Page 37 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Ridiculous to mourn something that never truly existed beyond a temporary bubble of intense physical attraction. Yet the feeling persists, settling behind my ribs like a small, cold stone.

Dressed again in clothes that smell of woodsmoke and mountain, I emerge to find Jackson in the kitchen, phone to his ear. The sight startles—technology reconnecting us to the wider world, another tether to reality.

"Yes, both safe. No injuries beyond her sprained ankle. Much better now." His eyes meet mine across the room, expression unreadable. "About an hour, depending on road conditions. Will do."

He sets the phone down, something shifting in his demeanor—a return to the reserved mountain guide I first encountered in the diner, professional mask firmly in place.

"That was the sheriff. Your hotel's been worried. Roads are clear enough to get you back to town." He busies himself collecting keys from a hook by the door. "Need to check some equipment first, then I'll drive you."

The statement lands with finality—our adventure concluding in mundane transportation arrangements and concerned innkeepers. The contrast between this ordinary ending and the extraordinary connection we forged feels almost surreal.

Jackson disappears into what appears to be a gear room, leaving me with the echo of what's ending. My article still needs completion, and our professional obligations wait for us regardless of our personal complications.

Thirty minutes pass before Jackson reemerges, keys jingling in his hand. "Ready?"

The drive to town passes largely in silence, broken only by occasional commentary about landmarks visible through freshly plowed roads. Angel's Peak appears around a bend—quaint buildings emerge from snow banks, smoke rises from chimneys, and life continues as if nothing extraordinary happened on the mountain above.

We pull up outside Mabel's Guesthouse, my temporary home before the shelter became our world. The transition feels impossibly abrupt—from an intimate connection to an awkward goodbye in the space of a four-mile drive.

"Thank you." The words encompass everything and nothing. "For the rescue. The shelter... Everything."

Jackson's hands remain on the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. "Just doing my job."

The dismissal stings despite its obvious falsehood. "Right. The job."

Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he turns slightly, profile sharp against the afternoon light. "How long will you stay? In town."

"Three more days." Hope flutters unwelcome in my chest. "I need to finish the interviews and take some photos of the trails. When weather permits."

He nods once, gaze fixed forward again. "Good luck with the article."

The dismissal lies beneath professional courtesy. This is goodbye.

Pride straightens my spine as I reach for the door handle. "Goodbye, Jackson."

No response comes as I exit the vehicle, collecting my backpack from the rear seat. Only when I reach the guesthouse steps does his window lower, voice carrying across the crisp air.

"Cloe." My name in his mouth still sends shivers down my spine. "Be careful out there."

Before I can respond, the window rises, the engine revs, and Jackson Hart disappears around the corner, leaving me standing in the snow with a heart full of words I never got to say.

Mabel greets me with effusive concern and endless questions that receive carefully edited answers. The hot bath and real food she insists upon should feel like luxuries after days of survival, yet something essential seems missing despite the comforts.

By evening, professional instincts reassert themselves. My laptop hums to life, fingers finding keyboard rhythm as I shape the article that brought me to Angel's Peak. The words flow surprisingly quickly, the experience still raw enough to translate into vivid prose.

Yet something nags beneath the writing—questions unanswered, story incomplete. After two hours of productive work, restlessness drives me from my room to the town's single bar, The Pickaxe, where locals gather nightly.

"Well, look who survived!" Darlene from the diner spots me immediately, waving from behind the bar where she apparently moonlights. "Hart got you down in one piece, I see."

The diner waitress's presence in this new context momentarily disorients me until I remember—small town, multiple jobs, everyone knowing everyone's business.

"He did." Settling onto a barstool feels strangely normal after days of extraordinary circumstances. "Very professional."

"That's our Jackson." Darlene slides a glass of amber liquid before me without asking. "On the house. Mountain rescue special."

The whiskey burns pleasantly, warming paths through my chest. Around me, locals cast curious glances, whispers barely disguised behind raised glasses. The outsider who needed rescuing—now the subject of hometown gossip.

"Working on your article?" Darlene wipes the already clean counter with practiced movements. "About our little slice of heaven?"

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