Page 11 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

The most dangerous part of this situation might not be the blizzard raging outside, but the unexpected feelings beginning to stir within these close confines—feelings I have absolutely no business entertaining toward the man whose life I've endangered through my own stubborn pride.

Chapter3

Friction

Light filtersthrough the frost-covered window, barely distinguishable from last night's darkness. The blizzard continues its assault, snow piling against the shelter's walls with audible weight. I blink awake on the narrow cot, disoriented before memories flood back—the fall, the rescue, Jackson.

My ankle throbs beneath the blankets, a persistent reminder of yesterday's foolishness. Despite the woodstove’s glow, the shelter feels colder than last night, suggesting Jackson let it burn down while I slept.

He sits at the small table, methodically cleaning what appears to be a disassembled radio. His broad shoulders hunch over the delicate work, and his strong fingers are surprisingly nimble with the tiny components. He hasn't noticed I'm awake yet, allowing me a moment to observe him unguarded.

In the gray morning light, Jackson Hart is no less intimidating than he was yesterday. His jaw is set in concentration, dark hair falls across his forehead, and those capable hands move with certainty. He looks like he belongs here—rugged, self-sufficient, part of the mountain itself.

I shift slightly, and his head snaps up, that intense blue gaze pinning me in place.

"Storm's worse." No good morning, no pleasantries. "Another system merged with this one overnight."

"How long?" My voice comes out raspy from sleep and the shelter's dry air.

"Three days, minimum."

The words land like stones in my stomach. Three days in this tiny space with this unyielding man.

Jackson rises from the table, moving to the woodstove to add another log. "Generator's acting up. Need to conserve what little juice we have."

I push myself upright, wincing as my ankle protests. "What needs to be done?"

Something like surprise flickers across his features—perhaps he expected complaints rather than offers of assistance.

"Inventory." He nods toward the shelves. "Food, water, medical supplies. Need to know exactly what we're working with."

It's a task suited for my injured state, requiring minimal movement. I appreciate that he hasn't mentioned my limitations. Swinging my legs carefully off the cot, I test my weight gingerly on the injured ankle. Better than yesterday, but nowhere near healed.

"Here." Jackson appears beside me with a makeshift cane—a sturdy branch cut to height, the bark stripped away to reveal smooth wood beneath. "Made it last night."

The unexpectedly thoughtful gesture catches me off-guard. "Thank you."

He shrugs, already turning away, a man uncomfortable with gratitude. "Coffee's ready. Not the fancy stuff you're probably used to."

"I'm not actually that high-maintenance." The defensive words escape before I can stop them.

Jackson's eyebrow lifts slightly, skepticism evident without a single word spoken.

"Despite what you clearly think of me." I hobble toward the table where a metal mug steams with black coffee.

"What I think doesn't matter." He focuses on the generator in the corner, a squat, battered machine that looks older than both of us combined. "What matters is getting through the next few days alive."

The coffee tastes surprisingly good—strong and hot, exactly what my body craves. Jackson kneels beside the generator, tools spread around him in precise order. He works quickly, adjusting, tightening, and testing.

"Running rough." He speaks more to himself than to me. "Need to clean the fuel line again."

I turn my attention to the task assigned: cataloging our supplies. The shelves hold more than I initially thought—canned goods, dried foods, water bottles, medical supplies, extra clothing, and emergency equipment. Each item is placed with logical precision, nothing wasted, nothing frivolous.

"Twelve cans of stew, eight of beans, four of corn, six packets of jerky, ten protein bars," I call out, making mental notes. "Twenty liters of water, plus whatever snow we can melt."

"That's enough. Even if we're stuck here for a week." He doesn't look up from the generator.

"You always keep this place so well-stocked?"

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