Page 8 of Found by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Search and Rescue #4)
seven
Mavis
The sound of snowmobiles cuts through the afternoon air like chainsaws, growing louder as they approach the cabin. I'm standing at the window, watching three bright orange machines navigate through the snow-covered trees, their riders bundled in official SAR gear.
My rescue party. My ticket back to reality.
I should be relieved. I should be grateful that trained professionals are here to safely transport me back to civilization, back to my rental car and my flight home and my real life waiting in sunny San Francisco.
Instead, all I feel is a hollow ache in my chest that gets worse with every passing second.
"They're here," Connor says unnecessarily from behind me. His voice is carefully neutral, professionally distant.
"I can see that." I don't turn around, can't bear to look at his face and see none of the passion from last night.
The lead snowmobile pulls up in front of the cabin, and I recognize Jake even through his helmet and snow gear. He cuts the engine and waves at the window before dismounting, followed by two other Search and Rescue team members I don't know.
Connor moves to the door, opening it before they can knock. "Jake. Good timing."
"How are our patients?" Jake asks, stomping snow off his boots as he enters. His eyes find me by the window. "Ms. Aldana, how are you feeling?"
"Fine," I answer automatically. "Completely recovered."
"That's what I like to hear." Jake's grin is warm and genuine. "Ready to get back to civilization?"
"More than ready," I lie, forcing a smile I don't feel.
The other two team members introduce themselves—Jace and Tyler, both experienced rescuers who seem competent and friendly. They immediately begin assessing the situation, checking equipment, and discussing the best route back to town.
"Weather's supposed to hold for the next few hours," Jace reports. "Clear skies, minimal wind. Should be an easy ride down."
"How long will it take to get back to town?" I ask, already knowing I won't like the answer.
"About forty-five minutes," Tyler replies. "Hour at most, depending on trail conditions."
Forty-five minutes. Less than an hour, and this strange, intense chapter of my life will be over. I'll be back at the Darkmore Lodge, fielding calls from my editor, preparing to fly home tomorrow morning. Back to being just another photographer who got herself into trouble and needed to be rescued.
Back to pretending that nothing life-changing happened in this cabin.
"I should get my things," I say to no one in particular.
My "things" don't amount to much—my camera equipment, my wet clothes that Connor had hung to dry by the fire, my boots. Everything else was lost to the river, leaving no trace that I was ever here except for the faint lingering scent of my shampoo in his borrowed clothes.
I change back into my own clothes in Connor's bedroom, taking longer than necessary to fold his t-shirt and sweater.
The fabric still smells like him—pine and wood smoke and something uniquely masculine.
I press the shirt to my face for just a moment, breathing him in, before forcing myself to set it on his dresser.
When I emerge from the bedroom, the cabin is full of male voices discussing weather patterns and trail conditions and other practical matters. Connor is in full professional mode, briefing the team on my condition, discussing the rescue protocols, being every inch the competent SAR specialist.
Not once does he look at me.
"Ready?" Jake asks when he sees me with my pack.
"Ready," I confirm, though I've never felt less ready for anything in my life.
The goodbyes are brief and awkward. I thank Jace and Tyler for coming to get me. I shake Jake's hand and tell him how much I appreciate everything the SAR team has done. Standard rescue victim politeness, all surface level and meaningless.
Connor walks us to the door, still maintaining that careful professional distance. "Take care of yourself," he says to me, like I'm any other rescue victim. "And maybe stick to marked trails from now on."
His tone is light, almost joking, but there's no warmth in his eyes. No acknowledgment of what we shared, what we discovered together in this cabin while the storm raged outside.
"I'll keep that in mind," I reply, matching his casual tone even though my throat feels tight.
I want to say more. Want to tell him that this isn't over, that what happened between us was real and important and worth fighting for. Want to ask him to give us a chance, to not let fear and professional boundaries destroy something beautiful before it has a chance to grow.
But he's already turning away, helping Jace load equipment onto the snowmobiles, acting like I'm already gone.
The ride back to town is exactly as long and cold and miserable as I expected.
I'm seated behind Jake on his snowmobile, holding on tight as we navigate the winding trail down the mountain.
The landscape is stunning—endless expanses of pristine snow, towering pines heavy with powder, the majestic bulk of Darkmore Peak rising behind us—but I can barely appreciate the beauty through the fog of my own misery.
Every mile we travel takes me further from Connor, further from the possibility of something I never knew I wanted until I found it.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Darkmore, the sun is starting to set, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold. It's the kind of light photographers dream of, the magic hour that makes everything look like a fairy tale.
I should be taking pictures. Should be documenting this stunning Alberta wilderness, adding to my climate change portfolio. Instead, I can't bring myself to reach for my camera.
The SAR station is a modest building on the edge of town's small downtown, buzzing with activity despite the late hour. Jake parks the snowmobile and helps me dismount, my legs shaky after the long ride.
"Let's get you checked over by our medic," he says, leading me toward the building. "Just a precaution."
The next hour passes in a blur of medical assessments and paperwork.
The medic—a competent woman named Dr. Chen—pronounces me fully recovered from my hypothermia ordeal.
I answer questions about my experience, sign forms releasing the SAR team from liability, and provide contact information for follow-up if needed.
All standard procedures. All completely surreal after the intimate intensity of the past few days.
"Your rental car is still at the Black Creek trailhead," Jake informs me as we finish the paperwork. "We can give you a ride out there, or if you prefer, one of our guys can drive it back to town for you."
"I can deal with it," I say automatically, then realize I'm not sure that's true. The thought of getting behind the wheel and driving away from this place feels impossible right now.
"You sure? It's been a tough few days. No shame in accepting help."
I look around the SAR station, taking in the maps on the walls, the rescue equipment neatly organized in bins, the photos of successful operations.
This is Connor's world, his chosen family, his life's work.
A life that apparently has no room for a photographer from San Francisco who was foolish enough to fall for her rescuer.
"Actually," I hear myself saying, "could someone drive it back to the lodge for me? I think I'd rather walk through town, clear my head a bit."
Jake looks surprised but nods. "Sure thing. Tyler can take care of it. The lodge is only about a ten-minute walk from here."
He gives me directions, simple enough since Darkmore's main street runs straight through the small downtown. I thank him again, shoulder my pack, and step out into the crisp evening air.
The town is picture-perfect in the way that only small mountain communities can be.
Historic buildings house local shops and restaurants, their windows glowing warmly in the gathering dusk.
Strings of lights left over from the holidays still twinkle from storefront to storefront, giving everything a cozy, welcoming feel.
I walk slowly, in no hurry to reach the lodge and the inevitable phone calls waiting for me there. My editor will want to know about the photos, my delay, my plans for returning to California. The outside world will want explanations and schedules and a return to normalcy.
But nothing about this feels normal anymore.
The Darkmore Lodge appears ahead, its rustic grandeur lit up against the mountain backdrop. It's beautiful, exactly the kind of place that would normally inspire me to reach for my camera. Instead, I just feel empty.
The lobby is warm and welcoming, with a fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace and the scent of pine and leather in the air.
The elevator ride to the third floor feels endless. My room is exactly as I left it—neat, anonymous, smelling of generic hotel cleaner instead of wood smoke and pine. My laptop sits on the desk, surrounded by notes about the climate change project that brought me here in the first place.
The project that nearly got me killed. The project that led me to Connor.
I drop my pack on the bed and move to the window, looking out at the mountain that looms over the town. Somewhere up there, Connor is probably settling in for another quiet evening alone, feeding his fire, reading a book, pretending that the past few days never happened.
Does he miss me at all? Does he lie awake thinking about the way I felt in his arms, the way we fit together so perfectly? Or has he already compartmentalized the whole experience, filing it away as just another successful rescue with an unfortunate lapse in professional judgment?
My phone buzzes with a text from my editor: Call me ASAP. Client wants status update on Darkmore project. I need photos by tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours from now, I'm supposed to be on a plane back to San Francisco, leaving this place and Connor behind forever. Back to my apartment, my darkroom, my carefully constructed life that suddenly feels impossibly small.
I sink into the desk chair and open my laptop, scrolling through the photos I took before my accident.
The ice formations are there, crystal clear and hauntingly beautiful, documenting the environmental changes I came here to capture.
They're good photos. Important photos. The kind of work my grandmother would be proud of.
But they feel meaningless now compared to what I found in Connor's cabin. The pictures tell a story about climate change and environmental loss, but they don't tell the story that matters most—the one about finding something precious and unexpected in the last place you'd think to look.
The story about finding home in a stranger's eyes.
My phone rings, loud and insistent in the quiet room. My editor's name flashes on the screen, along with the reality check I've been avoiding.
Time to return to the real world. Time to pretend that the past few days were just an interesting adventure story instead of the most important experience of my life.
Time to figure out how to live with a heart that I accidentally left on a mountain with a man too stubborn or scared to keep it.
I answer the phone, paste on my professional voice, and begin the process of pretending that nothing has changed.
Even though everything has.