Page 12

Chapter 12

Uncharted Territory

My suitcase lies open on the bed, nearly packed. Clothes folded, toiletries arranged in zippered compartments, hiking boots—still bearing Angel's Peak soil—wrapped in plastic to prevent dirtying other items. Tomorrow morning's flight demands preparation, organization, and finality.

Mabel's homemade scones sit untouched on the bedside table, her concerned hospitality impossible to refuse but equally impossible to consume past the permanent lump in my throat.

Each item placed in the suitcase feels like dismantling the person I've become here, reverting to the Cloe who arrived two weeks ago—ambitious, independent, and utterly unaware of what the mountain wilderness could teach about survival and loss.

A knock at the door interrupts my methodical packing ritual. Probably Mabel with more food I won't eat or questions about my return plans that I can't answer.

The door opens to reveal not Mabel's concerned grandmotherly presence but Jackson Hart—his tall frame filling the doorway, his expression unreadable, his gear pack slung over one powerful shoulder.

Words abandon me completely. He stands perfectly still, seemingly content to let the silence stretch between us. Finally, his throat clears with manufactured casualness.

"Weather window's closing." His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away. "Last chance to see Mirror Lake before you leave."

The invitation lands like a stone dropped in still water—unexpected, creating ripples of confusion and unwelcome hope.

"Mirror Lake?"

"The place I told you was worth every step." His fingers tighten imperceptibly on the strap crossing his chest. "Four miles round trip, moderate difficulty. Best at sunrise when the mountains reflect perfectly in the water."

"Why?" The question encompasses more than the invitation itself.

Jackson shifts his weight, discomfort evident in the subtle movement. "Thought you might want the experience. For your next article maybe."

Professional justification. Safe, contained, emotionally distant.

"My flight's early tomorrow." The excuse sounds hollow even to my ears.

"Back by sunset." His gaze finally settles directly on mine, something unnamed flickering behind his carefully maintained neutrality. "If you want."

The sensible answer is no. Pack, sleep, and prepare for departure. Don't prolong the inevitable farewell. Don't collect more memories to ache over during sleepless nights in Burlington.

"Let me change." My words escape before wisdom can assert any control.

Twenty minutes later, we're in his truck, climbing the now-familiar mountain road in silence punctuated only by occasional directions as we approach a trailhead I've never visited. The distance between us on the bench seat feels simultaneously too large and not nearly large enough—his presence both comforting and excruciating in its temporary nature.

"Different route than Lookout Point." Jackson's voice breaks the extended silence as he parks at a small clearing where only trail markers indicate human presence. "Less dramatic elevation gain, more diverse terrain."

Professional guide voice. Mountain man dispensing wilderness wisdom. Emotional barriers firmly intact.

The trail begins through a dense pine forest, with dappled sunlight creating intricate patterns across the needle-covered path. Jackson walks slightly ahead, setting a pace considerate of my shorter stride without being condescending. His backpack looks different than yesterday's—larger, containing what appears to be more than emergency supplies for a four-mile hike.

"Why Mirror Lake?" The question emerges as we enter a meadow bursting with early alpine flowers pushing through melting snow patches. "Of all the places to show me on my last day."

Jackson's stride falters momentarily before resuming its steady rhythm. "Told you. Best reflection of the mountains. Worth seeing."

"There are dozens of spots worth seeing in these mountains. You've mentioned several." My persistence surprises us both. "Why this one specifically?"

Several moments pass before he responds, his gaze fixed forward on the trail ahead.

"Personal reasons." The admission emerges reluctantly, each word seemingly extracted with great effort.

We climb in silence after that, the trail winding through changing ecosystems—dense forest giving way to rocky outcroppings, meadows yielding to streams fed by melting snow. Jackson maintains a steady pace, occasionally pointing out features I'd likely miss without guidance—rare flowers, wildlife tracks pressed into soft mud, rock formations shaped by millennia of harsh weather.

The final ascent steepens considerably, requiring my full attention to navigate the path safely. Jackson's hand appears at particularly challenging sections—offered without comment, withdrawn the moment balance is secured. Each brief contact sends unwelcome electricity through nerve endings that should know better than to respond.

"Almost there." His voice carries quiet anticipation as the trail crests what appears to be a natural ridge.

Then suddenly, breathtakingly—Mirror Lake appears below, a perfect oval of crystal water nestled in a natural bowl of mountain terrain. The lake's surface reflects the surrounding peaks with flawless precision, creating the illusion of mountains growing both upward and downward, meeting at the water's perfect plane.

"Oh." This inadequate syllable escapes on my expelled breath, wholly insufficient against such overwhelming beauty.

Jackson stops beside me, close enough that his arm barely brushes against mine. "Worth it?"

"Beyond words." The truth spills from my lips unbidden.

His smile appears briefly, genuine pleasure at my reaction warming his features momentarily before disappearing behind his typical reserve. "Best spot's this way."

He leads along the lake's perimeter to a natural stone outcropping extending slightly over the water. The view improves with each step, our perspective shifting to capture additional mountain reflections in the lake's still surface.

At the outcropping's end, Jackson removes his pack, extracting what proves to be a small picnic—sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, thermoses of hot coffee, and chocolate chip cookies that look suspiciously like Mabel's recipe.

"You planned this." The observation emerges softer than intended.

Jackson arranges items on a small travel blanket with uncharacteristic care. "Thought you should experience one proper mountain meal before leaving."

The consideration behind this gesture tightens something painful in my chest. Each kindness makes leaving simultaneously harder and more necessary—because kindness isn't enough. Because sandwiches and spectacular views don't equate to genuine wanting, to partnership, to future.

We eat in companionable silence, and the mountains provide a visual feast to accompany our physical sustenance. Birds wheel overhead, their calls echoing across the lake's pristine surface. Occasionally, small fish jump, creating ripples that momentarily distort the perfect reflections before stillness returns.

"I've been coming here since I was six." Jackson's voice breaks the extended silence as he offers unusually personal information without any prompting from me. "My grandfather showed me first. Said it was magic—two worlds meeting at the water line."

Something shifts in his expression—his carefully maintained guard lowering fractionally to reveal the vulnerable man beneath the stoic mountain guide exterior.

"After Emma... this was the only place that still made sense." His fingers tear absently at the grass beside the blanket. "Came here daily for months. Just sitting. Watching the reflections."

My breath catches at this unexpected vulnerability. "Why show me?"

His gaze remains fixed on distant mountains rather than my face. "Wanted you to see it. Before leaving."

Not the complete answer, but perhaps all he's capable of offering. The unspoken hovers between us—regret, possibility, roads untaken.

Time passes differently in this pristine setting, measured by shifting light across mountain faces and the subtle lengthening of shadows as afternoon progresses toward evening. Conversation ebbs and flows naturally, touching on safe topics—my article details his upcoming guide season, memories of our shelter confinement carefully edited to exclude emotional entanglements.

"We should start back soon." Jackson's observation coincides with the sun dipping toward western peaks. "Want to reach the trailhead before dusk."

Reality intrudes with his practical words—this interlude ending, departure approaching with every passing minute. The knowledge settles like a physical weight, making movements leaden as we pack the remaining picnic items.

At the outcropping's edge, Jackson pauses, his gaze sweeping across the panoramic view with unusual intensity, as if committing details to memory.

"I've never brought anyone here before." His admission emerges quietly from his lips, almost imperceptibly in the mountain stillness. "Not since Emma."

The revelation sends unexpected warmth through my chest despite everything. "Why me?"

His profile remains stoic against the darkening sky, his jaw working slightly beneath his beard. Seconds stretch to nearly a minute before he responds.

"Needed you to understand something about me." The words emerge with evident difficulty. "Before you left."

"Understand what?" Hope flutters traitorously beneath my ribs.

Jackson finally turns, his eyes meeting mine with uncharacteristic directness. Something powerful lurks in the blue depths of his eyes—conflict, perhaps pain, something far beyond the careful neutrality he typically maintains.

"That I'm trying." His voice roughens slightly. "It's just..."

The sentence hangs unfinished, those two words encompassing volumes of unspoken meaning. He's trying—to move beyond grief, to connect, to imagine possibility beyond isolation? Trying but not succeeding.

Not enough, anyway.

Words gather in my throat—encouragements, reassurances, declarations—but pride contains them. I've already revealed enough and offered enough openings. The next move must be his, fully and completely.

"I understand." My response emerges gently from my throat despite the disappointment crushing beneath my sternum like a physical weight.

His hand lifts slightly, as if reaching for me, before dropping back to his side. Another almost. Another not quite. Another moment where capability fails to manifest as action.

The descent begins in silence, heavier than before, weighted with knowledge of what won’t be said and what won't be done. Each step away from Mirror Lake feels symbolic—retreating from beauty, from possibility, from the man walking slightly ahead who cannot quite reach for what he almost wants.

Midway down, Jackson pauses unexpectedly at a viewpoint overlooking the valley beyond. The sun hangs low, casting golden light across the landscape transformed by approaching evening. His profile in this illumination appears almost sculpted—strong jaw, straight nose, eyes reflecting amber tones rather than their usual blue.

"Cloe." My name emerges with unusual softness. "I?—"

Hope rises unwelcome and powerful. My breath halts, waiting for words that might change everything.

"I hope you find what you're looking for." The sentence completes with devastating finality. "In Burlington. With your writing. Everything."

Not what I hoped for. Not even close.

"Thank you, and thank you for today." My voice emerges surprisingly steady. "For showing me this place."

His nod acknowledges without requiring further speech. The moment passes between us, this fleeting opportunity evaporating like morning dew under the rising sun.

We continue downward along the trail, our conversation limited to necessary observations and his occasional warnings about loose rocks or slippery sections. We maintain professional courtesy despite the emotional undercurrents flowing between us.

The trailhead appears as dusk settles across the landscape, the final light of the day painting the mountains in purple and gold. Jackson's truck waits where we left it, a symbol of our impending separation more final than physical distance.

The drive to town passes largely in silence, punctuated only by necessary conversation about my flight details, transportation arrangements, and final packing needs. Surface-level exchange masking depths neither of us seems willing to acknowledge directly.

Outside Mabel's Guesthouse, Jackson shifts the truck into park, but leaves the engine running—a clear signal that extended goodbyes aren't planned. His hands remain on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening slightly with pressure.

"Thank you." The words encompass everything and nothing—for rescue, for shelter, for Mirror Lake, for showing me parts of himself even while withholding what matters most. "For everything."

Jackson nods once, gaze fixed forward through the windshield rather than meeting mine. "Safe travels tomorrow."

His dismissal lands with a finality that steals my breath, leaving me frozen. This is it. The end.

No dramatic declarations, no last-minute changes of heart. Just a practical farewell from a man who cannot, will not step beyond boundaries constructed from grief and habit.

My hand reaches for the door handle, pride straightening my spine despite the hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs. "Goodbye, Jackson."

Something shifts in his expression—conflict evident in the tightening around his eyes and the slight parting of his lips, as if words form but remain trapped. His hand moves suddenly, catching mine before I can exit the vehicle.

"Cloe." My name emerges rough-edged, almost desperate.

Then his mouth finds mine, the kiss containing everything his words cannot express—longing, regret, desire, farewell. His hand cradles my face with heartbreaking gentleness that contrasts with the almost desperate pressure of his lips.

For several suspended moments, hope resurges within me—perhaps this physical declaration precedes verbal commitment. Perhaps touch communicates what speech cannot formulate.

When we finally separate, our breathing ragged and uneven, his expression reveals raw emotion that he typically conceals behind his careful control. His vulnerability lies fully exposed, his defenses momentarily lowered in this rare unguarded moment.

"I can't—" His words emerge strained, pained. "I'm not?—"

Not ready. Not healed enough. Not capable of offering what I deserve.

"I know." My acceptance costs me everything but allows me to maintain my dignity intact. "It's okay."

It's not okay. Nothing about this situation approaches okay. But pretending otherwise serves no purpose beyond prolonging inevitable pain.

His forehead rests briefly against mine, our shared breath creating an intimacy beyond physical connection. Then he pulls away, walls visibly rebuilding with each passing second.

"Goodbye, Cloe Matthews." The words carry finality impossible to misinterpret.

The guesthouse door closes behind me with quiet decisiveness. Through the window, Jackson's truck remains idling for several heartbeats before finally pulling away, taillights disappearing around the corner like dying embers.

Mabel appears in the hallway, concern evident in her lined face. "Everything alright, dear?"

"Fine." The lie emerges with surprising steadiness. "Just finished packing. All set for tomorrow."

She nods without believing, her kindness preventing further questioning. "There's tea if you'd like some. Might help you sleep before your flight."

Sleep seems entirely implausible, but the gesture deserves acknowledgment. "Thank you. Maybe later."

My room welcomes me with its impersonal comfort—all traces of temporary occupancy erased, belongings contained in luggage ready for departure. The space could belong to anyone or no one. My presence here is already fading like footprints in fresh snow.

Morning arrives after a night of restless half-sleep, dreams filled with mountain paths leading nowhere and blue eyes full of things left unspoken. Angel’s Peak recedes through the rear window as I drive to the small regional airport. The mountains stubbornly maintain their eternal presence regardless of the human dramas enacted in their shadow.

I turn in my rental car and hop on the airport shuttle. The driver loads my luggage while chatting about expected clear flying conditions.

The airport appears with disappointing swiftness—a small regional facility with direct connections to Denver, where larger planes will carry me eventually back to Burlington.

Check-in, security, waiting area—I move mechanically through each step of these processes, which require minimal conscious thought from me. Other passengers blur into the background noise as I stare through large windows at mountains still visible in the distance.

The boarding call comes too soon and not soon enough. The final passengers file onto the small regional jet, and flight attendants perform routine safety demonstrations. The engines rumble to life beneath the floor, vibrations traveling through the seat into bones still aching from different, deeper tremors.

As the plane taxis toward the runway, my gaze fixes on the terminal building's observation deck. A solitary figure stands at the railing—tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable even at this distance.

Jackson.

He came to watch my departure. Not to stop it, not to change it, simply to witness. He came to witness the final act of our brief, intense connection as it concludes with a physical separation that mirrors the emotional distance he has already established between us.

The plane accelerates down the runway, its wheels lifting from the tarmac as we take flight. Through the window, his figure diminishes until its indistinguishable from the building, then the landscape, then lost entirely as clouds envelop the climbing aircraft.

When the seatbelt sign extinguishes, I extract my laptop and notebook from the carry-on stowed beneath the seat. Professional habits provide comfort in their familiarity—document open, cursor blinking, words waiting to be captured and arranged.

But instead of notes for upcoming articles or edits to existing work, my fingers hover briefly before typing an unexpected heading:

THE MOUNTAIN BETWEEN US

Not a magazine piece. Not travel journalism. Something else entirely—a story about a writer and a mountain man. About rescue and risk, wounds too deep for casual healing and connections too strong to dismiss.

Unlike reality's messy, unfinished conclusion, this story will find a happy ending. The fictional mountain man will overcome his fears. The writer will find her courage. Their paths will converge rather than diverge.

The words flow with surprising ease. Outside the small oval window, clouds part to reveal a landscape that grows increasingly unfamiliar, trading the wilderness for the bustle of humanity.

Burlington awaits with comfortable familiarity—my apartment, friends, career advancement, life interrupted but now resuming. The future stretches with promise and possibility.

Yet as the plane continues its journey away from Angel's Peak, something remains behind—not just memories or experiences, but pieces of myself transformed by the crisp mountain air, unforgiving terrain, and a man who taught survival in more ways than he intended.

Some rescues, it seems, remain permanently incomplete and forever unfinished.