Page 49 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

The trailhead appears as dusk settles across the landscape, the final light of the day painting the mountains in purple and gold. Jackson's truck waits where we left it, a symbol of our impending separation more final than physical distance.

The drive to town passes largely in silence, punctuated only by necessary conversation about my flight details, transportation arrangements, and final packing needs. Surface-level exchange masking depths neither of us seems willing to acknowledge directly.

Outside Mabel's Guesthouse, Jackson shifts the truck into park, but leaves the engine running—a clear signal that extended goodbyes aren't planned. His hands remain on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening slightly with pressure.

"Thank you." The words encompass everything and nothing—for rescue, for shelter, for Mirror Lake, for showing me parts of himself even while withholding what matters most. "For everything."

Jackson nods once, gaze fixed forward through the windshield rather than meeting mine. "Safe travels tomorrow."

His dismissal lands with a finality that steals my breath, leaving me frozen. This is it. The end.

No dramatic declarations, no last-minute changes of heart. Just a practical farewell from a man who cannot, will not step beyond boundaries constructed from grief and habit.

My hand reaches for the door handle, pride straightening my spine despite the hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs. "Goodbye, Jackson."

Something shifts in his expression—conflict evident in the tightening around his eyes and the slight parting of his lips, as if words form but remain trapped. His hand moves suddenly, catching mine before I can exit the vehicle.

"Cloe." My name emerges rough-edged, almost desperate.

Then his mouth finds mine, the kiss containing everything his words cannot express—longing, regret, desire, farewell. His hand cradles my face with heartbreaking gentleness that contrasts with the almost desperate pressure of his lips.

For several suspended moments, hope resurges within me—perhaps this physical declaration precedes verbal commitment. Perhaps touch communicates what speech cannot formulate.

When we finally separate, our breathing ragged and uneven, his expression reveals raw emotion that he typically conceals behind his careful control. His vulnerability lies fully exposed, his defenses momentarily lowered in this rare unguarded moment.

"I can't—" His words emerge strained, pained. "I'm not?—"

Not ready. Not healed enough. Not capable of offering what I deserve.

"I know." My acceptance costs me everything but allows me to maintain my dignity intact. "It's okay."

It's not okay. Nothing about this situation approaches okay. But pretending otherwise serves no purpose beyond prolonging inevitable pain.

His forehead rests briefly against mine, our shared breath creating an intimacy beyond physical connection. Then he pulls away, walls visibly rebuilding with each passing second.

"Goodbye, Cloe Matthews." The words carry finality impossible to misinterpret.

The guesthouse door closes behind me with quiet decisiveness. Through the window, Jackson's truck remains idling for several heartbeats before finally pulling away, taillights disappearing around the corner like dying embers.

Mabel appears in the hallway, concern evident in her lined face. "Everything alright, dear?"

"Fine." The lie emerges with surprising steadiness. "Just finished packing. All set for tomorrow."

She nods without believing, her kindness preventing further questioning. "There's tea if you'd like some. Might help you sleep before your flight."

Sleep seems entirely implausible, but the gesture deserves acknowledgment. "Thank you. Maybe later."

My room welcomes me with its impersonal comfort—all traces of temporary occupancy erased, belongings contained in luggage ready for departure. The space could belong to anyone or no one. My presence here is already fading like footprints in fresh snow.

Morning arrives after a night of restless half-sleep, dreams filled with mountain paths leading nowhere and blue eyes full of things left unspoken. Angel’s Peak recedes through the rear window as I drive to the small regional airport. The mountains stubbornly maintain their eternal presence regardless of the human dramas enacted in their shadow.

I turn in my rental car and hop on the airport shuttle. The driver loads my luggage while chatting about expected clear flying conditions.

The airport appears with disappointing swiftness—a small regional facility with direct connections to Denver, where larger planes will carry me eventually back to Burlington.

Check-in, security, waiting area—I move mechanically through each step of these processes, which require minimal conscious thought from me. Other passengers blur into the background noise as I stare through large windows at mountains still visible in the distance.

The boarding call comes too soon and not soon enough. The final passengers file onto the small regional jet, and flight attendants perform routine safety demonstrations. The engines rumble to life beneath the floor, vibrations traveling through the seat into bones still aching from different, deeper tremors.

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