Page 4 of Rescued by the Mountain Guide (Angel’s Peak #2)

Chapter 4

Power Failure

Dawn creeps through the frosted window, casting weak gray light across the shelter's interior. Another day trapped on this mountain, another day confined with Jackson Hart.

Sleep came in restless bursts, and whenever I closed my eyes, my mind replayed yesterday’s kiss. The pressure of his mouth, the strength in his hands, the unexpectedness of it all—these sensations haunted the thin line between wakefulness and dreams.

Jackson sits at the small table, working on the generator again. Judging by the fresh coffee and rekindled fire, he’s been up for hours. His movements are precise and focused as if the machine before him holds all the answers to the universe. He hasn't acknowledged my waking, though the creaking of the cot surely gave me away.

"Morning." My voice sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet shelter.

Jackson's shoulders tense slightly, the only indication he's heard me. His attention remains fixed on the generator's innards, the screwdriver twisting harder than it seems like it should.

Two can play at this game. I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, testing my ankle. The throbbing has subsided to a dull ache—painful but manageable. Using the makeshift cane, I make my way to the woodstove, where a pot of water sits warming.

The routine of morning ablutions provides welcome distraction. The cold water against my face stings pleasantly, washing away the lingering cobwebs of sleep. My reflection in the small mirror hung by the door reveals tangled hair and shadows beneath my eyes. Not my best look, but vanity seems ridiculous under the circumstances.

"Coffee's hot." Jackson's voice, when it finally comes, is neutral, professional—as if yesterday never happened.

"Thanks." I pour the dark liquid into a metal mug, the rich aroma momentarily overwhelming the shelter's persistent scents of wood smoke and close quarters.

The generator suddenly sputters, lights flickering before stabilizing. Jackson mutters something under his breath, adjusting a component with quick, sure fingers.

"Problem?" I venture, sipping the strong coffee.

"Fuel line's clogged. Been fighting it all morning." He doesn't look up. "Running on borrowed time."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning when it dies, it dies." Now he glances up, those piercing blue eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to his work. "We lose power. No lights, no radio, no heat except the woodstove."

The implications settle heavily. "How long do we have?"

"Hours, maybe. Not days." He tightens a connection with grim determination. "Need to prepare while we can."

Jackson outlines our contingency plan. We’re to melt extra snow for water while we still have the electric kettle. Move essential supplies closer to the woodstove. Inventory the lantern fuel. Check our wood supply.

We fall into an uneasy rhythm, working around each other in the small space, carefully maintaining distance while completing necessary tasks. The deliberate avoidance of yesterday's events hangs between us, an invisible barrier more solid than the shelter's stone walls.

The generator coughs again, lights dimming momentarily.

"Not good." Jackson straightens from his crouch beside it. "We need to conserve what power remains. Essential functions only."

"What's essential?" My notebook lies on the table, beckoning. Perhaps this forced working relationship provides the perfect opportunity for my article—professional distance as a shield against whatever sparked between us yesterday.

"Heat. Communication. Light, but only when absolutely necessary." He moves to the radio, cranking it with practiced turns of his wrist.

"Angel's Peak Base, this is Hart. Radio check, over." His voice takes on a formal quality when speaking into the device.

Static crackles before a response comes through. "Copy, Hart. Reading you five-by-five. Status update?"

"Generator failing. Will maintain scheduled check-ins as long as possible. Storm status?"

"No improvement. System stalled over the range. Expect another forty-eight hours minimum. How are your supplies?"

"Adequate. Will update at next check-in. Hart out." He sets the radio aside, expression grim.

Two more days, at least. The knowledge should dismay me, but beneath the practical concerns lies an unexpected flutter of something else. Two more days with this complex, frustrating man who kisses like he's drowning and I'm air.

Ridiculous thoughts. Focus on the article.

I retrieve my notebook and pen, settling at the table while Jackson checks our wood supply.

"Mind if I ask you some questions? For my article?" The professional tone comes naturally, with years of interviews lending confidence to my voice.

Jackson pauses, arms full of split logs. "Your article."

"Yes, the reason I came to Angel's Peak in the first place. 'Hidden Treasures of the Rockies,' remember?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Hard to forget, considering where we are."

"I'm not asking about—" My hand gestures vaguely toward the shelf where Emma's photo sits. "Just about the mountains. Your expertise. What draws people here."

He deposits the logs beside the woodstove, stacking them neatly. Several moments pass before he speaks, as if weighing the pros and cons of cooperation.

"Ask your questions." The words come reluctantly, a concession rather than enthusiasm.

I flip to a fresh page, pen poised. "How long have you been guiding in these mountains?"

"Fifteen years professionally. Whole life unofficially." He remains standing, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Grandfather taught me to climb when I was six."

"What makes Angel's Peak special compared to other locations in the Rockies?"

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a subtle relaxation of his perpetual frown. "Diversity. Within twenty square miles, you get alpine meadows, technical rock faces, old-growth forest, three lakes, vineyards, and summits that challenge even veteran climbers."

"Vineyards? In Colorado?"

"Yeah, surprised me too, but it’s a surprisingly lucrative cottage industry."

"What else can you tell me?"

His voice warms as he continues, describing hidden waterfalls accessible only by unmarked trails, rare flowers that bloom for just two weeks each summer, and rock formations sculpted by millennia of wind and weather. Passion threads through his words, transforming the taciturn mountain man into an eloquent advocate for this wilderness he clearly loves.

I scribble notes rapidly, captivated by this glimpse behind his guarded exterior. "What's your favorite season here?"

"Fall." The answer comes without hesitation. "September, specifically. Summer crowds gone, winter tourists not yet arrived. The aspens turn gold, days clear and cool, nights crisp enough for campfires. Perfect climbing weather."

My pen stills as I picture it—Jackson in his element, scaling rock faces painted with autumn colors, utterly at peace. The image tugs at something unexpected within me.

"And for someone like me—a beginner—what would you recommend? If we weren't, you know, trapped in a blizzard." A small attempt at humor to lighten the intensity.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Someone like you."

"A city girl with limited outdoor experience but willing to learn." The qualifier tumbles out, surprising me with its sincerity.

Jackson studies me for a long moment as if seeing me anew. "Ridge Trail to Mirror Lake. Four miles round trip, moderate difficulty. Best at sunrise when the mountains reflect perfectly in the water. Worth every step."

The generator sputters violently, drawing his attention. He kneels beside it, adjustments increasingly futile as it coughs and protests.

"Would you take me there?" The question escapes before prudence can contain it. "When this is over, I mean. For the article."

His hands still on the machine. "You'd trust me to guide you after this?"

"You're the best, according to everyone in town, and you did save me. That makes you the best guide within fifteen feet." My attempt at humor falls flat. "Despite our... differences, I'd be foolish to choose anyone else."

Something unreadable flickers across his features. Before he can respond, the generator emits a high-pitched whine followed by alarming silence.

The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.

"That's it." Jackson's voice comes through the sudden dimness. "We're officially on survival mode."

Outside, the blizzard howls with renewed vengeance, wind battering the shelter's walls. Without the generator's steady hum, every creak and groan of the structure amplifies, the storm's fury no longer background noise but immediate presence.

The temperature drops perceptibly within minutes, the woodstove's heat insufficient to counter the biting cold seeping through every crack. Jackson moves, stoking the fire higher, positioning reflective surfaces to maximize warmth.

"Move closer to the stove." His silhouette looms larger in the firelight. "Body heat's precious now."

I relocate to the floor near the woodstove; my notebook clutched like a shield. Jackson settles nearby, close enough for safety but maintaining a careful distance. The firelight catches the planes of his face, highlighting cheekbones and casting shadows beneath his brow. Unfairly handsome, even—especially—in this primal setting.

Hours pass in strained silence, broken only by necessary communication. The cold intensifies despite the fire’s best efforts. My fingers grow stiff around my pen, and my notes become increasingly illegible.

"You're shivering." Jackson observes, watching me attempt to suppress another violent tremor.

"I'm fine." The chattering of my teeth betrays the lie.

"You're hypothermic." He rises, retrieving a heavy woolen blanket from the cot. Instead of simply handing it to me, he settles beside me, draping the blanket over our shoulders.

The sudden proximity steals my breath. His body radiates heat, solid and substantial against my side. Every nerve ending springs to alert awareness, hyper-focused on each point of contact—shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

"Conservation of resources." His voice rumbles close to my ear, sending entirely different shivers down my spine. "Basic survival."

"Right. Survival." The word emerges breathier than intended.

Beneath the blanket, warmth blooms between us, chasing away the numbing cold. His scent surrounds me—pine and wood smoke and something uniquely him, masculine and oddly comforting.

"Better?" The question carries unexpected gentleness.

"Yes." Truth, though not entirely because of the physical warmth.

Firelight dances across the shelter's interior, casting everything in amber and shadow. Time loses meaning, measured now by the gradual return of sensation to my fingertips, the rhythmic rise and fall of Jackson's chest beside mine, and the occasional crack of burning wood.

"Tell me about your writing." His request breaks the silence, surprising me.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why this article matters so much. Worth risking everything for."

The question deserves honesty. "It's my chance. Three years writing fluff pieces about tourist traps and overpriced restaurants, following someone else's formula. This is the first assignment where they're letting me choose the angle and find the story beneath the surface."

"And what story are you finding?" His gaze remains on the fire, profile strong in the flickering light.

"I thought it was about hidden natural wonders." My voice softens. "Now I'm not so sure."

"What changed?"

My turn to watch the flames. "Met a mountain guide who sees these peaks as more than scenery or adventure. Someone who respects their power and understands their dangers. Makes for a more complex narrative."

His shoulders tense slightly beneath the blanket. "Don't make me your story, Cloe."

My name on his lips sends an unexpected thrill through me. It's the first time he's used it directly.

"Everyone has a story." The firelight emboldens me. "Yours is compelling."

"Mine is private." The words lack their usual edge, softened by our shared warmth.

"Fair enough." I concede, shifting slightly to ease my position. The movement brings us closer, my head now resting naturally against his shoulder. Neither of us acknowledges this new proximity, though the tension in his body suggests acute awareness.

"What about your story?" he asks after several heartbeats of silence. "The one that doesn't make it into the magazine article."

The question catches me off-guard. "Nothing exciting. I had a middle-class upbringing in Burlington, overprotective parents, college, a journalism degree, and an endless string of entry-level positions."

"And here you are, defying death on a mountain." Something like understanding colors his tone. "Proving them wrong."

The insight strikes uncomfortably close to the truth. "Maybe."

"Some things aren't worth proving, Cloe." His voice drops lower, intimate in the diminishing firelight. "Some risks aren't worth taking."

"Says the man who climbs mountains for a living." My attempt at lightness fails, words emerging with unexpected vulnerability.

"I respect the risks. Account for them. Prepare." His head turns toward mine, his breath warm against my temple. "There's a difference between courage and recklessness."

Our faces are inches apart now, his eyes reflecting golden firelight. The blanket creates a cocoon around us, sealing us in shared warmth and suddenly electric tension.

"And which am I?" The question barely makes it past my lips.

"I haven't decided yet." His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering with unmistakable intent.

My heart thunders against my ribs. The attraction between us pulses like a living entity in the darkened shelter. His face inches closer, almost imperceptibly, the magnetism drawing us together despite every logical objection.

Our lips hover a breath apart, the promise of connection humming in the diminishing space between us.

The woodstove suddenly cracks violently—a log splitting from internal pressure. The sound shatters the moment, and Jackson pulls back as if burned, the spell broken.

He clears his throat, adjusting the blanket around us but maintaining the new distance. "We should conserve energy. Try to sleep."

Disappointment floods me, irrational and powerful. "Right."

"I'll keep the fire going." He makes no move to leave our shared blanket, the practical necessity of warmth outweighing whatever boundaries he's trying to maintain.

The storm continues its assault outside, wind screaming around the shelter's corners. Inside, different forces rage—attraction, resistance, the undeniable pull between two people fighting it for entirely different reasons.

In the deepening darkness, with only firelight to see by, Jackson's presence beside me becomes my entire world—his steady breathing, solid warmth, and the careful distance he maintains even while physics and survival demand our closeness.

The night stretches before us, long and cold, with nothing but this blanket and each other standing between us and the killing cold. And in the flickering shadows, one truth becomes increasingly clear: the power failure outside is nothing compared to the one happening within—the steady collapse of the barriers we've built to keep each other at a safe distance.