Page 5 of Found By the Mountain Man
"Easy there." The voice is deep, calm, authoritative. "You've been through hell."
I force my eyes open and find myself staring up at a rustic log ceiling. Warm light flickers across the beams—firelight, not electric. I'm lying on a comfortable couch, stripped down, dressed in someone else’s shirt, and buried under what feels like every blanket in existence. The air smells like wood smoke andsomething cooking that makes my empty stomach clench with hunger.
"Where?" My voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. "Where am I?"
"My cabin." The man moves into my field of vision, and my breath catches despite my condition. This is my rescuer. Connor, he'd said his name was. In the crisis by the creek, I'd registered capable hands and a reassuring voice. Now I can actually see him.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes the color of winter sky. His face is weathered by sun and wind, with lines around his eyes that speak of someone who spends his time outdoors.
He's also ridiculously attractive in that rugged, mountain-man way that shouldn't do things to my pulse but absolutely does.
"How long was I out?" I ask, trying to sit up. The movement sends the room spinning, and I immediately lie back down.
"About four hours." He crouches beside the couch. "You were hypothermic. I had to get your core temperature back up."
"The storm?"
"Hit about an hour after we found you. Roads are blocked solid. We're stuck here until it blows over."
I process this information. The cabin is small but well-built, with honey-colored log walls and simple, sturdy furniture. A fire crackles in a stone fireplace that dominates one wall. Through the windows, I can see nothing but swirling snow—the kind of Alberta blizzard that can trap people for days.
"My camera!" I start to sit up again, panic overriding the dizziness.
"Right here." Connor reaches behind the couch and produces my camera, checking it over with surprising gentleness for hands that look like they could crush rocks. "Housing held. Your photos should be fine."
Relief floods through me so strongly it's almost as debilitating as the hypothermia. "Thank God. I thought—when I went through the ice—"
"You got some incredible shots before that happened." He sets the camera on the coffee table within my reach. "I checked to make sure the memory card wasn't damaged. Hope you don't mind."
"You looked at my photos?" There's something oddly intimate about that, like he's seen into my soul without permission.
"Just enough to confirm they survived." His expression grows serious. "Those ice formations, you documented the exact moment they became unstable. That's not just photography. That's evidence."
I study his face, surprised by his understanding. Most people see my climate work as doom and gloom, just like my editor. But Connor gets it. He understands the importance of bearing witness, of creating a visual record of what we're losing.
"That's what I was hoping for," I admit. "Though I didn't plan on nearly dying for it."
"The ice was more unstable than it appeared. Even experienced mountaineers would have had trouble reading those conditions." He moves to tend the fire, adding another log. "You couldn't have known."
"You would have known."
He glances back at me. "I've lived in these mountains for fifteen years. They're my job."
"What exactly is your job? Besides rescuing photographers who make stupid decisions?"
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Search and Rescue specialist. EMT training. I also teach survival courses to tourists who think they can conquer the wilderness in a weekend."
"Ah. The weekend warriors."
"You met some of them?"
"No, but I've photographed them." I shift slightly, testing my range of motion. "Though I guess I'm not much better. I'm just a different kind of unprepared."
"You're nothing like them." The certainty in his voice surprises me. "They're looking for Instagram moments. You were documenting something that matters."
The validation hits me unexpectedly hard. When was the last time someone understood what I was trying to do without me having to explain it?
My stomach chooses that moment to announce its emptiness with a growl that could wake the dead.
