Page 10 of Found by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Search and Rescue #4)

One and a Half Years Later...

I stretch lazily in bed, reaching across to find Connor's side empty but still warm. Through the open window, I can hear the sound of his axe splitting wood, the steady rhythm that's become the soundtrack to our mornings.

Our mornings. Our bedroom. Our life.

Even after eighteen months, sometimes I still can't believe this is real.

I slip out of bed and pad to the window, wrapping Connor's discarded flannel shirt around myself. Outside, my husband is working his way through a pile of logs, his movements efficient and powerful despite the early hour. Even after all this time, watching him work still makes my heart skip.

The cabin has changed since I moved in permanently over a year ago.

What was once sparse and purely functional now shows signs of a life shared.

My photography equipment occupies one corner of the main room, organized on shelves Connor built specifically for my cameras and lenses.

Books on environmental science sit next to his survival manuals.

My grandmother's quilt drapes over the back of the couch where Connor proposed to me on a snowy February morning.

"Marry me," he'd said, no ring, no grand gesture, just honesty in those winter-blue eyes. "Marry me because I love you and I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life."

I'd said yes before he finished the sentence.

My laptop chimes with an email notification, and I move to check it, hoping it's the response I've been waiting for. It is—and it's even better than I expected.

Mavis,

The "Living Glaciers" series is extraordinary.

National Geographic wants to discuss a feature story, potentially with a book deal to follow.

The way you've captured both the beauty and the fragility of these ecosystems is exactly what we need right now—truth without despair, urgency without hopelessness.

Can we schedule a call this week?

I reread the email three times, my heart pounding with excitement.

The "Living Glaciers" project has been my focus for the past eight months—documenting the changing ice fields of the Rockies through all four seasons, showing both their breathtaking beauty and the subtle signs of change that most people miss.

It's the work I was meant to do. The work my grandmother would be proud of.

The front door opens, and Connor steps inside, bringing the scent of pine and summer air with him. His eyes find mine immediately, the way they always do, and his expression shifts from casual to concerned when he sees my face.

"What's wrong?" he asks, crossing to me in three long strides.

"Nothing's wrong," I say, unable to keep the grin off my face. "Everything's right. Everything's perfect."

I show him the email, watching his expression change from concern to pride to something that looks like awe.

"National Geographic," he says, pulling me into his arms. "That's incredible."

"It's because of this place," I tell him, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Because of you. Because you showed me that I could tell these stories differently. Show the truth without losing the beauty."

"You did that yourself," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I just gave you a place to do it."

We've had this argument before—Connor crediting me, me crediting him, both of us too stubborn to accept that maybe we just make each other better. It's one of our favorite fights to have.

"We should celebrate," he says, spinning me around the kitchen. "What do you think about a hike today? Perfect weather for it."

"I'd love that," I say, my stomach fluttering with nerves and excitement. This is perfect—better than I could have planned. "Actually, I was thinking we could go to Black Creek. I want to show you something there."

Something in my tone makes him pause, studying my face with those perceptive eyes. "Show me what?"

"You'll see," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "Trust me."

An hour later, we're hiking the familiar trail that leads to Black Creek, our packs loaded with lunch and my camera equipment.

The summer air is warm and sweet, filled with the scent of wildflowers and pine.

Everything is green and lush, so different from the icy wilderness where we first met, but just as beautiful.

Connor holds my hand as we navigate the rocky sections, his touch sure and steady. He knows these trails better than anyone, could probably walk them blindfolded, but he's still protective, still careful with me. It's one of the thousand small ways he shows his love.

"Remember when you used to think I was reckless?" I tease as we crest a small rise.

"Used to?" He grins at me. "You're still reckless. Just more careful about it now."

When we reach Black Creek, the water is running clear and gentle, so different from the rushing torrent that carried me away eighteen months ago. The ice formations are long gone, replaced by smooth stones and quiet pools that reflect the summer sky.

We find a spot on the bank where the aspens provide shade, and Connor spreads out our blanket. I set up my camera, ostensibly to capture the perfect light filtering through the leaves, but really because my hands need something to do while I work up the courage.

"This is where it all started," I say finally, sitting down beside him on the blanket.

"Where what started?" he asks, though I think he knows.

"Us. This life. Everything." I gesture toward the creek. "If I hadn't been foolish enough to step onto that ice, if you hadn't been skilled enough to find me..."

"You weren't foolish," he says firmly. "You were passionate. There's a difference."

"Passionate enough to nearly die for a photograph."

"Passionate enough to risk everything for something you believed in." He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. "That's not foolish, Mavis. That's brave."

I look at our joined hands, gathering my courage. In my pack, hidden beneath spare camera batteries and energy bars, is the small white stick that I've been carrying around for three days.

"Connor," I say, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I have something to tell you. Something important."

He goes still, his attention focused entirely on me, holding his breath. "What is it?"

I reach into my pack and pull out the pregnancy test, my hands trembling slightly as I place it on the blanket between us.

Connor stares at it for a long second, like his brain is struggling to process what he's seeing. Then his eyes snap to mine, wide with disbelief and hope.

"Are you?" He can't seem to finish the sentence.

"Pregnant," I whisper, nodding as tears start to blur my vision. "About eight weeks, I think. I took four tests to be sure."

The silence stretches between us, filled only by the gentle sound of water over stones and the whisper of wind through the aspens. For a terrifying moment, I wonder if this is too much, too fast. We've been married for only six months, together for eighteen months. Maybe he's not ready for this.

Then Connor's face breaks into the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, and he's reaching for me, pulling me into his arms as I laugh and cry at the same time.

"A baby," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "We're having a baby."

"Are you happy?" I ask, needing to hear him say it.

"Happy?" He frames my face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears. "Mavis, I'm terrified and thrilled and so happy I can't even think straight!"

He shifts so he can place his hands gently on my still-flat stomach. "Hey there, little one," he says softly. "It's your dad. I can't wait to meet you."

The simple words break something open in my chest and love comes pouring out. This man, who thought he was too old and too damaged for love, is going to be the most incredible father.

"I wanted to tell you here," I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair. "Where our story started. Where you saved my life."

"Where you saved mine," he corrects, pressing a gentle kiss to my stomach before looking up at me. "This place brought us together. Now it's going to be part of our child's story too."

We sit there for a long time, his hands on my belly, mine in his hair, both of us overwhelmed by the magnitude of this moment. Around us, the creek flows peacefully, the aspens rustle in the warm breeze, and the mountains stand eternal and protective, watching over the place where our future began.

"I was thinking," Connor says eventually, "Maybe we should expand the cabin. Add another bedroom, maybe a proper darkroom for you."

"Planning ahead?" I tease, though my heart swells at his immediate acceptance, his instinct to prepare and protect.

"Always," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Though with you, I've learned to expect the unexpected."

"Good thing," I say, placing my hand over his. "Because I have a feeling this little one is going to keep us on our toes."

In this moment, looking out into the wilderness, I can’t help but think about my grandmother. She always said that the best stories find you when you're not looking for them. She was right about that, just like she was right about so many things.

"What are you thinking about?" Connor asks.

"My grandmother," I say honestly. "How she'd love this place. How she'd love you. How she'd love knowing that her legacy is going to continue."

"She'd love that you're telling the stories that matter," he says, his hands warm on my ankles. "That you found a way to show both the beauty and the truth."

"I love you," I whisper against his chest.

Tomorrow, I'll call National Geographic. I'll start planning the new project, mapping out a timeline that accounts for morning sickness and doctor's appointments and all the beautiful complications that come with carrying new life.

Tonight, though, I just want to be here with my husband in the home we've built together, dreaming about the future we're creating.

The story my grandmother started, that I continued, will go on. But now it will have a new voice, a new perspective, a new generation to carry it forward.

And that, I think as Connor's hand traces gentle circles on my belly, is the most beautiful story of all.