Page 18 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"Says the man who climbs mountains for a living." My attempt at lightness fails, words emerging with unexpected vulnerability.

"I respect the risks. Account for them. Prepare." His head turns toward mine, his breath warm against my temple. "There's a difference between courage and recklessness."

Our faces are inches apart now, his eyes reflecting golden firelight. The blanket creates a cocoon around us, sealing us in shared warmth and suddenly electric tension.

"And which am I?" The question barely makes it past my lips.

"I haven't decided yet." His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering with unmistakable intent.

My heart thunders against my ribs. The attraction between us pulses like a living entity in the darkened shelter. His face inches closer, almost imperceptibly, the magnetism drawing us together despite every logical objection.

Our lips hover a breath apart, the promise of connection humming in the diminishing space between us.

The woodstove suddenly cracks violently—a log splitting from internal pressure. The sound shatters the moment, and Jackson pulls back as if burned, the spell broken.

He clears his throat, adjusting the blanket around us but maintaining the new distance. "We should conserve energy. Try to sleep."

Disappointment floods me, irrational and powerful. "Right."

"I'll keep the fire going." He makes no move to leave our shared blanket, the practical necessity of warmth outweighing whatever boundaries he's trying to maintain.

The storm continues its assault outside, wind screaming around the shelter's corners. Inside, different forces rage—attraction, resistance, the undeniable pull between two people fighting it for entirely different reasons.

In the deepening darkness, with only firelight to see by, Jackson's presence beside me becomes my entire world—his steady breathing, solid warmth, and the careful distance he maintains even while physics and survival demand our closeness.

The night stretches before us, long and cold, with nothing but this blanket and each other standing between us and the killing cold. And in the flickering shadows, one truth becomes increasingly clear: the power failure outside is nothing compared to the one happening within—the steady collapse of the barriers we've built to keep each other at a safe distance.

Chapter5

Cold Truths

Morning arrives with cruel clarity.Three days trapped on this mountain, and the temperature inside the shelter has plummeted to a point where my breath forms visible clouds with each exhale. The generator's absence has transformed our shelter from merely rustic to brutally primitive.

Jackson kneels by the woodstove, coaxing flames from fresh kindling. His movements are practiced and efficient, shoulders hunched against the cold. Frost glitters in his dark beard, evidence of his pre-dawn excursion to retrieve more firewood from the outdoor cache.

"Storm's weakening." He doesn't look up from his task. "Another day, maybe two."

Hope flutters briefly before reality dampens it. Even when the blizzard stops, the mountain will remain treacherous—deep snow, hidden crevasses, avalanche risks. Our imprisonment simply shifts from weather-enforced to safety-mandated.

My ankle throbs less today, healing despite the circumstances. Small mercies.

"Water's low." Jackson gestures toward our dwindling supply. "Need to melt snow."

This has become our morning routine—assessing resources, planning for survival, speaking in truncated sentences as if full thoughts might consume too much precious energy. The cold has a way of stripping communication to essentials.

Jackson hands me a small pot. "Fresh snow from the lee side. Less contaminated."

Stepping outside requires wrapping myself in every available layer—my coat plus an extra woolen shirt from Jackson's supplies. The cold still slices through, stealing breath and sensation within seconds.

The snow is deep and pristine, piling against the shelter’s eastern wall. I fill the pot quickly, my fingers already numbing despite my thick gloves. The landscape stretches white in every direction, with mountains barely distinguishable from the sky in the uniform grayness.

Back inside, the shelter's relative warmth feels like a furnace by comparison. Jackson takes the snow-filled pot, placing it on the woodstove's surface.

"Always melt snow before drinking, " he demonstrates, stirring the gradually liquefying contents. "Eating it directly lowers your core temperature. It can kill you faster than dehydration."

The morning unfolds in similar lessons—practical knowledge disguised as instructions. How to maximize caloric intake from limited food. How to layer clothing for optimal insulation. How to recognize early signs of frostbite.

Jackson proves a surprisingly patient teacher. His usual gruffness softens when sharing wilderness wisdom and is replaced by focused intensity. When I master a knot he's shown me—useful for securing gear in high winds—something like approval flickers across his features.

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