Page 48 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Something shifts in his expression—his carefully maintained guard lowering fractionally to reveal the vulnerable man beneath the stoic mountain guide exterior.

"After Emma... this was the only place that still made sense." His fingers tear absently at the grass beside the blanket. "Came here daily for months. Just sitting. Watching the reflections."

My breath catches at this unexpected vulnerability. "Why show me?"

His gaze remains fixed on distant mountains rather than my face. "Wanted you to see it. Before leaving."

Not the complete answer, but perhaps all he's capable of offering. The unspoken hovers between us—regret, possibility, roads untaken.

Time passes differently in this pristine setting, measured by shifting light across mountain faces and the subtle lengthening of shadows as afternoon progresses toward evening. Conversation ebbs and flows naturally, touching on safe topics—my article details his upcoming guide season, memories of our shelter confinement carefully edited to exclude emotional entanglements.

"We should start back soon." Jackson's observation coincides with the sun dipping toward western peaks. "Want to reach the trailhead before dusk."

Reality intrudes with his practical words—this interlude ending, departure approaching with every passing minute. The knowledge settles like a physical weight, making movements leaden as we pack the remaining picnic items.

At the outcropping's edge, Jackson pauses, his gaze sweeping across the panoramic view with unusual intensity, as if committing details to memory.

"I've never brought anyone here before." His admission emerges quietly from his lips, almost imperceptibly in the mountain stillness. "Not since Emma."

The revelation sends unexpected warmth through my chest despite everything. "Why me?"

His profile remains stoic against the darkening sky, his jaw working slightly beneath his beard. Seconds stretch to nearly a minute before he responds.

"Needed you to understand something about me." The words emerge with evident difficulty. "Before you left."

"Understand what?" Hope flutters traitorously beneath my ribs.

Jackson finally turns, his eyes meeting mine with uncharacteristic directness. Something powerful lurks in the blue depths of his eyes—conflict, perhaps pain, something far beyond the careful neutrality he typically maintains.

"That I'm trying." His voice roughens slightly. "It's just..."

The sentence hangs unfinished, those two words encompassing volumes of unspoken meaning. He's trying—to move beyond grief, to connect, to imagine possibility beyond isolation? Trying but not succeeding.

Not enough, anyway.

Words gather in my throat—encouragements, reassurances, declarations—but pride contains them. I've already revealed enough and offered enough openings. The next move must be his, fully and completely.

"I understand." My response emerges gently from my throat despite the disappointment crushing beneath my sternum like a physical weight.

His hand lifts slightly, as if reaching for me, before dropping back to his side. Another almost. Another not quite. Another moment where capability fails to manifest as action.

The descent begins in silence, heavier than before, weighted with knowledge of what won’t be said and what won't be done. Each step away from Mirror Lake feels symbolic—retreating from beauty, from possibility, from the man walking slightly ahead who cannot quite reach for what he almost wants.

Midway down, Jackson pauses unexpectedly at a viewpoint overlooking the valley beyond. The sun hangs low, casting golden light across the landscape transformed by approaching evening. His profile in this illumination appears almost sculpted—strong jaw, straight nose, eyes reflecting amber tones rather than their usual blue.

"Cloe." My name emerges with unusual softness. "I?—"

Hope rises unwelcome and powerful. My breath halts, waiting for words that might change everything.

"I hope you find what you're looking for." The sentence completes with devastating finality. "In Burlington. With your writing. Everything."

Not what I hoped for. Not even close.

"Thank you, and thank you for today." My voice emerges surprisingly steady. "For showing me this place."

His nod acknowledges without requiring further speech. The moment passes between us, this fleeting opportunity evaporating like morning dew under the rising sun.

We continue downward along the trail, our conversation limited to necessary observations and his occasional warnings about loose rocks or slippery sections. We maintain professional courtesy despite the emotional undercurrents flowing between us.

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