Page 38 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

"Among other things." The opening presents itself naturally. "Actually, I'm curious about the town's history with mountain rescue. Jackson mentioned his grandfather started the first team?"

Darlene's face lights with local pride. "Old Man Hart was a legend around here. Taught Jackson everything he knows about these mountains."

The conversation flows from there—stories of dramatic rescues, the Hart family's three generations of mountain guides, the respect bordering on reverence that locals hold for their wilderness protectors.

"Jackson's the best we've ever had." The ranger from the diner joins the conversation, settling onto the neighboring stool. "Could've gone pro anywhere—had offers from major expedition companies. Everest, K2, you name it."

"Why didn't he?" The question emerges more personally invested than professionally curious.

Their exchanged glance speaks volumes.

"Emma." Darlene's voice drops. "They were planning to move after the wedding. She'd gotten some research grant in Colorado. Then the accident happened and..." She trails off, shaking her head.

"He changed." The ranger continues where she left off. "Shut down completely for months. When he came back, he was different. Focused. Obsessive about safety. Never leaves the mountain except for supplies."

"Hasn't been with anyone since." Darlene adds, then flushes slightly. "Not that we gossip or anything."

The information shouldn't affect me as it does, shouldn't twist something painful beneath my ribs. What happened in the shelter was an anomaly for him—an exception to three years of self-imposed isolation.

"Brilliant guide," the ranger concludes, "but a broken man. Mountain took something from him."

The conversation shifts to other topics, but their assessment echoes in my mind long after I return to the guesthouse. Jackson Hart—brilliant but broken, capable of saving others but unwilling to save himself.

As I prepare for bed in a room that feels too large, too quiet, too empty after days of shared space and body heat, their words continue to resonate. The man I glimpsed beneath the professional guide's exterior—the one who laughed at my ridiculous nickname suggestions, who trembled slightly when securing my harness, who whispered impossible wishes in darkness—remains trapped on that mountain, perhaps as surely as we were trapped by the storm.

The realization settles with unexpected weight: the most treacherous part of my Angel's Peak adventure wasn't the blizzard, the cliff face, or even the isolation.

It was falling for a man who gave his heart to these mountains long ago—and has no intention of ever taking it back.

Chapter10

Treacherous Path

Morning sunlight streamsthrough lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across my laptop screen. Two days back in civilization, and the article is taking shape—the wilderness beauty, the danger of underestimating nature, the practical safety tips distilled from Jackson's teachings. Everything except the story beneath the story.

My phone vibrates against the antique writing desk, my editor's name flashing on the screen.

"This is good, Matthews." Diane's voice crackles through the connection, New York bustle audible in the background. "But we need more."

My stomach tightens. "More what?"

"The human element. You survived four days in a blizzard with Angel's Peak's legendary mountain man. There's gold there."

"He's a private person." My fingers trace the edge of the laptop, remembering callused hands against my skin. "I promised discretion."

"I'm not asking for his medical records." Keys clack as she presumably scrolls through my draft. "But readers connect with people, not landscapes. You've got the reclusive hero who saved your life. That's the hook."

"It's exploitative." The defense rises automatically.

"It's journalism." Diane's tone sharpens. "Look, get me something on Hart—his philosophy, his connection to the mountain, anything. Or this stays a pretty nature piece buried in the back pages."

The threat hangs between us—my breakthrough opportunity dissolving into yet another forgettable article.

"I'll see what I can do." The words taste bitter.

"Good. Revised draft by tomorrow." The call ends with a decisive click.

Rain begins to tap against the window, matching my darkening mood. The ethical dilemma stretches before me—betray Jackson's trust for career advancement, or honor his privacy at professional cost.

---