Page 2 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

The rest of the tour passes in a blur of notes, measurements, and mental calculations. This place could work—would work—with the right touches. By the time we circle back to the lobby, I've filled six pages with notes and sent twenty-eight emails to vendors.

"I'd like to see the terrace anyway," I tell Helen. "Just to get a complete picture of the options."

"Of course." She glances at her watch. "Though we should make it quick. The forecast has changed since this morning."

"Changed how?"

"Winter storm warning. Came up suddenly. We get that here sometimes—weather shifts faster than the forecasters can track it."

I follow her outside, where the cold air has taken on a different quality—heavier, expectant. The sky that was blue upon my arrival now hangs low and gray.

"It's beautiful regardless," I say, snapping photos of the panoramic mountain view. This is definitely plan B for theceremony, weather permitting, but the photos will sell the venue to Victoria better than words.

The first snowflakes begin to fall as I complete my exterior measurements—lazy, fat flakes that seem innocent enough.

"We should head inside," Helen suggests, looking skyward with concern. "When it comes in this fast, it can get bad quickly."

"Just one more minute," I promise, trying to get the perfect angle for my final photo.

By the time we reenter the lodge ten minutes later, the snow is falling in earnest—no longer picturesque flurries but a thickening curtain that obscures the mountains.

"You might want to hit the road soon," Helen advises. "The pass can get tricky in weather like this."

I glance at my watch. I'd planned at least another hour to finalize details.

"I'll make it quick," I promise, though we both know I won't leave until I have everything I need. This wedding, this client—they're too important. I've never let a freak April snowstorm interfere with my meticulous planning, and I don't intend to start now.

Famous last words.

two

Jace

Ifeelthechangein barometric pressure before I see it in the sky. Something my grandfather taught me—how to read the mountains without fancy equipment. The air has that heavy weight to it, the kind that makes my old shoulder injury ache. Storm's coming in faster than forecasted.

The mortar around these fireplace stones isn't going to repair itself, though. I focus on finishing the last section before Helen brings another tour through. Third one this week. Winter wedding season brings all types through these doors, but mostly city folks who don't understand what Alberta mountains can do when they decide to remind humans who's really in charge.

I hear them before I see them—Helen's sensible boots and another set of footsteps. Lighter. Deliberate. The clicking of heels that have never touched a hiking trail.

"And for the ceremony, many couples choose either our outdoor terrace with the mountain backdrop or—" Helen's voice carries across the great room.

"The terrace would be too cold in December." The interruption comes quick, decisive. Then a pause. "I'm sorry. Please continue."

I don't turn around, but I'm already building a mental picture. Professional. Probably wearing one of those fitted suit jackets women from Toronto think is appropriate for mountain weather. The kind who has backup plans for her backup plans but has never had to use them because she's never faced anything she couldn't control.

"Or our great room with the cathedral windows and stone fireplace. It's just through here."

That's my cue to look busy, which isn't hard because I actually am.

I hear the wedding planner pacing around, asking questions about catering and capacity. Helen can handle those. My job is making sure this fireplace doesn't collapse during some couple's vows. I reach for another tool and accidentally knock my metal trowel off the scaffolding. The clatter echoes through the room.

"Sorry 'bout that," I call out, not really sorry. These interruptions are part of the deal when working in an active lodge.

I turn to grab the fallen tool and get my first look at Ms. Wedding Planner. She's exactly what I expected and somehow not at all. Professional, yes—blonde hair pulled back tight, crisp blazer, tablet clutched like a lifeline. But her eyes are sharp. Assessing. Not just decorating the place in her mind, but solving problems. I recognize that look because I see it in my SAR team members.

"No problem, Jace," Helen says. "This is Elisa Fox, a wedding planner scouting for a December event."

I nod in her direction, noting the lack of proper outerwear for Alberta's mountain climate. "December, huh? Better check those weather contingencies."

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