Page 42 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

The simple acknowledgment will have to suffice. With a final nod, I move through the cabin, collecting my still-damp jacket from beside the woodstove.

Jackson follows, maintaining a careful distance. At the front door, hesitation grips me—the knowledge that crossing this threshold likely means ending whatever tenuous connection we've formed.

His hand catches mine as I reach for the doorknob, the touch sending familiar electricity racing up my arm. For one breathless moment, hope flares—foolish, stubborn hope that perhaps he'll ask me to stay and suggest some impossible compromise.

Instead, he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles with heartbreaking gentleness. "Be safe out there, city girl."

The nickname, laced with affection he won't directly express, nearly undoes my composure. With a final nod, I step into the rain, letting the door close behind me with quiet finality.

The walk back to town passes in a blur of rain and tumultuous thoughts. When Mabel's Guesthouse appears through the gray curtain of precipitation, a resolution has formed from emotional chaos.

My laptop awaits where I left it, the article draft glowing on the screen. With newfound clarity, I begin to type—not the exploitative piece Diane requested, but something truer, deeper, about the mountain itself—about respect for wilderness, preparation versus panic, and the thin line between adventure and recklessness.

I write through the evening and into the night, words flowing with unexpected ease. Jackson appears only obliquely—the experienced guide, the voice of caution, the mountain's human guardian. His privacy remains intact while his wisdom permeates every paragraph.

When dawn breaks, the completed draft gleams on my screen—not the career-making exposé Diane wanted, but something I can be proud of. Something that honors both the mountain and the man who protects it.

The submission email feels like cutting the final thread connecting me to Jackson Hart. Three more days in Angel's Peak stretch before me, suddenly interminable without purpose or hope of reconnection.

My phone rings minutes after hitting send, Diane's name flashing insistently on the screen.

"Matthews." Her voice carries excitement rather than the expected disappointment. "You've been holding out on me."

Confusion furrows my brow. "What do you mean?"

"This draft. It's brilliant. The mountain as a character, the respect versus conquest angle. It's exactly what Pathfinder needs right now."

Relief floods through me, unexpected and powerful. "You're not upset about the lack of personal details?"

"Are you kidding? This is better—showing the philosophy without exploiting the man. Makes us look ethical while still getting the substance." Keys clack as she presumably scrolls through the piece. "We want this for the cover. Feature story."

The words I've waited years to hear. My breakthrough moment is finally arriving, yet somehow it feels hollow without someone specific to share it with.

"That's... amazing." The enthusiasm in my voice sounds forced even to my ears.

"There's more." Diane's voice drops conspiratorially. "We want you on staff. Permanent position, travel division. Your own column."

The dream job. Everything I've worked toward. The validation I've craved since journalism school.

"I need to think about it." The words emerge before conscious thought forms.

"Think about it?" Incredulity colors her tone. "Matthews, people kill for this opportunity. What's to think about?"

What indeed? My gaze drifts to the window where mountains rise beyond the town, where a certain cabin sits midway up the slope, where a man who's claimed part of my heart continues his solitary existence.

"Location, mainly." My voice strengthens with each word. "I might have found somewhere new to base myself. For research purposes."

Diane's pause speaks volumes. "You're not talking about Burlington."

"No."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain mountain guide, would it?"

Heat rises to my cheeks despite no one being present to witness it. "It's complicated."

"Always is with the good ones." Her tone softens unexpectedly. "Look, the job's remote-capable. We need you in New York once a month for meetings, but otherwise... The location is flexible."

Hope—dangerous, persistent hope—flutters beneath my ribs. "Really?"

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