Page 1

Chapter 1

Warning Signs

* * *

The quaint sign for Angel's Peak emerges through my windshield, wooden and hand-carved, dusted with a light powder of early morning snow. A bubble of excitement rises in my chest—finally, after three years of writing cookie-cutter travel pieces about overpriced tourist traps, I've landed an assignment with actual substance.

My editor's words replay in my mind: "Make this good, Matthews, and we'll talk about that staff position." The validation I've craved since joining Pathfinder Magazine dangles just within reach.

I ease my rental car into the small town center, where buildings with timber facades and pitched roofs line a single main street. Christmas lights still twinkle in shop windows despite January being well underway. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone—exactly what my urban readers will eat up.

My growling stomach guides me to Maggie's Diner, a chrome-and-red establishment that could have been plucked straight from the 1950s. The bell above the door announces my arrival, and heads turn—outsiders clearly a novelty here. The warmth inside fogs my glasses instantly, carrying scents of coffee, bacon, and something sweet.

A waitress with silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun approaches as I slide into a booth. Her name tag reads "Darlene," and smile lines frame kind eyes.

"Coffee, honey?" She brandishes a pot without waiting for my answer.

"Please. And whatever that amazing smell is." I unwrap my scarf, savoring the heat against my chilled cheeks.

"Cinnamon rolls. Just out of the oven." Darlene pours the steaming coffee into a mug with mountains etched into the ceramic. "Haven't seen you around before."

"Just got in. I'm writing an article about hidden gems in the Rockies." I pull out my notebook, eager to start collecting details. "Places tourists overlook but shouldn't."

Darlene's eyebrows lift. "Well, you picked a risky time to visit. Storm's coming in tonight. Big one, by the looks of the sky."

"I checked the forecast before driving up. It said we’d just get a dusting." My phone sits on the table, and the weather app suggests nothing more than light snow.

"Those forecasts are set for the valley." A man's gruff voice carries from the counter. He's beefy, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a park ranger uniform. "Up here, weather's got a mind of its own. Pete's station's picking up a serious system moving faster than expected."

"Serious as in...?" I try to keep my tone casual.

"Serious as in twenty inches and sixty-mile winds by midnight." Darlene slides a massive cinnamon roll in front of me, steam carrying its spicy sweetness upward. "You might want to gather what you need today and hunker down at your hotel tonight."

Disappointment curdles in my stomach. I only have four days here, and my deadline looms next week. A lost day means trouble.

"I'll be careful." I drizzle icing over the roll, watching it melt into the swirls. "But I really need to get some preliminary shots of the trails today. Any recommendations for something with a great view that won't take too long?"

The diner grows oddly quiet.

"Lookout Point's your best bet," the ranger finally offers. "Three miles up, well-marked trail. But be back down by two, no exceptions."

"Absolutely." I scribble the name in my notebook. Three miles is nothing. With my new hiking boots and the trail guide, I should be fine. The worried glances exchanged around me seem excessive.

City girl stereotyping at its finest.

The bell above the door jingles, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees despite the cozy warmth. Curious, I turn slightly in my booth.

A man stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair dusted with snow and a jawline that could cut glass. His presence fills the small diner, though he hasn't said a word. Clad in well-worn hiking gear and a heavy jacket, he stomps snow from his boots with precision.

No one speaks. Even Darlene hesitates before approaching him.

"Morning, Jackson. The usual?" Her voice carries forced cheerfulness.

He nods once, sharp and efficient, scanning the room with eyes as blue and cold as glacial ice. When his gaze lands briefly on me—the obvious outsider—something like irritation flickers across his features.

I straighten my spine instinctively. Something about his dismissive assessment rankles.

"Coffee to go, Darlene. And two of those." He points to my cinnamon roll.

That voice. Low and rough, like it’s been dragged over gravel and whiskey, and somehow still smoother than sin. It slides down my spine in a slow, deliberate shiver, curling around something deep in my belly I wasn’t expecting.

I blink, trying to shake the reaction, but it’s already there—lodged behind my ribs, warm and unwelcome.

The man’s presence is… magnetic in the most inconvenient way. Every inch of him screams backwoods danger—silent, brooding, and built like he could wrestle a bear into submission just for the exercise. He doesn’t look at me again, but I feel the weight of that single glance like a brand on my skin.

“Storm’s moving fast," he says. "Everyone ready?”

It’s not a question. It’s a warning.

My fingers tighten around the warm ceramic of my coffee mug, and I suddenly feel every beat of my pulse against the porcelain.

Who the hell is this man?

And why the hell did my heart just skip?

The diner hums with quiet energy now, every local tuned to him like a barometer for whatever’s coming. He doesn’t wear a badge, but he might as well. Authority clings to him like the snow melting off his shoulders—quiet, cold, absolute.

“Got a writer staying at Mabel’s place,” the ranger says, nodding in my direction.

Like I’m not sitting three feet away. Like I’m part of the furniture.

Jackson’s glacier-blue eyes flick to me again, this time assessing. Not the once-over kind of look I’m used to from men in bars or conferences. This one is colder. Calculating. Like he’s measuring my worth and already finding it lacking.

It’s not curiosity. Not appreciation.

It’s dismissal.

And it hits all wrong.

I’m used to double-takes and lingering smiles. Free drinks sent down the bar. The slow lean-in of male attention, half-flirt, half-dare. Men trip over themselves to hold doors, start conversations, ask for a photo—anything to keep me in their orbit a little longer.

But this man?

He looks right through me.

Like I’m a risk assessment, not a person. Like I’m a problem he’s already solving in his head.

My spine stiffens. Heat flares in my chest—part insult, part challenge. I know what I look like. I’ve used it to open doors, charm sources, and get interviews others can’t. It’s not vanity—it’s strategy.

But he doesn’t care.

Worse—he’s already decided I don’t matter.

And that, more than the storm or the sudden shift in the room’s energy, pisses me right the fuck off.

“Writer?” he asks, still not addressing me.

“Heading to Lookout Point,” the ranger replies, as easy as you please.

I set my coffee down with a little too much force.

“Not today.” Jackson’s tone is final, like a slammed door. His gaze slices back to the ranger, ignoring me entirely. “She’s not?—”

He stops, lips pressing into a hard line. Whatever he was about to say, he swallows it.

But I’ve heard enough.

She’s not…?

Not what? Not capable? Not local? Not worth speaking to directly?

I bristle, heat rising in my chest.

“Excuse me,” I cut in, my voice sharp enough to draw a few looks. “But if we’re going to decide where I can and can’t go, maybe you could include me in the conversation?”

The two men look at me then, but it’s Jackson who holds my gaze.

Calm.

Controlled.

Completely unfazed by my anger.

“That storm hits, and you’re out past the ridge; no one’s coming to get you,” he says. “So yeah. I’m telling you not today.”

I rise from the booth, pulse hammering. “And I’m telling you, I’m not some clueless city girl who wandered in with a camera and bad boots. I’ve done this before.”

His gaze drops to my boots—perfectly broken-in waterproof hikers, thank you very much—then back to my face, still unreadable.

“Good to know,” he says simply, like that changes nothing.

And maybe it doesn’t.

But I’m not about to be dismissed like some reckless tourist who needs saving.

Not by this man.

Not by anyone.

"Whatever you were told about the weather is outdated." His attention fixes entirely on me now, intense and piercing. "Storm's accelerated. If you want pictures, take them from your hotel window."

"And who are you to tell me what to do?" My cheeks burn. The condescension in his tone ignites something defiant in me.

A strange hush falls over the diner again.

"Jackson Hart. Mountain rescue." He doesn't elaborate further, already turning toward the door. "Stay in town today, city girl."

With that, he's gone, leaving nothing but cold air and an impression of absolute authority in his wake.

"Don't take it personally," Darlene whispers, refilling my coffee. "That's just Jackson. Knows these mountains better than he knows himself."

The ranger nods. "Best guide in three states. If he says the trail's closed, it's closed."

Frustration simmers beneath my skin. My entire career hangs on this article, and some mountain man with a superiority complex isn't going to derail it.

"Who does he think he is?" I mutter, tearing off a piece of cinnamon roll with more force than necessary.

The diner goes oddly quiet again. An older woman at the counter clears her throat. "He's earned the right. Lost his fiancée up there three years back. Climbing accident. Hasn't been the same since."

"Emma," someone else adds softly. "Sweet girl. He was leading a group when it happened."

"That's terrible." My irritation deflates slightly, replaced by an unwelcome twinge of sympathy.

"Terrible enough that when Jackson Hart says to stay off the mountain..." Darlene raises her eyebrows meaningfully. "You stay off the mountain."

"I understand." The words taste false even as I speak them. I’m on a deadline, which means I’m headed up that trail. Besides, the ranger said I could, as long as I’m back by two.

Ten minutes later, I'm in my rental car, driving toward the trailhead for Lookout Point rather than to the lodge, where I have a room for the next four days. My conscience prickles, but my ambition speaks louder.

Three miles up, quick photos, three miles down. I'll be back before noon. Before the storm hits. The sky above still shows patches of blue between gathering clouds, and the wind hasn't picked up significantly.

As I lock the car and consult the trail map, my new hiking boots crunch on fresh snow. Clear markers lead the way, and I've downloaded the route to my phone. This Jackson person is probably just being overly cautious—understandable given his history, but I'm not some helpless tourist. I grew up hiking in Vermont. Different terrain, sure, but the principles remain the same.

The first mile passes easily, the trail winding through pine trees heavy with snow. My camera captures the pristine wilderness, perfect for the "untouched beauty" angle my article needs. The silence wraps around me like a blanket, broken only by the soft padding of my boots and occasional birdsong.

By the second mile, the wind picks up, whipping loose strands of hair across my face. The trees thin out, exposing me to the elements more directly. Clouds have swallowed the remaining blue sky, turning everything a flat, ominous gray. Second thoughts nag at me, but I'm more than halfway there. Turning back now would waste the entire trip up.

Just push forward. Get the shots. Head back down.

How bad can it get?

The trail steepens, and my breathing grows labored. The altitude—something I hadn't adequately accounted for—makes every step more taxing than expected.

A gust of wind nearly knocks me sideways, and the first heavy snowflakes begin to fall. Not the gentle, picturesque flakes from earlier, but hard, driving pellets that sting my cheeks and gather rapidly on my jacket.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

The thought barely forms when the trail marker ahead disappears behind a sudden curtain of white. The wind howls now, disorienting me as visibility drops dramatically. My phone's GPS flickers, the signal wavering.

Stay calm. Follow your tracks back.

I turn, heart thumping painfully against my ribs, only to find my footprints already filling with fresh snow. The path I took up has vanished—Gone—replaced by an indistinguishable blanket of white.

Panic rises, sharp and metallic in my throat. The storm wasn't supposed to hit for hours. Jackson was right—it's accelerated beyond all predictions. And I, in my stubborn pride, ignored every warning.

Think, Cloe. Think.

The trail map shows a shortcut—a narrow path that cuts across the switchbacks, potentially shaving precious minutes off my descent. I squint through the thickening snow, spotting the faint indentation of the cutoff winding sharply downhill. Steeper. Narrower. Less traveled.

But it slices the mountain like a blade. Right now, speed matters more than caution.

The moment my boot hits the incline, the terrain shifts underfoot. Not packed trail—loose shale, dusted with snow, hiding patches of slick ice beneath. My heel slips. I pinwheel an arm for balance, my heart thudding as gravel skitters down the slope, vanishing into the mist below.

A low branch whips across my cheek as I push forward, stinging cold against skin already raw from the wind. The path narrows again, no more than a goat track now, and it hugs tight to a drop-off that disappears into swirling white. My boots crunch down, but the snow gives unevenly—some spots soft and shallow, others concealing frozen rock that sends me skidding sideways until I catch myself against a pine trunk, bark scraping my palm.

Every step demands full attention and commitment. One wrong move and this shortcut stops being faster and starts being fatal.

My foot slips.

Time slows.

One moment, I’m upright; the next, I’m sliding uncontrollably down the steep incline, snow and rocks tumbling with me. My trail pack tears away, disappearing into the whiteness. I claw desperately for purchase, fingernails scraping against hidden ice until my body slams against something solid—a narrow outcropping of rock that halts my descent.

Pain lances through my left ankle. The ledge beneath me can't be more than three feet wide, dropping away into swirling white nothingness below. Above me, the path I slid from seems impossibly distant.

Shit.

I'm trapped.

My hands, bare after losing my gloves in the fall, grow numb against the freezing rock. The storm envelops me completely now, visibility reduced to mere feet. No one knows where I am. No one is coming. The realization sinks into my bones, colder than the snow accumulating on my shoulders.

"Help!" My voice sounds pathetically small against the howling wind. "Somebody help!"

Minutes blur into what might be an hour. My body trembles uncontrollably, and my fingers lose sensation entirely. Consciousness begins to waver, darkness edging into my vision.

This is how it ends.

Not with the career breakthrough I dreamed of, but frozen on a mountainside, a cautionary tale for other ambitious fools.

My eyelids grow heavy, the deadly comfort of sleep beckoning.

Through increasingly unfocused vision, something moves in the blizzard above me. A hallucination, surely—my oxygen-deprived brain conjuring hope where none exists.

But then it comes again—a flash of color against the white.

And then, impossibly—a rope drops beside me, slicing through the thick white haze like judgment itself, the end swinging in the violent wind before thudding against the ground, inches from my frozen hand.

I stare at it for one beat, and then I know with absolute certainty who my rescuer is.

Of course.

Of course, it’s him .

Jackson fucking Hart.

Heat surges beneath my cold-soaked skin—not from relief but fury. Embarrassment. Shame that tastes like blood in the back of my throat.

He was right.

About the storm.

About the trail.

But not about me.

I’m not some reckless idiot. I’ve hiked harder terrain than this. I’ve summited peaks he’s probably only flown over. But none of that matters now—not when I’m half-sliding down a mountain, and he’s throwing me a lifeline.

He’s going to think I’m exactly what he warned me not to be—just another foolish, unprepared city girl who wandered too far past the guardrails.

My pride screams at me not to take it.

But my fingers close around the rope—frozen, stiff, furious.

Because survival comes first.

And proving Jackson Hart wrong will have to wait.