reflect perfectly in the water."

"Why?" The question encompasses more than the invitation itself.

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