Page 3 of Found by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Search and Rescue #4)

three

Mavis

I wake to the sound of crackling wood and the scent of pine smoke.

For a blissful moment, I think I'm back in my grandmother's cabin in the Hill Country, where she used to take me during summer breaks from the chaos of foster care.

Then the pain hits—a symphony of aches that tells the story of my near-death experience in vivid, throbbing detail.

My shoulder screams when I try to move. My throat feels raw from swallowing creek water. Every muscle in my body feels like I've been hit by a truck, then dragged behind it for good measure.

"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 and something 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.

Connor's smile becomes more pronounced. "When did you eat last?"

I try to remember. "Yesterday morning, I think? I was so focused on getting to the formations before the light changed."

He shakes his head and moves toward what I assume is the kitchen area. "Can't save the world on an empty stomach. How do you feel about soup?"

"Like it might be the most beautiful word in the English language."

A few minutes later, he brings me the soup, and I struggle to sit up enough to eat without spilling it all over his blankets. Without a word, he arranges pillows behind me, supporting me with surprising gentleness.

"Thank you." I take a spoonful of the soup and nearly moan with pleasure. It's rich and hearty, with chunks of meat and vegetables. "I like your cabin. It’s peaceful." I take another spoonful, feeling strength returning with each bite. "Very different from my world."

"Which is?"

"Chaos, mostly. Constant travel, impossible deadlines, clients who want to save the planet but only if it looks pretty and doesn't make anyone uncomfortable." I realize how bitter I sound and try to moderate my tone. "Sorry. It's been a frustrating few months."

"The climate work isn't going well?"

I'm surprised by his genuine interest. Most people's eyes glaze over when I talk about environmental photography.

"It's going exactly as well as you'd expect when you're trying to convince people to care about something that's inconvenient to acknowledge.

" I set down my spoon, the familiar weight of disappointment settling on my shoulders.

"Editors want 'inspiring' shots of pristine wilderness.

They don't want to see the reality of what's happening to that wilderness. "

"But you keep trying."

"My grandmother was a photojournalist. She taught me that the camera doesn't lie, even when people want it to.

" I pick up my spoon again, needing something to do with my hands.

"She documented pollution in the Rio Grande Valley back in the seventies.

Made people so uncomfortable that they actually changed federal policy. "

"That's incredible."

"She was incredible. I'm just..." I shrug, immediately regretting the movement when my shoulder protests. "I'm just trying to follow in her footsteps, even if it feels impossible sometimes."

He just nods, but I feel understood. Silence stretches between us for a few minutes before he speaks again. "Storm's supposed to blow through by tomorrow afternoon. Roads might be clear by evening, depending on how much snow we get."

Tomorrow evening. That means at least twenty-four hours alone in this cabin with a man who makes my pulse race just by existing in the same space.

Not that anything could happen. I'm injured, exhausted, and probably look like something the cat dragged in. Plus, he's a professional who risked his life to save mine. The last thing he needs is some grateful photographer developing an inappropriate crush on her rescuer.

Even if he does have the most gorgeous eyes I've ever seen.

Even if his hands were surprisingly gentle when he helped me sit up.

Even if there's something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel like he sees more than just another tourist who got in over her head.

"You should rest," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "Your body's been through trauma. Sleep is the best thing for recovery."

I nod, though I'm not sure sleep will come easily. There's something about being here, in this warm, quiet space with this capable, attractive man, that has my nerve endings humming with awareness despite my exhaustion.

Then he turns away, busying himself with the dishes. "Get some sleep, Mavis. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

I settle back into the pillows, pulling the blankets up to my chin. Outside, the wind howls around the cabin, but inside it's warm and safe. I watch Connor move around the kitchen, efficient and sure, and feel something unfamiliar settling in my chest.

For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel completely safe. Not just physically, but in some deeper way I can't quite name.

It should be unsettling, this instant trust in a stranger. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

My eyes grow heavy, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the quiet sounds of Connor cleaning up. Just before I drift off, I hear him settle into the chair across from me, as if he's planning to keep watch through the night.

The last thing I see before sleep claims me is Connor's silhouette against the firelight, solid and reassuring, like a guardian standing between me and the storm raging outside.