Page 52 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"What are you doing in New York?" The question emerges more breathlessly than intended.

"Reading." His lips quirk in that almost-smile that I've missed with embarrassing intensity. From his jacket pocket, he produces a folded copy ofVenturemagazine. "You made the mountain sound beautiful."

"It is beautiful."

"Not the way most city people see it."

We stand in suspended animation, three feet apart yet separated by worlds. Behind me, string music and cultivated laughter filter from the celebration. Before me stands a man who belongs to granite peaks and pine forests, looking as out of place in this chrome and glass environment as a wolf in a perfumery.

Shadows linger beneath his eyes, suggesting troubled sleep. The familiar scar across his left knuckles stands out against tanned skin, but something in his posture has shifted—a subtle easing of the rigid guard he maintained on the mountain.

"You didn't mention Emma in the article." He says this quietly, gratitude evident in his tone.

"It wasn't my story to tell."

His eyes hold mine, storm-gray intensity that sees beyond practiced social veneers. "But you told all the other stories perfectly. The mountain after fresh snow. The way light changes the north face at sunset. That ridiculous coffee shop where Mabel threatens customers who request almond milk."

A startled laugh escapes me. "She nearly banished me when I asked for soy."

"She references 'that city girl journalist' at least twice weekly." His expression softens. "The town misses you."

The unspoken question lingers between us—does he?

Jackson shifts, reaching into his jacket again. This time he withdraws a small object, cradling it momentarily before extending his hand toward me.

A compass rests in his palm—vintage brass with a weathered leather case, clearly well-used but meticulously maintained.

"Emma's," he says, answering my unasked question. "It's saved my life more times than I can count."

The significance of this offering steals my breath. I make no move to take it, understanding the magnitude of what he's sharing.

"There was an accident on the north face three weeks ago." His voice remains steady, but tension threads through his posture. "Family of four. Intermediate hikers who ignored weather warnings. Got caught in a sudden spring storm."

My journalist's instincts prickle. "The Sandovals? I saw something online?—"

"All four made it down alive." His jaw tightens. "But only because someone went up after them."

Understanding dawns slowly. "You led a rescue. The exact kind of rescue?—"

"That killed Emma. Yes." His eyes meet mine unflinchingly. "I've spent years avoiding those calls, letting others take the high-risk rescues. Telling myself it was because they were better qualified."

"But really, it was fear," I finish softly.

"Turns out I was more afraid of living half a life than facing that mountain again." Something vulnerable crosses his expression. "Your article arrived the day before the call came in. Reading how you saw Angel's Peak—how you saw potential where I only saw pain—it shifted something inside of me."

He extends the compass again, this time with gentle insistence. "Emma would want you to have this. She believed tools should go to people who'd use them to explore, not those who'd lock them away as memorials."

My fingers brush his as I accept the compass. Its weight feels significant beyond its physical presence—a talisman of both past tragedy and future possibility.

"Jackson, I don't understand why you're here."

"That storm on the mountain?" He gestures vaguely upward as though the snow-capped peaks of Colorado might be visible through Manhattan's light pollution. "You called it a whiteout in your article. Said it was terrifying and beautiful at once—how everything familiar disappeared, forcing you to navigate by other means."

I nod, remembering the disorienting swirl of white, the way Jackson became my only reference point.

"I've been living in a different kind of whiteout since Emma died." His voice drops, meant only for me despite the empty lobby. "Using grief as an excuse to stop moving forward. Reading your words, I realized I've been deliberately staying lost."

He steps closer, the subtle scent of pine and mountain air somehow still clinging to him despite the city surroundings.

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