Page 10

Chapter 10

Treacherous Path

Morning sunlight streams through lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across my laptop screen. Two days back in civilization, and the article is taking shape—the wilderness beauty, the danger of underestimating nature, the practical safety tips distilled from Jackson's teachings. Everything except the story beneath the story.

My phone vibrates against the antique writing desk, my editor's name flashing on the screen.

"This is good, Matthews." Diane's voice crackles through the connection, New York bustle audible in the background. "But we need more."

My stomach tightens. "More what?"

"The human element. You survived four days in a blizzard with Angel's Peak's legendary mountain man. There's gold there."

"He's a private person." My fingers trace the edge of the laptop, remembering callused hands against my skin. "I promised discretion."

"I'm not asking for his medical records." Keys clack as she presumably scrolls through my draft. "But readers connect with people, not landscapes. You've got the reclusive hero who saved your life. That's the hook."

"It's exploitative." The defense rises automatically.

"It's journalism." Diane's tone sharpens. "Look, get me something on Hart—his philosophy, his connection to the mountain, anything. Or this stays a pretty nature piece buried in the back pages."

The threat hangs between us—my breakthrough opportunity dissolving into yet another forgettable article.

"I'll see what I can do." The words taste bitter.

"Good. Revised draft by tomorrow." The call ends with a decisive click.

Rain begins to tap against the window, matching my darkening mood. The ethical dilemma stretches before me—betray Jackson's trust for career advancement, or honor his privacy at professional cost.

No contest, really. Some lines shouldn't be crossed.

Standing at the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass, movement catches my attention. A familiar truck crawls past the guesthouse, slowing almost imperceptibly before continuing down the street.

Jackson.

My heart stutters against my ribs, an unwelcome reminder of feelings I've been working to suppress. What is he doing here, in town, passing my temporary home?

Before reason can intervene, I grab my jacket and notebook—a journalist's armor—and head into the gentle rain. Professional pretense. That's all this is.

The walk to Jackson's base cabin takes forty minutes, enough time for doubt to build with each step. The rain intensifies, soaking through my inadequate jacket and plastering my hair to my forehead. By the time his property comes into view, rationality has almost won.

Then I spot his truck in the driveway, recently arrived judging by the water still dripping from its frame. He's here. The knowledge propels me forward before courage can fail.

The wooden steps creak beneath my weight, announcing my presence before my knuckles can meet the door. Three sharp knocks echo in the afternoon quiet, followed by heavy silence.

Just as I'm considering retreat, the door opens—barely enough to reveal Jackson's face, surprise quickly masked by carefully constructed neutrality.

"Cloe." My name emerges flat, a statement rather than greeting.

Rain drips from my hair onto my already-soaked shoulders. "Can I come in?"

His hesitation speaks volumes, but mountain hospitality apparently outweighs personal reluctance. The door widens grudgingly, revealing Jackson in worn jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle. The domestic setting strikes me oddly—this man of wilderness framed by kitchen counters and bookshelves.

"You're soaked." He disappears briefly, returning with a towel that he offers without touching my hand.

"Thanks." The terry cloth smells like him—pine and something clean, masculine.

The cabin feels different in daylight—warmer and more lived-in than during our brief post-rescue stop. Climbing guides line bookshelves alongside dog-eared classics. Coffee rings stain the handcrafted table. A half-completed crossword puzzle lies abandoned beside an ancient leather armchair—evidence of a solitary but not austere existence.

"What brings you up the mountain in this?" Jackson gestures toward the window where rain continues its persistent assault.

A dozen potential answers race through my mind—the article, closure, simple curiosity. None quite reach the truth lurking beneath.

"I saw your truck." The words emerge before I can censor them. "Passing the guesthouse."

Something flickers across his features—discomfort, perhaps embarrassment at being caught. "Supply run to town."

"The guesthouse isn't on the route to the supply store."

His jaw tightens, and a familiar tension gathers in his shoulders. "What do you want, Cloe?"

Direct. Unavoidable. Typical Jackson.

"Clarity, maybe." My fingers twist the damp towel. "My editor wants more for the article. About you."

His expression shutters immediately. "We've been through this."

"I'm not asking for permission." My chin lifts slightly. "I'm telling you, I refused."

Surprise registers briefly before suspicion returns. "Why?"

"Because some things matter more than career advancement." The newspaper resting on his kitchen counter catches my attention—open to an article about backcountry safety. "Like privacy. Like promises."

Jackson's posture shifts subtly, wariness giving way to something less defensive. He moves to the kitchen, filling a kettle with practiced movements. "You should warm up."

The tentative peace offering hangs between us. I nod, shrugging off my wet jacket, draping it carefully over a chair by the woodstove.

Silence stretches as he prepares tea, his back deliberately turned. The domestic normalcy of the scene contrasts sharply with the undercurrent of tension vibrating between us. My eyes track him involuntarily, memory overlaying the present—those hands on my body, those shoulders beneath my fingers.

"Why did you drive past the guesthouse?" The question emerges softer than intended.

The kettle whistles, shrill in the weighted silence. He takes his time answering, pouring steaming water into mugs and adding tea bags with deliberate focus.

"Because I wanted to see you." The admission emerges rough-edged, reluctant. "And didn't want to see you. Both."

The honesty disarms me more effectively than any evasion could have. Jackson turns, extending a mug without quite meeting my eyes.

"I get it." My fingers brush his during the exchange, sending unwelcome warmth up my arm. "I've been writing a paragraph about snowpack conditions for two hours because it keeps me from writing about you."

Something almost like a smile touches his mouth before disappearing. "How's the article coming otherwise?"

"Good. Almost done." The tea burns sweet and strong on my tongue. "Just missing the element my editor insists will make it cover-worthy."

"Which is?"

"The mysterious mountain guide with the tragic past and hero complex." The attempt at lightness falls flat. "Her words, not mine."

Jackson's expression darkens. "Using me to sell magazines."

"I told her no." My voice rises slightly. "Why do you immediately assume the worst?"

"Experience." He sets his mug down with unnecessary force. "Everyone wants something."

"Not everything is transactional, Jackson." Irritation flares, hot and sudden. "Some people just care."

"About a man they knew for four days?" Skepticism drips from every word.

"Four days of survival. Intimacy. Honesty." Each word emerges sharper than the last. "Or was that all transactional, too? My body in exchange for warmth? My story for your protection?"

His eyes narrow dangerously. "That's not what happened."

"Isn't it? Because you've made it pretty clear that's all it could ever be." The hurt I've been suppressing bubbles up, acidic and undeniable. "God forbid you actually feel something genuine again. Much easier to hide behind Emma's ghost."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Jackson's face transforms, pain flashing raw before iron control slams down.

"You don't know what you're talking about." His voice drops to something dangerous, quiet.

"Don't I?" Something reckless drives me forward, closing the distance between us. "I know you're using guilt as a shield. I know you're punishing yourself by refusing to live fully. I know you felt something real in that shelter, something that scared you more than any blizzard."

His breathing changes, becomes measured and controlled. "You should go."

"Why? Because I'm right?" Another step closer, close enough to catch his scent, to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Or because you drove past my hotel today wondering what if?"

"Stop." The word emerges strained, a warning.

"Make me." My palms connect with his chest, a gentle shove born of frustration rather than anger.

His hand catches my wrist—not roughly, just enough to halt the movement. Electricity crackles between us, familiar and dangerous. His eyes drop to my lips for the briefest moment, pupils dilating slightly.

The air thickens, every breath suddenly requiring effort. My chest rises and falls rapidly, matching his increasingly uneven breathing.

"Tell me you didn't think about it." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "About me. After."

Jackson's response comes in motion rather than words—his free hand sliding behind my neck, fingers tangling in my damp hair, pulling me toward him with unmistakable intent.

Our mouths collide with none of the tentative exploration of our first real kiss. This is hunger, frustration, and days of emptiness seeking fulfillment. His lips move against mine with desperate intensity, tongue demanding entrance I eagerly grant.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate any space between us. Jackson responds by walking me backward until my spine meets the wall, his body pressing against mine with delicious weight.

The kiss deepens and transforms, anger melting into something equally powerful but infinitely sweeter. His hands frame my face with surprising gentleness, thumbs stroking my cheekbones even as his mouth devours mine.

"This changes nothing," he murmurs against my lips, the words contradicted by the reverence in his touch.

"I know." My fingers work at his shirt buttons, needing to feel his skin beneath my palms. "I don't care."

Clothing becomes an unwelcome barrier, removed in urgent, ungraceful movements. His flannel shirt falls to the floor, and my sweater follows moments later. The contrast between the cool wall at my back and Jackson's burning skin against my front sends shivers racing along my nerves.

His mouth traces a path along my jaw, down my neck, finding sensitive places remembered from our night in the shelter. My head falls back against the wall, offering greater access, surrendering to sensation.

"Not here." Jackson's voice emerges rough against my collarbone. "Not like this."

Before I can protest, he lifts me, hands secure beneath my thighs as my legs wrap instinctively around his waist. The display of strength sends heat pooling low in my abdomen as he carries me toward the bedroom.

Unlike the utilitarian shelter cot, Jackson's bed welcomes us with soft flannel sheets and a handmade quilt that's hastily pushed aside. He lays me down with surprising care before covering my body with his own, weight supported on forearms braced beside my head.

"Last chance to walk away." His eyes search mine, offering an escape I have no intention of taking.

My answer comes in action rather than words, pulling him down for another kiss that erases any remaining doubt. What follows transcends our shelter encounter—less desperate but somehow more intense. Each touch carries meaning beyond physical pleasure, and each kiss communicates what words cannot.

Jackson's protective nature emerges in how thoroughly he ensures my satisfaction before seeking his own, in the careful attention he pays to every response, in whispered questions making certain of consent despite my obvious enthusiasm.

When we finally join, the sensation overwhelms me—fullness, connection, and vulnerability beyond anything experienced in the shelter. My name falls from his lips like a prayer. His movements are controlled yet increasingly urgent as pleasure builds between us.

My release comes with stunning intensity, Jackson's name torn from my throat as waves of sensation wash through me. He follows moments later, face buried against my neck, body tensing before relaxing into boneless weight above me.

For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. The only sounds are our gradually slowing breaths and the persistent patter of rain against the windows. Jackson's weight should feel crushing, yet it grounds me, preventing me from floating away on lingering waves of pleasure.

Eventually, he shifts, moving beside me rather than atop me, one arm keeping me close to his side. My fingers trace idle patterns across his chest, finding the scar I remember from before, following its path across his ribs.

"This still doesn't change anything, does it?" The question emerges quiet but clear in the room's stillness.

Jackson's breathing changes slightly, the only indication that the query affects him. His silence provides answer enough.

"I thought so." My finger continues its path across his skin, memorizing textures I'll soon leave behind.

"It's not that simple." His voice rumbles beneath my ear.

"It never is." Rolling to my side, I face him directly. "But sometimes we make things more complicated than they need to be."

His expression shifts, and something like regret crosses his features before disappearing behind careful neutrality. "You have a life waiting in Burlington."

"And you have one here." Completing the familiar argument. "With your ghosts and your mountains."

"Cloe—"

"It's okay." The lie tastes bitter but necessary. "I knew what this was. What it wasn't."

The acceptance costs more than it should for someone who claims to want nothing beyond the physical. Carefully extracting myself from his embrace, I sit, suddenly aware of my nakedness in more ways than one.

"I should go." The words emerge steadier than expected.

Jackson doesn't contradict me, doesn't ask me to stay. He just watches with that unreadable expression as I collect scattered clothing, rebuilding my armor piece by piece.

Dressed again, I pause at the bedroom doorway, unwilling to leave without closure or acknowledgment of what transpired between us.

"For what it's worth, you should know something." My fingers grip the doorframe for support. "I won't use you for my article. Not because you asked, but because some stories aren't meant for public consumption. This one's just ours."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, perhaps gratitude. "Thank you."

The simple acknowledgment will have to suffice. With a final nod, I move through the cabin, collecting my still-damp jacket from beside the woodstove.

Jackson follows, maintaining a careful distance. At the front door, hesitation grips me—the knowledge that crossing this threshold likely means ending whatever tenuous connection we've formed.

His hand catches mine as I reach for the doorknob, the touch sending familiar electricity racing up my arm. For one breathless moment, hope flares—foolish, stubborn hope that perhaps he'll ask me to stay and suggest some impossible compromise.

Instead, he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles with heartbreaking gentleness. "Be safe out there, city girl."

The nickname, laced with affection he won't directly express, nearly undoes my composure. With a final nod, I step into the rain, letting the door close behind me with quiet finality.

The walk back to town passes in a blur of rain and tumultuous thoughts. When Mabel's Guesthouse appears through the gray curtain of precipitation, a resolution has formed from emotional chaos.

My laptop awaits where I left it, the article draft glowing on the screen. With newfound clarity, I begin to type—not the exploitative piece Diane requested, but something truer, deeper, about the mountain itself—about respect for wilderness, preparation versus panic, and the thin line between adventure and recklessness.

I write through the evening and into the night, words flowing with unexpected ease. Jackson appears only obliquely—the experienced guide, the voice of caution, the mountain's human guardian. His privacy remains intact while his wisdom permeates every paragraph.

When dawn breaks, the completed draft gleams on my screen—not the career-making exposé Diane wanted, but something I can be proud of. Something that honors both the mountain and the man who protects it.

The submission email feels like cutting the final thread connecting me to Jackson Hart. Three more days in Angel's Peak stretch before me, suddenly interminable without purpose or hope of reconnection.

My phone rings minutes after hitting send, Diane's name flashing insistently on the screen.

"Matthews." Her voice carries excitement rather than the expected disappointment. "You've been holding out on me."

Confusion furrows my brow. "What do you mean?"

"This draft. It's brilliant. The mountain as a character, the respect versus conquest angle. It's exactly what Pathfinder needs right now."

Relief floods through me, unexpected and powerful. "You're not upset about the lack of personal details?"

"Are you kidding? This is better—showing the philosophy without exploiting the man. Makes us look ethical while still getting the substance." Keys clack as she presumably scrolls through the piece. "We want this for the cover. Feature story."

The words I've waited years to hear. My breakthrough moment is finally arriving, yet somehow it feels hollow without someone specific to share it with.

"That's... amazing." The enthusiasm in my voice sounds forced even to my ears.

"There's more." Diane's voice drops conspiratorially. "We want you on staff. Permanent position, travel division. Your own column."

The dream job. Everything I've worked toward. The validation I've craved since journalism school.

"I need to think about it." The words emerge before conscious thought forms.

"Think about it?" Incredulity colors her tone. "Matthews, people kill for this opportunity. What's to think about?"

What indeed? My gaze drifts to the window where mountains rise beyond the town, where a certain cabin sits midway up the slope, where a man who's claimed part of my heart continues his solitary existence.

"Location, mainly." My voice strengthens with each word. "I might have found somewhere new to base myself. For research purposes."

Diane's pause speaks volumes. "You're not talking about Burlington."

"No."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain mountain guide, would it?"

Heat rises to my cheeks despite no one being present to witness it. "It's complicated."

"Always is with the good ones." Her tone softens unexpectedly. "Look, the job's remote-capable. We need you in New York once a month for meetings, but otherwise... The location is flexible."

Hope—dangerous, persistent hope—flutters beneath my ribs. "Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised. It's 2025, Matthews. Welcome to modern journalism." Another pause. "But if you're thinking of staying in Nowheresville for a man, make damn sure he's worth it."

The conversation ends with practical details—salary negotiations, benefit discussions, start dates—but my mind has already leaped to possibilities previously unconsidered.

Outside, the rain has stopped. Sunlight breaks through the dispersing clouds, illuminating mountains still draped in rapidly melting snow. Somewhere up there, Jackson Hart continues his self-imposed isolation, unaware that parameters have shifted, that impossibility has transformed to potential.

The question remains whether he's ready to step beyond the boundaries he's established and whether the connection we forged is strong enough to overcome three years of carefully constructed walls.

Whether, given actual possibility rather than hypothetical longing, he would choose me over the comfortable familiarity of his grief.