Page 6 of Emergency with the Mountain Man
"Exactly. Hard to stay focused on petty problems when you're looking at something that's been here for thousands of years and will be here long after we're gone."
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, both looking up at the snow-capped peaks that ring the valley. The late afternoon light paints everything golden, and the air carries the scent of pine and wildflowers.
"I should let you get going," Jake says eventually. "I'm sure you have other calls to make."
"Actually, that was my last appointment of the day." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the implied availability.
"In that case..." Jake hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. "Would you like to see something spectacular? There's a waterfall about ten minutes from here that most tourists never find. The light should be perfect right about now."
Every rational part of my brain screams that this is a bad idea. I came to Silver Ridge to focus on building my practice and healing from Sebastian's betrayal. Getting involved with a local man, no matter how attractive or kind, is exactly the opposite of what I should be doing.
But standing here in the golden afternoon light, looking at Jake's hopeful expression, rational thought seems less important than the possibility of spending more time with this man who makes me feel things I'd forgotten I was capable of feeling.
"I suppose I could spare a few minutes," I hear myself saying.
Jake's smile is brighter than the sunrise. "Follow me. It's just up this logging road."
I climb into my truck, telling myself this is just friendly local hospitality. Nothing more than a new resident being shown around by a helpful neighbor. The fact that my hands are shaking as I start the engine is completely irrelevant.
The logging road winds through dense forest, climbing steadily toward the sound of rushing water. Jake drives slowly, clearly mindful of my truck's lower clearance, checking his rearview mirror frequently to make sure I'm keeping up.
When we reach a small clearing, he parks and gets out, waiting for me with that patient courtesy that seems to be his default mode. No assumptions, no pressure, just genuine desire to share something beautiful.
"It's about a five-minute hike," he says as I join him. "The trail's pretty well-maintained, but watch your footing near the falls. The rocks can be slippery."
The path through the forest is magical, dappled with late afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy. Jake walks ahead of me, pointing out interesting plants and signs of wildlife activity with the easy knowledge of someone who spends his life outdoors.
"Bear tracks," he says, crouching beside a muddy section of trail. "Probably a day or two old. Medium-sized adult, heading uphill toward the berry patches."
I kneel beside him, studying the clear paw prints pressed into the soft earth. "Male or female?"
"Hard to tell from tracks alone, but given the size and the fact that we're not seeing any cub prints nearby, I'd guess male. Females with cubs tend to stick closer to dense cover this time of year."
His knowledge is impressive, the kind of practical understanding that comes from years of careful observation. Most loggers I've met view wildlife as either obstacles or curiosities. Jake speaks about the bears like neighbors he respects and wants to coexist with.
"You know a lot about animal behavior for someone who cuts down trees for a living."
"You can't work in the forest without understanding the creatures who live there. Plus, I grew up hunting and fishing with my dad. He taught me to read sign, track animals, predict their movements. Said you can't harvest from the land without understanding what you're taking from."
"Your dad sounds like a wise man."
"He was. Died when I was twenty-two, but everything he taught me about respecting the wilderness has guided my career choices." Jake stands, brushing dirt from his hands. "He would have loved meeting you, actually. He always said the best people were the ones who dedicated their lives to helping animals."
The casual intimacy of the comment—introducing me to his father, even hypothetically—catches me off guard. There's an assumption of connection there, a suggestion that I'm someone worth sharing important memories with.
Before I can figure out how to respond, the sound of falling water grows loud enough to drown out conversation. We round a bend in the trail, and I gasp.
The waterfall is breathtaking—a seventy-foot cascade of crystal-clear water tumbling over granite cliffs into a pool so blue it looks artificial. Rainbow mist rises from where the waterhits the rocks, and the late afternoon sun turns everything golden and ethereal.
"Oh my God," I breathe. "Jake, this is incredible."
"Worth the hike?"
"Worth moving across the country." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks at the admission.
Jake's expression softens. "Is that why you came here? To find places like this?"
"Partially." I move closer to the pool, mesmerized by the way the water catches and reflects the light. "I needed to remember what beauty looked like. What peace felt like."
