Page 16 of Found By the Mountain Man
"Let's get you checked over by our medic," he says, leading me toward the building. "Just a precaution."
The next hour passes in a blur of medical assessments and paperwork. The medic—a competent woman named Dr. Chen—pronounces me fully recovered from my hypothermia ordeal. I answer questions about my experience, sign forms releasing the SAR team from liability, and provide contact information for follow-up if needed.
All standard procedures. All completely surreal after the intimate intensity of the past few days.
"Your rental car is still at the Black Creek trailhead," Jake informs me as we finish the paperwork. "We can give you a ride out there, or if you prefer, one of our guys can drive it back to town for you."
"I can deal with it," I say automatically, then realize I'm not sure that's true. The thought of getting behind the wheel and driving away from this place feels impossible right now.
"You sure? It's been a tough few days. No shame in accepting help."
I look around the SAR station, taking in the maps on the walls, the rescue equipment neatly organized in bins, the photos of successful operations. This is Connor's world, his chosen family, his life's work. A life that apparently has no room for a photographer from San Francisco who was foolish enough to fall for her rescuer.
"Actually," I hear myself saying, "could someone drive it back to the lodge for me? I think I'd rather walk through town, clear my head a bit."
Jake looks surprised but nods. "Sure thing. Tyler can take care of it. The lodge is only about a ten-minute walk from here."
He gives me directions, simple enough since Darkmore's main street runs straight through the small downtown. I thank him again, shoulder my pack, and step out into the crisp evening air.
The town is picture-perfect in the way that only small mountain communities can be. Historic buildings house local shops and restaurants, their windows glowing warmly in the gathering dusk. Strings of lights left over from the holidays still twinkle from storefront to storefront, giving everything a cozy, welcoming feel.
I walk slowly, in no hurry to reach the lodge and the inevitable phone calls waiting for me there. My editor will want to know about the photos, my delay, my plans for returning to California. The outside world will want explanations and schedules and a return to normalcy.
But nothing about this feels normal anymore.
The Darkmore Lodge appears ahead, its rustic grandeur lit up against the mountain backdrop. It's beautiful, exactly the kind of place that would normally inspire me to reach for my camera. Instead, I just feel empty.
The lobby is warm and welcoming, with a fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace and the scent of pine and leather in the air.
The elevator ride to the third floor feels endless. My room is exactly as I left it—neat, anonymous, smelling of generic hotel cleaner instead of wood smoke and pine. My laptop sits on the desk, surrounded by notes about the climate change project that brought me here in the first place.
The project that nearly got me killed. The project that led me to Connor.
I drop my pack on the bed and move to the window, looking out at the mountain that looms over the town. Somewhere up there, Connor is probably settling in for another quiet eveningalone, feeding his fire, reading a book, pretending that the past few days never happened.
Does he miss me at all? Does he lie awake thinking about the way I felt in his arms, the way we fit together so perfectly? Or has he already compartmentalized the whole experience, filing it away as just another successful rescue with an unfortunate lapse in professional judgment?
My phone buzzes with a text from my editor:Call me ASAP. Client wants status update on Darkmore project. I need photos by tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours from now, I'm supposed to be on a plane back to San Francisco, leaving this place and Connor behind forever. Back to my apartment, my darkroom, my carefully constructed life that suddenly feels impossibly small.
I sink into the desk chair and open my laptop, scrolling through the photos I took before my accident. The ice formations are there, crystal clear and hauntingly beautiful, documenting the environmental changes I came here to capture. They're good photos. Important photos. The kind of work my grandmother would be proud of.
But they feel meaningless now compared to what I found in Connor's cabin. The pictures tell a story about climate change and environmental loss, but they don't tell the story that matters most—the one about finding something precious and unexpected in the last place you'd think to look.
The story about finding home in a stranger's eyes.
My phone rings, loud and insistent in the quiet room. My editor's name flashes on the screen, along with the reality check I've been avoiding.
Time to return to the real world. Time to pretend that the past few days were just an interesting adventure story instead of the most important experience of my life.
Time to figure out how to live with a heart that I accidentally left on a mountain with a man too stubborn or scared to keep it.
I answer the phone, paste on my professional voice, and begin the process of pretending that nothing has changed.
Even though everything has.
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