Page 6 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

I reach for it with hands that barely work, fingers stinging as blood rushes back in painful little stabs. The nylon is stiff and unyielding.

“I don’t know how?—”

“Figure it out.” His reply is flat. Cold as the snow crusting in my eyelashes. “Or freeze. Your choice.”

Rage flares hot and sudden—cutting through the fear like a blade.

Figure it out?

I am figuring it out. I’ve been figuring it out since the moment I set foot on this godforsaken trail, long before his smug, mountain-man ass showed up to play hero. I grit my teeth, biting back the words I want to hurl at him.

The harness is deceptively simple. Two leg loops. Waist belt. Click. Secure.

Three fumbles. Five curses under my breath. Then it’s done.

“Done!” I shout, sharper than necessary.

Let him hear the fury in my voice. Let him know I may need help getting off this mountain—but I sure as shit don’t need him talking to me like I’m helpless.

Without warning, the rope goes taut, and my body lifts slightly. Terror spikes through me as my feet lose contact with the ledge.

"Hold on to the rope. Keep your feet against the rock face." Jackson's instructions carry down from above. "Walk your feet up as I pull."

The ascent is agonizing. My ankle throbs with each movement, muscles trembling with cold and exertion. Ice-encrusted rock scrapes against my chest and thighs as I'm hauled upward, inch by painful inch. The blizzard batters my body, threatening to slam me back against the cliff face.

After what seems like hours but must be minutes, strong hands grip the harness at my waist, hauling me over the edge onto more solid ground. My body collapses into the snow, my lungs burning with each gasping breath.

No time for recovery. Jackson kneels beside me, his face inches from mine, eyes blazing with controlled rage. Snow collects on his dark hair and the shoulders of his heavy-duty parka.

"Can you stand?" The question sounds more like a command.

"I think so." My ankle protests as he helps me upright, his grip firm through my jacket.

"Sprained?" His gloved hands probe my ankle through my boot, assessing.

I wince. "Maybe."

He unzips his pack with quick, practiced motions—no hesitation, no wasted effort. An elastic bandage appears in his gloved hands, already half-unrolled.

Then he drops to one knee before me and reaches for my boot.

“Hey—what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap, jerking back instinctively, pain lancing through my ankle. “You can’t just?—”

His eyes snap to mine. Glacier-blue. Unblinking.

“I’m treating your injury,” he bites out, voice low and edged with steel. “Unless you’d rather I leave it to swell until you can’t walk at all?”

My mouth opens. Closes. The glare he levels at me could freeze the rest of the mountain.

Without waiting for another protest, he returns to the task, unlacing my boot with sharp, decisive movements. Cold air hits my ankle like a slap as he peels the boot away and carefully rolls down my sock.

“This needs compression. Hold still,” he orders, wrapping the bandage steadily.

I do. But not because he told me to.

Because I can’t stop staring at him. That jaw—tight with tension. Those hands—strong, sure, capable—moving with the kind of confidence that comes from doing this a hundred times before. No hesitation. No gentleness, either. Just efficient, competent control

And God help me, it’s hot.

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