Page 9 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

The edge of his mouth twitches—just barely—but he doesn’t respond. Just sets to work, unlacing my boot with calm, practiced efficiency. There’s nothing sensual in the movement, no hesitation. Just steady, clinical care. And still—still—my breath catches.

“This needs ice,” he says, inspecting the swelling. “Ironically, we’ve got plenty.”

He rises and steps to the door, scooping snow into a clean cloth with the same precision he used coiling the rope, binding my ankle, and apparently, pissing me off in the most maddening, effective way possible.

"Here." He places the makeshift ice pack on my ankle, then hands me a bottle of water and two pills. "Ibuprofen. For inflammation."

"Thank you." The words taste strange on my tongue—gratitude mixed with humiliation.

He doesn't acknowledge my thanks, already turning away to retrieve a hand-crank radio from a shelf.

"Angel's Peak Search and Rescue, this is Hart." He speaks into the device after several cranks. "I have the writer. We're at my upper shelter. Conditions zero visibility. Remaining in place until storm passes. Over."

Static crackles before a voice responds: "Copy that, Hart. Writer's vehicle located at Lookout trailhead. Storm expected forty-eight hours minimum. Confirm supplies adequate. Over."

"Supplies adequate. Will radio at 0800 tomorrow. Hart out." He sets the radio aside and turns to me, his expression unreadable in the dancing firelight.

The magnitude of our situation settles over me. Forty-eight hours. Trapped in this tiny space with a man who clearly wishes I never set foot in his town.

"I'm sorry," I offer, the words inadequate even to my ears.

Jackson's eyebrows lift slightly—the first hint of surprise he's shown. "Sorry you didn't listen, or sorry you got caught?"

Heat flashes across my cheeks. "Sorry you had to risk your life because of my mistake."

He studies me for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of my apology. "You're not the first tourist to underestimate these mountains." His voice holds a weariness that suggests he's had this conversation before, perhaps with less fortunate outcomes.

"I'm not a tourist." The defense rises automatically. "I'm a writer. Researching."

"Tourist, writer, researcher—doesn't matter what you call yourself. The mountain doesn't care about your job title when you're freezing to death on a cliff face." He moves to the shelves, taking inventory of canned goods. "You hungry?"

The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard. My stomach answers before my mouth can, growling audibly.

The corner of Jackson's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but a crack in his stone façade. "I'll take that as a yes."

He selects a can, opening it with a manual can opener before emptying the contents into a small pot. In a few minutes, the rich aroma of beef stew fills the small space as he places it on the woodstove.

"The generator's for emergencies only." He nods toward a small machine in the corner. "Heat, light, and communication are the priorities. We have enough fuel for about eight hours total. We use it sparingly."

"So... no microwave, I'm guessing?" The weak attempt at humor falls flat.

Jackson doesn't bother responding. Instead, he retrieves two metal bowls and spoons from a shelf. He stirs the stew occasionally as it heats, his movements economical and practiced.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the crackling fire and howling wind outside. Questions burn in my mind—about him, this shelter, the fiancée mentioned in hushed tones at the diner. But his closed expression discourages conversation.

"Why did you come after me?" The question escapes before I can reconsider.

Jackson's shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "Your rental car was at the trailhead after I explicitly closed the trail. Simple deduction."

"That's not what I asked."

He turns, fixing me with that penetrating blue gaze. "What would you have me do? Leave you out there?"

"Some might have. Especially someone who warned me not to go in the first place."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I don't need the validation of being right at the cost of someone's life."

His words hang between us, heavy with implications I can't fully decipher. Before I can probe further, he divides the stew between two bowls, handing one to me along with a spoon.

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