Page 11

Chapter 11

Summit Fever

The morning dawns clear and bright, mountain peaks gleaming against a flawless blue sky. Two days until my departure from Angel's Peak, two days to find closure before returning to a life forever altered by this detour into the wilderness.

My new hiking boots—purchased yesterday from the town's outfitting store—sit by the door, properly broken in after hours of wearing them around my room. Beside them rests a backpack filled with essentials: water, high-protein snacks, first aid kit, emergency blanket, compass, trail map. Everything Jackson taught me during our forced confinement.

Mabel carefully eyes my preparations as I double-check supplies in the guesthouse's cozy kitchen. Her gray hair sits in its usual perfect bun, hands busy kneading dough for the day's bread despite her attention fixed firmly on me.

"You sure about hiking alone, dear? After what happened last time?" She dusts flour from her fingers, worry etched in the creases around her kind eyes.

"I'm prepared this time." The confidence in my voice isn't feigned. "Weather report's clear, I've got proper gear, and I've logged my route with the ranger station."

Her eyebrows lift at this last detail. "Pete know where you're headed?"

"Lookout Point. Same trail as before." My fingers trace the topographic map spread across the table. "Need to face it, I guess. For closure."

Understanding softens her features. "Some mountains are like that. Need conquering twice—once for survival, once for peace."

The observation surprises me with its insight. "Exactly."

She wraps a homemade energy bar in wax paper, tucking it into my pack. "Jackson know you're going up?"

The question sends an unwelcome pang through my chest. "No. And I'd prefer he didn't."

Not after our last encounter, the memory of which still burns beneath my skin. Not after the silence that followed his gentle rejection. Two days of avoiding town spots where we might intersect, of focusing on interview transcriptions and photo editing rather than impossible hopes.

Mabel's knowing look suggests she understands more than I've shared. "Your secret's safe with me, dear."

The trail looks different in sunlight—less threatening, more inviting. Spring's first tentative efforts brighten the path with tiny wildflowers pushing through melting snow patches. Birds call from awakening trees. Nature in transition, winter reluctantly releasing its grip.

My pace remains deliberately measured, respecting the mountain rather than challenging it. Each step feels like reclaiming something lost—confidence, perhaps, or simple joy in the wilderness without fear shadowing appreciation.

The spot where I slipped on my first disastrous hike appears around a bend, instantly recognizable despite its transformed appearance. Ice has melted, revealing the treacherous rocks that sent me sliding toward near-death. I pause, studying the terrain with new understanding.

Not the mountain's fault. Mine, for rushing, for ignoring warnings, for placing ambition above safety.

The climb continues, muscles warming pleasantly with exertion. My breathing remains controlled despite the elevation, my lungs expanding fully in the crisp mountain air. The familiar burn of physical effort feels cleansing, purifying, washing away lingering regrets with each forward stride.

Approaching the cliff edge where Jackson found me triggers a flood of memories—the rope appearing like magic through blinding snow, his voice cutting through disorientation, strong hands pulling me to safety. The beginning of everything that followed.

The view from the cliff stretches magnificently in all directions—mountain ranges layered to the horizon, valleys etched with silver rivers, forests creating textured carpets of green and white.

Worth the climb.

Worth the risk—the calculated, prepared risk, not the reckless gamble of my first attempt.

Settling on a sun-warmed rock, I extract my notebook and pen from the pack. The article may be finished, submitted, and accepted, but private observations continue to form, demanding expression.

Words flow about perspective gained from elevation, the difference between conquering nature and conversing with it, and mountains as mirrors reflecting human arrogance and resilience.

Time passes unmarked as thoughts transform into sentences on the page. The sun tracks higher, warming my shoulders through the lightweight hiking jacket. Birds soar on thermals below my perch, tiny specks riding invisible currents with effortless grace.

"You came back."

The voice behind me sends my heart lurching against my ribs. I turn slowly, knowing exactly who stands there before visual confirmation arrives.

Jackson Hart—breathtaking against the sky, sunlight catching in his dark hair, expression unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. His chest rises and falls with slightly elevated breathing, suggesting he climbed quickly after discovering my presence on his mountain.

"Needed to finish what I started." My voice emerges steadier than expected.

He approaches cautiously, stopping several feet away—close enough for conversation, distant enough to avoid accidental contact. "Pete radioed. Said you'd signed the trail log."

Of course. The ranger would naturally inform Jackson of a solo hiker on his mountain, especially one with my history.

"Worried I'd need rescuing again?" The question contains more bite than intended.

Jackson removes his sunglasses, revealing eyes that match the sky's impossible blue. "Concerned. There's a difference."

His gaze shifts to my equipment, assessing with professional attention. Proper boots. Appropriate layers. Well-packed bag. Water bottle within easy reach. Every detail is scrutinized and, judging by his slight nod, approved.

"You've learned." Something like pride colors the observation.

"Had a good teacher." The acknowledgment costs nothing yet feels significant.

He settles on a rock nearby, hands dangling between knees, attention fixed on the panoramic vista rather than me. The silence stretches, not entirely uncomfortable.

"I visited Emma today." The confession emerges unexpectedly, his voice pitched low enough that I almost miss it.

My breath catches, unsure how to respond to this unexpected vulnerability.

"There's a memorial. Near where it happened." His profile remains stoic, controlled. "First time I've gone in months."

"Why today?" The question escapes before wisdom can contain it.

Jackson's jaw works beneath his beard, emotions visibly processed before speech forms. "Needed to talk to her. About things. Changes."

Hope flutters unwelcome in my chest. "What kind of changes?"

"Realizations." His hands clasp together, knuckles whitening momentarily. "That I've been using her memory as an excuse. For hiding. For not living." A deep breath expands his chest. "It's not what she would have wanted."

The admission hangs between us, weightier than the surrounding mountains. My fingers itch to reach for him but remain firmly in my lap, giving space for whatever needs to emerge next.

"You're leaving." Not a question but a statement of fact.

"Day after tomorrow." The reminder sends an unexpected pang through my chest. "Back to Burlington."

Jackson nods once, accepting without visible reaction. "Article finished?"

"Submitted. Accepted." A smile tugs at my lips despite the conversation's heaviness. "Cover feature."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Congratulations. You earned it."

"Without exploiting you." The clarification feels important. "Your privacy remained intact. I promised."

Something softens around his eyes—gratitude, perhaps respect. "Thank you."

The opening presents itself naturally, heart pounding as words form. "My editor offered me a staff position. Travel division, my own column."

"That's... impressive." His voice holds genuine warmth. "Everything you wanted, right?"

"Almost everything." The qualifier emerges before caution can censor it. "The interesting part is—it's remote. I'd only need to be in New York monthly for meetings. Could base myself anywhere."

The implication hangs between us, crystal clear yet deliberately unstated. I could stay. If given reason to.

Jackson goes utterly still, processing the revelation with visible intensity. His breathing changes subtly and becomes more controlled. "Anywhere."

"Anywhere with internet access and an airport within reasonable driving distance." My hands busy themselves with notebook pages, needing occupation to mask their slight trembling. "Gives me options I didn't have before."

His throat works as he swallows, his gaze still fixed on distant peaks rather than my face. "Options are good."

The non-committal response drops like a stone in still water. It is not an invitation, not an acknowledgment of possibility, just a bland acceptance of theoretical flexibility.

Disappointment sits heavy in my chest, foolish hope once again crushed beneath reality's weight. What had I expected? For three days of forced proximity and unexpected attraction to overcome three years of grief-imposed isolation?

"Yes, they are." My tone shifts to match his detachment. "Burlington's still the logical choice, though. My apartment, friends, and family are all within driving distance."

Now his eyes finally meet mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths. "Logical."

"Unless there was reason to consider alternatives." The words emerge as a challenge rather than an invitation, pride demanding reciprocal vulnerability.

Jackson's expression shifts—conflict evident in the tightening around his eyes, the slight parting of lips as if words form but remain unspoken. For one breathless moment, possibility hovers between us.

Then his gaze drops, shoulders squaring slightly. "You should choose what makes you happiest, Cloe."

The evasion lands like a physical impact. It’s not a rejection, exactly, but the absence of the affirmation needed to justify upending my life. It’s not enough.

It’s not nearly enough.

"That's the plan." My notebook closes with deliberate finality, sliding into my pack alongside other necessities. "I should head down. Want to catch the afternoon light for some final photos."

Jackson rises with fluid grace, his height momentarily blocking the sun. "I'll walk with you."

Not a request or offer but a statement of fact. The mountain guide asserting professional authority regardless of personal complications.

"Not necessary. I'm fully prepared this time."

"Humor me." His expression brooks no argument. "Consider it my professional obligation."

The descent begins in strained silence, multiple feet of careful distance maintained between us on the narrowing trail. Each step away from the summit feels like a physical representation of opportunity slipping away, of connection breaking with deliberate severing.

Weather shifts subtly as we navigate downward—clouds gathering along distant ridges, temperature dropping incrementally, wind freshening against exposed skin. Nothing threatening, merely nature's constant reminder of its changeable temperament.

"Storm coming tomorrow." Jackson's observation breaks the extended silence. "Good timing for your hike."

"Lucky, I guess." The response emerges flat, emotionally depleted.

More silence follows, punctuated only by boot steps on increasingly muddy trail and distant bird calls. The awkwardness grows with each passing minute, two people with everything and nothing to say occupying the same physical space while emotionally retreating.

At the trail's midpoint, a fallen tree provides a natural resting spot. Jackson pauses, extracting water bottles from his pack, offering one without comment. The gesture feels painfully reminiscent of our shelter days—basic survival courtesies amid deeper currents.

"You're good at this." His voice breaks the silence unexpectedly. "Hiking. Adapting."

The compliment catches me off-guard. "Had proper motivation to learn."

"Beyond survival, I mean." His gaze sweeps across me, professional assessment rather than personal appreciation. "You move differently on the mountain now. With respect. Awareness."

"Again, good teacher." My water bottle suddenly requires intense focus, avoiding eye contact that might reveal too much.

"You'd do well here." The observation emerges casually yet lands with seismic impact. "In these mountains. Given time."

My head snaps up, searching his expression for meaning beyond literal words. "Is that an invitation, Jackson?"

His eyes widen fractionally, caught in unplanned implication. "An observation. Professional assessment."

The clarification extinguishes fragile hope with brutal efficiency. "Right. Professional."

Rising from the log, I shoulder my pack with deliberate independence. "We should continue. Daylight's limited."

The remainder of the descent passes in heavy silence, the distance between us expanding beyond physical measurement. Each step reinforces what words have confirmed—whatever connection formed in crisis cannot survive in normal life. Whatever he felt wasn't enough to overcome boundaries built from grief and habit.

When the trailhead parking area appears through thinning trees, relief mingles with disappointment. The adventure concludes where it began, a circular journey leading nowhere new.

Jackson pauses as our paths prepare to diverge—his cabin up the service road, town in the opposite direction.

"Will you be at The Pickaxe tonight?" His question emerges stiff, formal. "Locals usually gather for anyone leaving town. Kind of tradition."

The invitation, if it can be called that, holds nothing beyond community courtesy. "Probably not. Packing to do. Early flight."

He nods once, accepting without challenge. "Safe travels then."

Three years of guiding experience, rescue training, wilderness survival expertise—and these inadequate words are all he offers as a goodbye? The mountain man retreating to emotional isolation with the same efficiency he navigated the physical terrain.

His hesitation lasts three heartbeats—I count them against my will, foolishly monitoring for signs of reconsideration. Then he turns, striding toward his waiting truck without a backward glance.

Watching his vehicle disappear around the bend, an unpleasant understanding crystallizes. Some summits remain unconquerable—not because of physical limitations but because the mountain itself refuses approach, prefers isolation to the risk of connection.

Jackson Hart has chosen his path, and it doesn't include me. My choices narrow accordingly, options collapsing to the single logical direction: forward, away, back to the life temporarily interrupted by mountain misadventure.

The trip back to town stretches longer than physical distance warrants, each step weighted with recognition of what almost was but never would be. The adventure concludes as most adventures must—with a return to ordinary reality, extraordinary possibilities fading to memory with increasing distance.

Two days until departure. Two days to pack belongings and bury unreasonable hopes. Two days to accept that sometimes, even when physically rescued, hearts remain in peril long after their bodies reach safety.