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

four

Connor

I should be sleeping. Instead, I'm sitting in my chair like some kind of sentinel, watching Mavis breathe by the light of the dying fire.

She's been out for three hours now, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion of trauma and recovery. The color has returned to her cheeks, and her breathing is deep and steady. Every few minutes, she makes a small sound in her sleep—not distress, just the quiet murmur of dreams.

I tell myself I'm monitoring her condition. Making sure her core temperature stays stable. Watching for signs of delayed hypothermia complications.

All of which is bullshit.

The truth is, I can't stop looking at her.

Mavis Aldana is beautiful in a way that hits you like a sucker punch.

She's also young. Mid-twenties, which makes her nearly twenty years younger than my forty-three years. Old enough to be a grown woman with her own career and convictions, but young enough that I should know better than to be sitting here thinking about the way her lips curved when she smiled at me.

I should definitely know better than to be thinking about how those lips might feel under mine.

Get it together, I tell myself. She's a rescue victim, not a potential date.

But that's the problem. She's not just a rescue victim anymore. She's Mavis, who risks her life to document environmental collapse. Who talks about her grandmother with such love and determination.

The wind picks up outside, rattling the windows and reminding me that we're completely cut off from the outside world.

The storm isn't supposed to let up until tomorrow afternoon, which means another eighteen hours minimum of being alone with a woman who makes me feel things I haven't felt in years.

Things I shouldn't be feeling.

I add another log to the fire, trying to stay quiet. The flames catch, sending new shadows dancing across the walls. In the improved light, I can see more details, like the way her hair falls across the pillow, the gentle curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest under the blankets.

My radio crackles softly from the kitchen counter, and I move quickly to answer it before it can wake Mavis.

"Connor here," I whisper into the handset.

"Hey, man. How's our photographer doing?" Jake's voice is barely audible through the static.

"Stable. Sleeping. Core temp is back to normal."

"Good to hear. Listen, this storm is worse than predicted. We've got three feet of new snow already and it's still coming down hard. Road crews can't even get out to start clearing until it stops completely."

I glance toward the windows, where the snow is indeed coming down in thick, heavy curtains. "How long are we looking at?"

"Best case? Tomorrow night. More likely, the day after tomorrow morning."

Two more days. Forty-eight more hours alone with Mavis in this cabin that suddenly feels both too big and too small.

"Copy that," I manage. "We're well supplied here. No concerns about food or heat."

"Roger that. Stay safe up there."

I sign off and set the radio down.

I move back to my chair, unable to stay away. In sleep, Mavis looks even younger, more vulnerable. The professional photographer who impressed me with her knowledge and determination is replaced by someone who could be a decade younger than her actual age, all soft curves and peaceful breathing.

The age difference should bother me more than it does. Should be a clear signal to keep my distance, maintain professional boundaries, get her back to town as soon as possible and forget this ever happened.

Instead, all I can think about is the way she looked at me when I brought her soup. Like I was more than just a rescue technician doing his job. Like I was a man worth knowing.

When was the last time someone looked at me like that?

A log shifts in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Mavis stirs at the sound, her eyelids fluttering. For a moment, I think she's going to wake up, but she just turns slightly, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

The movement causes the blanket to slip, revealing the curve of her shoulder in the t-shirt I'd given her to replace her wet clothes.

My throat goes dry as I remember the clinical necessity of getting her out of those soaked garments, the way I'd tried to maintain professional detachment while noting that she was even more beautiful than I'd initially realized.

I had no business noticing any of that. I'm a trained EMT, for Christ's sake. I've treated hundreds of patients without letting personal attraction cloud my judgment.

But none of those patients were Mavis Aldana.

None of them had looked at me with those dark eyes full of intelligence and gratitude and something that might have been interest, if I wasn't imagining things.

None of them had made me want to throw away fifteen years of professional ethics for the chance to find out what it would feel like to touch them when it wasn't about medical necessity.

I scrub my hands over my face, trying to reset my thinking. This is exactly the kind of situation that gets rescue personnel in trouble. Vulnerable victim, isolated setting, heightened emotions from a life-threatening situation. Textbook case for inappropriate attachment and poor decision-making.

A particularly strong gust of wind shakes the cabin, and Mavis's eyes snap open. She looks around, momentarily confused, before her gaze settles on me.

"Connor?" Her voice is soft, still heavy with sleep. "Everything okay?"

"Storm's getting worse," I explain, trying to sound casual. "Didn't mean to wake you."

She sits up slowly, wincing slightly. The movement causes her hair to fall in waves around her shoulders, and I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep from reaching out to touch it.

"How long was I asleep?"

"About three hours. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Still sore, but more human." She looks toward the windows, where snow continues to pile against the glass. "We're really snowed in, aren't we?"

"Looks that way. Jake radioed—we might be here until the day after tomorrow."

I watch her process this information, looking for signs of panic or distress. Instead, she just nods thoughtfully.

"I should probably call my editor. Let her know I'm safe but might be delayed getting the photos to her."

"Phone won't work until the storm passes," I tell her. "Satellite reception is down."

"So we're completely cut off."

"Yeah. Are you okay with that?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

She looks at me for a long moment, and I see something shift in her expression. A decision being made.

"Yeah," she says softly. "I think I am."

I should look away. Should suggest she get more sleep, or offer to make more soup, or find some other way to defuse this moment before it becomes something we can't take back.

Instead, I find myself leaning forward slightly, drawn by something I can't name and shouldn't want.

"Mavis," I say.

"Connor," she responds, and there's something in her voice that makes my blood heat.

Something that's going to test every bit of self-control I thought I had.