Page 2

Chapter 2

Rescued

The rope sways in the howling wind, my salvation only inches from my numb fingers. Through the blinding snow, a dark shape materializes above—a man anchored against the blizzard's fury.

"Grab it! Now!" The voice cuts through the storm, commanding and unmistakable.

Jackson fucking Hart.

My frozen muscles scream in protest as I reach for the lifeline. The rough fibers scrape against my raw palms, but the pain barely registers against the burning cold. My fingers, clumsy and stiff, struggle to grip.

"I can't—" The words catch in my throat, raspy from the frigid air.

"You can." His voice leaves no room for weakness. "Wrap it around your wrist. Do it now."

Something in his tone bypasses my frozen brain, triggering instinctive obedience. My right hand clutches the rope, winding it once, twice around my wrist. The rope bites into my skin, an anchor to consciousness.

Jackson's face appears at the ledge's edge, snow crusting his dark beard and eyebrows. His expression is carved from granite—all sharp angles and controlled fury.

“Harness coming down.” His voice cuts through the wind, impersonal and clipped. A moment later, a climbing harness thuds into the snow beside me. “Step into it. Legs first, then secure it around your waist.”

I reach for it with hands that barely work, fingers stinging as blood rushes back in painful little stabs. The nylon is stiff and unyielding.

“I don’t know how?—”

“Figure it out.” His reply is flat. Cold as the snow crusting in my eyelashes. “Or freeze. Your choice.”

Rage flares hot and sudden—cutting through the fear like a blade.

Figure it out?

I am figuring it out. I’ve been figuring it out since the moment I set foot on this godforsaken trail, long before his smug, mountain-man ass showed up to play hero. I grit my teeth, biting back the words I want to hurl at him.

The harness is deceptively simple. Two leg loops. Waist belt. Click. Secure.

Three fumbles. Five curses under my breath. Then it’s done.

“Done!” I shout, sharper than necessary.

Let him hear the fury in my voice. Let him know I may need help getting off this mountain—but I sure as shit don’t need him talking to me like I’m helpless.

Without warning, the rope goes taut, and my body lifts slightly. Terror spikes through me as my feet lose contact with the ledge.

"Hold on to the rope. Keep your feet against the rock face." Jackson's instructions carry down from above. "Walk your feet up as I pull."

The ascent is agonizing. My ankle throbs with each movement, muscles trembling with cold and exertion. Ice-encrusted rock scrapes against my chest and thighs as I'm hauled upward, inch by painful inch. The blizzard batters my body, threatening to slam me back against the cliff face.

After what seems like hours but must be minutes, strong hands grip the harness at my waist, hauling me over the edge onto more solid ground. My body collapses into the snow, my lungs burning with each gasping breath.

No time for recovery. Jackson kneels beside me, his face inches from mine, eyes blazing with controlled rage. Snow collects on his dark hair and the shoulders of his heavy-duty parka.

"Can you stand?" The question sounds more like a command.

"I think so." My ankle protests as he helps me upright, his grip firm through my jacket.

"Sprained?" His gloved hands probe my ankle through my boot, assessing.

I wince. "Maybe."

He unzips his pack with quick, practiced motions—no hesitation, no wasted effort. An elastic bandage appears in his gloved hands, already half-unrolled.

Then he drops to one knee before me and reaches for my boot.

“Hey—what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap, jerking back instinctively, pain lancing through my ankle. “You can’t just?—”

His eyes snap to mine. Glacier-blue. Unblinking.

“I’m treating your injury,” he bites out, voice low and edged with steel. “Unless you’d rather I leave it to swell until you can’t walk at all?”

My mouth opens. Closes. The glare he levels at me could freeze the rest of the mountain.

Without waiting for another protest, he returns to the task, unlacing my boot with sharp, decisive movements. Cold air hits my ankle like a slap as he peels the boot away and carefully rolls down my sock.

“This needs compression. Hold still,” he orders, wrapping the bandage steadily.

I do. But not because he told me to.

Because I can’t stop staring at him. That jaw—tight with tension. Those hands—strong, sure, capable—moving with the kind of confidence that comes from doing this a hundred times before. No hesitation. No gentleness, either. Just efficient, competent control

And God help me, it’s hot.

My skin burns, even in the cold. The rush of adrenaline from the fall is long gone, replaced by something heavier. Thicker. A slow, pulsing heat that coils low and dangerous.

Damn it.

Jackson fucking Hart is right again. And I hate that what I’m feeling right now—under his hands, under his command—isn’t just gratitude. It’s not just survival.

It’s desire.

Sharp. Immediate. Completely inappropriate.

I hate that he makes me feel this way. Hate that I want to snap at him one second and climb him like a tree the next.

Judging by the way his jaw ticks as he finishes the wrap, he knows it.

Which somehow makes it worse.

His touch is surprisingly gentle as he wraps the bandage around my ankle, but his words cut like ice. "You were told explicitly not to come up here."

"I thought I had time before?—"

"You thought wrong." He secures the bandage and roughly replaces my boot. "You risked your life, and now mine."

"I didn't ask you to come after me." Heat rushes to my cheeks despite the freezing temperature.

"So I should have left you to die?" His eyes snap to mine, piercing blue against the white landscape.

The bluntness of his words steals my retort. Death. It hadn't seemed real until now—the true consequence of my stubborn pride.

Jackson stands, assessing our surroundings. The storm has intensified, snow swirling around us in violent gusts. Visibility extends barely ten feet in any direction.

"We can't make it down." His expression darkens. "Night's coming. Temperature's dropping. We need shelter."

"My car's at the trailhead," I offer, clinging to the illusion of an easy escape.

A short, humorless laugh escapes him. "Three miles in whiteout conditions, with your ankle? We'd be finding your frozen body in spring." He gestures up the slope. "My shelter's half a mile up. It's our only option."

The reality of the situation crashes over me. We're trapped on the mountain together—this man who clearly despises me and the woman whose recklessness vindicates every negative assumption he's made about me.

“Can you walk?”

He’s already moving, already coiling the rope, like rescuing stranded hikers is just another chore on his list.

“Yes.” The word snaps out sharper than intended—my pride lashing before my common sense can catch up.

His eyes flick to my wrapped ankle. One brow arches. Jackson Hart doesn’t argue; he just knows I’m lying. He shrugs into his pack like it weighs nothing, then steps in close. Too close. His arm slides around my waist before I can protest—solid, unyielding, warm.

“Lean on me. And try to keep up.”

I want to shove him away. I want to prove I can do this on my own. But the moment I take a step, white-hot pain slices up my leg, and I suck in a gasp. Pride be damned—I’d collapse without him.

I hate this.

I hate how strong he is. How steady. How the arm around my waist doesn’t just support me—it grounds me. Every step is agony, but worse than the pain is the heat simmering low in my belly. Not from exertion. Not from adrenaline.

From him.

From the way his body moves beside mine—powerful, efficient, always in control. From the way he never looks back, just trusts I’ll fall in line. From the quiet competence in every step, every adjustment, and every flex of muscle under that worn jacket.

It’s infuriating, and completely unfair.

Because I should be cursing this storm. My ankle. This entire detour.

Instead, I’m cursing how I keep glancing up at his jawline. The way my skin burns where his hand grips my hip. The way, for a single humiliating heartbeat, I wonder what that hand would feel like lower.

And I hate that I want him.

Jackson fucking Hart.

The human glacier. Stoic, bossy, maddening.

And under all of that—goddamn irresistible.

I grit my teeth and lean harder into him. Not because I need to. Not entirely.

Because I want to remember how this feels—just long enough to make myself forget.

The journey up the mountain is a blur of pain and cold. Each step sends shards of agony through my ankle, but Jackson's firm support never wavers. The storm rages around us, transforming the landscape into an alien white wasteland. Wind slices through my inadequate clothing, finding every seam and gap.

"Almost there." Jackson's voice at my ear barely penetrates the howling gale.

A dark shape materializes through the curtain of snow—a small structure nestled against the mountainside, almost invisible against the surrounding rocks. Relief floods through me, overwhelming even the pain.

Jackson guides me to a heavy wooden door, unbolting it with one hand while supporting my weight with the other. It swings open, and he ushers me inside before the wind can steal our precious body heat.

Darkness envelops us, broken only by the faint gray light filtering through a single small window. The air inside smells of wood, dust, and something metallic—a stark contrast to the sterile cold outside.

"Stay put." Jackson releases me, and I sag against the wall.

The scratch of a match breaks the silence, and warm light blooms as he lights an old-fashioned lantern. The shelter reveals itself: a single room, perhaps fifteen feet square, with stone walls and a wooden floor. A small woodstove occupies one corner, a narrow cot against the opposite wall. Metal shelves hold supplies—canned food, bottles of water, medical supplies, and tools. A table and two chairs stand in the center, utilitarian and worn.

"Not the Ritz," Jackson mutters, moving toward the woodstove. He kneels, arranging kindling and logs with efficient movements.

"It's..." Words fail me. Primitive? Lifesaving? A prison with my least favorite person as warden?

"Shelter." He strikes another match, igniting the kindling. "Which is more than you had twenty minutes ago."

Another barb I can't refute. The fire catches, casting flickering light across the small space. Jackson moves around the shelter with the familiarity of habit, checking supplies, adjusting the ventilation on the stove, and lighting another lantern.

“Sit.” He points to one of the chairs, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Ankle elevated.”

My body moves before my pride can argue, collapsing into the seat like I’ve been cut loose. The second I stop moving, the exhaustion hits—sharp, relentless, total. The adrenaline that kept me upright seeps out of my pores, leaving me limp and shaking.

Jackson kneels in front of me again, reaching for the laces of my boot.

He pauses, fingers hovering.

“You gonna bite my head off again if I touch you?”

I glare down at him, my lips pressed tight. “Depends. You planning on barking another order?”

His gaze lifts slowly. That icy-blue stare holds mine, unwavering. “Only if you do something stupid.”

My mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

Because he’s right.

Again.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Proceed, Dr. Doom.”

The edge of his mouth twitches—just barely—but he doesn’t respond. Just sets to work, unlacing my boot with calm, practiced efficiency. There’s nothing sensual in the movement, no hesitation. Just steady, clinical care. And still—still—my breath catches.

“This needs ice,” he says, inspecting the swelling. “Ironically, we’ve got plenty.”

He rises and steps to the door, scooping snow into a clean cloth with the same precision he used coiling the rope, binding my ankle, and apparently, pissing me off in the most maddening, effective way possible.

"Here." He places the makeshift ice pack on my ankle, then hands me a bottle of water and two pills. "Ibuprofen. For inflammation."

"Thank you." The words taste strange on my tongue—gratitude mixed with humiliation.

He doesn't acknowledge my thanks, already turning away to retrieve a hand-crank radio from a shelf.

"Angel's Peak Search and Rescue, this is Hart." He speaks into the device after several cranks. "I have the writer. We're at my upper shelter. Conditions zero visibility. Remaining in place until storm passes. Over."

Static crackles before a voice responds: "Copy that, Hart. Writer's vehicle located at Lookout trailhead. Storm expected forty-eight hours minimum. Confirm supplies adequate. Over."

"Supplies adequate. Will radio at 0800 tomorrow. Hart out." He sets the radio aside and turns to me, his expression unreadable in the dancing firelight.

The magnitude of our situation settles over me. Forty-eight hours. Trapped in this tiny space with a man who clearly wishes I never set foot in his town.

"I'm sorry," I offer, the words inadequate even to my ears.

Jackson's eyebrows lift slightly—the first hint of surprise he's shown. "Sorry you didn't listen, or sorry you got caught?"

Heat flashes across my cheeks. "Sorry you had to risk your life because of my mistake."

He studies me for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of my apology. "You're not the first tourist to underestimate these mountains." His voice holds a weariness that suggests he's had this conversation before, perhaps with less fortunate outcomes.

"I'm not a tourist." The defense rises automatically. "I'm a writer. Researching."

"Tourist, writer, researcher—doesn't matter what you call yourself. The mountain doesn't care about your job title when you're freezing to death on a cliff face." He moves to the shelves, taking inventory of canned goods. "You hungry?"

The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard. My stomach answers before my mouth can, growling audibly.

The corner of Jackson's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but a crack in his stone facade. "I'll take that as a yes."

He selects a can, opening it with a manual can opener before emptying the contents into a small pot. In a few minutes, the rich aroma of beef stew fills the small space as he places it on the woodstove.

"The generator's for emergencies only." He nods toward a small machine in the corner. "Heat, light, and communication are the priorities. We have enough fuel for about eight hours total. We use it sparingly."

"So... no microwave, I'm guessing?" The weak attempt at humor falls flat.

Jackson doesn't bother responding. Instead, he retrieves two metal bowls and spoons from a shelf. He stirs the stew occasionally as it heats, his movements economical and practiced.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the crackling fire and howling wind outside. Questions burn in my mind—about him, this shelter, the fiancée mentioned in hushed tones at the diner. But his closed expression discourages conversation.

"Why did you come after me?" The question escapes before I can reconsider.

Jackson's shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "Your rental car was at the trailhead after I explicitly closed the trail. Simple deduction."

"That's not what I asked."

He turns, fixing me with that penetrating blue gaze. "What would you have me do? Leave you out there?"

"Some might have. Especially someone who warned me not to go in the first place."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I don't need the validation of being right at the cost of someone's life."

His words hang between us, heavy with implications I can't fully decipher. Before I can probe further, he divides the stew between two bowls, handing one to me along with a spoon.

The first bite floods my mouth with warmth and flavor—nothing fancy, but nourishing and exactly what my cold-ravaged body needs. We eat in silence, the stew warming me from the inside.

Jackson finishes first, setting his bowl aside. "We need to establish some ground rules. We're going to be here at least two days. Possibly three, depending on how the storm plays out."

"Rules?" The word bristles against my independent nature.

"Rule one: Conservation. Water, food, fuel—all limited resources. Nothing gets wasted." He ticks off points on his fingers. "Rule two: Communication. The radio stays cranked. If something happens to me, you need to be able to call for help."

The casual mention of his potential incapacitation sends an unexpected chill through me.

"Rule three: This is a survival situation, not a hotel stay. You do what I say when I say it without argument. This isn't about authority—it's about keeping us both alive."

My natural instinct to challenge authority rises, but reason prevails. He knows this mountain, this shelter, this situation better than I ever could.

"Seems reasonable." I set my empty bowl aside.

Jackson studies me, skepticism evident in his expression. "You sure? You haven't exactly demonstrated a talent for following instructions so far."

The barb hits its mark. "I made one mistake?—"

"A mistake that nearly killed you," he interrupts, voice sharp. "And could still kill both of us if this storm lasts longer than predicted."

The reality of our predicament settles over me like a physical weight. My ankle throbs, a persistent reminder of my vulnerability.

Jackson sighs, running a hand through his snow-dampened hair. In the firelight, exhaustion shows clearly on his face—lines around his eyes and mouth that weren't visible in the harsh daylight. For the first time, I see beyond the mountain man stereotype to the human beneath.

"You should rest." He nods toward the cot. "I'll take the first watch on the fire."

"Watch? As in... taking turns sleeping?" The single narrow cot suddenly looms large in my awareness.

“One bed, two people, sub-zero temperatures outside. You do the math.” His tone is flat, practical, already turning away to arrange logs beside the stove like the conversation’s over.

But it’s not.

Not for me.

Two days. One bed. And him. A man who finds me more nuisance than necessity, whose every word bristles with judgment… and yet whose very presence has my skin tightening beneath layers of fleece.

Jackson moves to check the window, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his jacket, the collar framing the powerful line of his neck. Frost creeps across the pane, but I swear it’s warmer in here now—because my body’s suddenly burning.

In the low light, his profile is distractingly perfect. That jaw—sharpened by stubble and attitude. That nose—straight, uncompromising. And his mouth… firm and unsmiling, but shaped with a sculptor’s precision. The kind of mouth that should have no business making my thighs clench just from existing.

But it does.

And now my brain, despite the trauma and pain and freezing cold, is conjuring up images I absolutely do not need. Those lips—on my throat. My shoulder. Lower. His hands pressing me down, anchoring. That mouth taking, claiming, ruining.

Damn it.

He turns slightly, and I jerk my gaze away like I haven’t just mentally undressed the man who dragged me off a mountain. But it’s too late—my pulse is already thundering, my cheeks flushed. Not from the cold.

No, this heat is all Jackson fucking Hart. And I hate that I want more of it.

"Storm's getting worse." His voice cuts through my inappropriate observation. "We made it just in time."

As if punctuating his statement, the wind rises to a shriek, rattling the shelter's walls. A draft snakes across the floor, curling around my injured ankle.

Jackson meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow won't be any easier."

The cot beckons, my body crying out for rest. But as I rise awkwardly, favoring my good ankle, a new awareness settles over me. This mountain man saved my life despite every reason not to. And now we're bound together in this primitive shelter, dependent on each other for survival.

The most dangerous part of this situation might not be the blizzard raging outside, but the unexpected feelings beginning to stir within these close confines—feelings I have absolutely no business entertaining toward the man whose life I've endangered through my own stubborn pride.