Page 50 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

As the plane taxis toward the runway, my gaze fixes on the terminal building's observation deck. A solitary figure stands at the railing—tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable even at this distance.

Jackson.

He came to watch my departure. Not to stop it, not to change it, simply to witness. He came to witness the final act of our brief, intense connection as it concludes with a physical separation that mirrors the emotional distance he has already established between us.

The plane accelerates down the runway, its wheels lifting from the tarmac as we take flight. Through the window, his figure diminishes until its indistinguishable from the building, then the landscape, then lost entirely as clouds envelop the climbing aircraft.

When the seatbelt sign extinguishes, I extract my laptop and notebook from the carry-on stowed beneath the seat. Professional habits provide comfort in their familiarity—document open, cursor blinking, words waiting to be captured and arranged.

But instead of notes for upcoming articles or edits to existing work, my fingers hover briefly before typing an unexpected heading:

THE MOUNTAIN BETWEEN US

Not a magazine piece. Not travel journalism. Something else entirely—a story about a writer and a mountain man. About rescue and risk, wounds too deep for casual healing and connections too strong to dismiss.

Unlike reality's messy, unfinished conclusion, this story will find a happy ending. The fictional mountain man will overcome his fears. The writer will find her courage. Their paths will converge rather than diverge.

The words flow with surprising ease. Outside the small oval window, clouds part to reveal a landscape that grows increasingly unfamiliar, trading the wilderness for the bustle of humanity.

Burlington awaits with comfortable familiarity—my apartment, friends, career advancement, life interrupted but now resuming. The future stretches with promise and possibility.

Yet as the plane continues its journey away from Angel's Peak, something remains behind—not just memories or experiences, but pieces of myself transformed by the crisp mountain air, unforgiving terrain, and a man who taught survival in more ways than he intended.

Some rescues, it seems, remain permanently incomplete and forever unfinished.

Chapter13

Whiteout

The applause feels hollow,echoing across the sleek conference room as Editor-in-Chief Vivian Mercer holds up the latest issue ofVenturemagazine. My feature article on Angel's Peak dominates the cover—a breathtaking panorama captured during that golden sunset on my last evening there. My name sprawls across the bottom in elegant serif font:Cloe Bennett.

"This, people, is how you write a travel piece." Vivian taps her manicured nail against my byline. "Authentic. Immersive. Without turning into some invasive exposé on the locals."

Her praise should warm me. Instead, the air conditioning chills my skin despite the April sunshine streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The Manhattan skyline stretches beyond the glass—jagged, magnificent, utterly foreign after six weeks back in the city.

My colleagues nod appreciatively, several offering congratulatory smiles. I return them automatically, muscle memory taking over where genuine emotion fails. The article has already generated record engagement metrics, subscription bumps, and industry buzz. By every professional measure, it's the pinnacle of success.

So why does it feel like I'm standing at the bottom of a mountain I no longer want to climb?

"Shall we break for lunch? Cloe, my office at two." Vivian dismisses the editorial team with her typical brisk efficiency.

I gather my notebook, running fingers across the embossed leather cover—a gift to myself after my first major byline three years ago. Back when every achievement felt significant, every editor's nod validating. Before a mountain guide with storm-gray eyes and calloused hands showed me what it meant to genuinely connect with a place.

With a person.

A person unwilling to fight to keep me.

Jackson's face materializes in my mind, unbidden but never unwelcome. The stern line of his jaw softening as he finally allowed himself to laugh. The reverent way his fingers traced ridgelines on maps. The vulnerability in his voice when he finally spoke of Emma.

"You've been somewhere else for weeks."

I startle at Vivian's voice. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing me with the same penetrating gaze that's made her legendary in publishing circles. At forty-five, she embodies metropolitan success—tailored charcoal pantsuit, sleek silver bob, posture suggesting both authority and ease in wielding it.

"Just distracted by the Bainbridge assignment," I lie.

"Bullshit." Vivian steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. "Your work is impeccable as always. But you're here—" she taps her temple, "—about sixty percent of the time. The rest of you never came back from Colorado."

My cheeks burn. Vivian has always possessed an unnerving ability to see through professional facades. It's what makes her both an exceptional editor and a terrifying boss.

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