Page 5

Chapter 5

Cold Truths

Morning arrives with cruel clarity. Three days trapped on this mountain, and the temperature inside the shelter has plummeted to a point where my breath forms visible clouds with each exhale. The generator's absence has transformed our shelter from merely rustic to brutally primitive.

Jackson kneels by the woodstove, coaxing flames from fresh kindling. His movements are practiced and efficient, shoulders hunched against the cold. Frost glitters in his dark beard, evidence of his pre-dawn excursion to retrieve more firewood from the outdoor cache.

"Storm's weakening." He doesn't look up from his task. "Another day, maybe two."

Hope flutters briefly before reality dampens it. Even when the blizzard stops, the mountain will remain treacherous—deep snow, hidden crevasses, avalanche risks. Our imprisonment simply shifts from weather-enforced to safety-mandated.

My ankle throbs less today, healing despite the circumstances. Small mercies.

"Water's low." Jackson gestures toward our dwindling supply. "Need to melt snow."

This has become our morning routine—assessing resources, planning for survival, speaking in truncated sentences as if full thoughts might consume too much precious energy. The cold has a way of stripping communication to essentials.

Jackson hands me a small pot. "Fresh snow from the lee side. Less contaminated."

Stepping outside requires wrapping myself in every available layer—my coat plus an extra woolen shirt from Jackson's supplies. The cold still slices through, stealing breath and sensation within seconds.

The snow is deep and pristine, piling against the shelter’s eastern wall. I fill the pot quickly, my fingers already numbing despite my thick gloves. The landscape stretches white in every direction, with mountains barely distinguishable from the sky in the uniform grayness.

Back inside, the shelter's relative warmth feels like a furnace by comparison. Jackson takes the snow-filled pot, placing it on the woodstove's surface.

"Always melt snow before drinking, " he demonstrates, stirring the gradually liquefying contents. "Eating it directly lowers your core temperature. It can kill you faster than dehydration."

The morning unfolds in similar lessons—practical knowledge disguised as instructions. How to maximize caloric intake from limited food. How to layer clothing for optimal insulation. How to recognize early signs of frostbite.

Jackson proves a surprisingly patient teacher. His usual gruffness softens when sharing wilderness wisdom and is replaced by focused intensity. When I master a knot he's shown me—useful for securing gear in high winds—something like approval flickers across his features.

"Quick learner." The words emerge reluctantly, as if praising me costs him something.

"Good teacher." The exchange feels significant, a small bridge spanning the chasm between us.

By midday, our activities have warmed the shelter marginally. Jackson rations two protein bars between us for lunch—sustenance without satisfaction. My stomach grumbles in protest, accustomed to more substantial fare.

"Gets easier." Jackson notices my expression as I chew the bland, dense rectangle. "Hunger. Body adjusts."

"Speaking from experience?"

He nods once. "Ten days stranded on McKinley. Rescue delayed by weather. Similar to this."

"Ten days?" The prospect of seven more days like these three sends panic skittering through me.

"Different circumstances. Worse injuries. Less shelter." His gaze travels to the window, where snow continues to fall steadily, if less violently than before. "We're fortunate by comparison."

Fortunate. Not a word I'd have chosen for our situation, yet his perspective shifts mine slightly. We have shelter. Heat. Food. Each other. The last thought lingers uncomfortably.

The afternoon stretches endlessly before us. Without power for light, the shelter dims as clouds thicken outside. Jackson lights our precious lantern, conserving fuel by keeping the flame low. The resulting shadows dance across the stone walls, creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite the cold.

"We need distraction." Jackson retrieves a battered deck of cards from a shelf. "Mental activity helps combat cold."

He deals a hand of gin rummy, explaining rules I already know, but allow him to review. The normalcy of the activity strikes me as bizarrely comforting—two people playing cards while a blizzard rages outside, as if this were some planned vacation rather than a survival scenario.

Three hands in, the game has generated more conversation than the previous days combined. Jackson reveals small details about himself—preferred climbing routes, a surprising fondness for classical music, and his grandfather's role in establishing Angel's Peak's first rescue team.

My journalistic instincts prickle with interest, but I resist the urge to interrogate. This fragile camaraderie feels too valuable to risk.

During the fourth hand, my gaze drifts to the shelf where Emma's photograph sits partially hidden. In the lantern's soft glow, the frame catches light, drawing attention like a beacon.

Jackson follows my glance, his expression shuttering immediately. The comfortable atmosphere dissipates like smoke.

"Your fiancée was beautiful." The words emerge before wisdom can contain them.

His hands still on the cards, knuckles whitening. For several heartbeats, I'm certain he'll retreat behind anger again, ending our tentative connection.

Instead, he carefully places his cards face down.

"Yes." The single syllable carries volumes of pain.

Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken grief. I've crossed a boundary, yet something tells me it needed crossing.

"Would you tell me about her?" My voice softens, setting aside the journalist for simple human connection. "Not for the article. Just... because."

Jackson's jaw works beneath his beard. His eyes remain fixed on the tabletop, seeing something far beyond the weathered wood.

"Emma Mitchell. Twenty-nine when she died. Environmental scientist. Specialized in alpine ecosystems." The words emerge stilted at first, facts without emotion, as if reading a biography. "Expert climber. Better than me on technical ascents. Fearless. Brilliant."

He rises abruptly, moving to retrieve the photograph. His fingers trace the frame with reverence before he returns to the table.

"Three years ago. Leading a group of university researchers up the north face. Routine climb—challenging but within their abilities." His voice changes, roughening. "Storm warning came through late. Too late. Should have turned back immediately."

The photograph trembles slightly in his grip.

"Emma wanted to push forward. Just another hour, she said. They needed specific samples from the summit. Important research." His eyes finally meet mine, haunted. "I agreed. Against my better judgment. Against everything I knew about the mountain."

The confession hangs between us, heavy with self-recrimination.

"The storm hit faster than anyone predicted. Visibility dropped to nothing. Temperatures plummeted." His thumb brushes Emma's smiling face. "We were making our descent. She was leading the second group."

My heart constricts, already knowing where this story ends but dreading the details.

"Avalanche." The word emerges like broken glass. "Small one. Just enough. She was swept over a ledge. Rope snapped." His breathing becomes uneven. "I couldn't reach her in time. Couldn't... couldn't save her."

Grief radiates from him in palpable waves. Without thinking, I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine.

"It wasn't your fault."

His laugh emerges bitter, hollow. "Everyone says that. But I made the call. I was responsible. Her blood is on my hands."

"You couldn't have known?—"

"I should have known." His voice rises slightly, raw with emotion. "That's literally my job. Reading the mountain. Predicting the unpredictable. Keeping people safe. Her blood is on my hands."

The words hit like a punch to the gut—not just for what they reveal, but for everything they explain.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. The fury in his voice when he found me on that ledge, the way he barked commands without mercy, dragging me up the mountain like I was an unruly rookie, his coldness, his distance, his refusal to look at me like a person and only as a liability.

It wasn’t about me.

It was about her.

Emma.

And I see it now—the way grief and guilt have carved themselves into his bones. The weight he’s carried, blaming himself for a choice made in a moment, for something that might never have been avoidable no matter what he did.

My heart aches not for Emma, but for him. For the silent suffering I hadn’t seen before. I was too caught up in my own pride and frustration to notice the cracks beneath his armor.

It wasn’t about Jackson hating city people or assuming I was fragile and helpless.

It was about loss.

Or fear.

It was about watching someone fall and knowing—knowing—he couldn’t bring them back.

And me?

I was another Emma in the making.

I swallow hard, my voice soft. “That’s why you were so angry with me.”

His eyes flash to mine, sharp and surprised.

“You saw me up there and thought—” My throat tightens. “You thought it was happening again.”

His jaw works, but he says nothing.

“You didn’t hate me,” I whisper. “You were terrified.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t confirm it aloud.

He doesn’t have to.

I see it now. Not a cold, infuriating mountain man—but a protector. One who’s already lost too much and will burn the world down before he lets it happen again.

For the first time since we met, I don’t feel dismissed or underestimated.

I feel seen.

And safe.

"You can’t blame yourself." An unexpected anger flares in me. "One terrible accident doesn’t erase all the lives you've saved. All the people you've guided safely? All the rescues you've performed?"

His eyes narrow. "You don't understand?—"

"I understand guilt. I understand grief. But I also understand Emma chose to be on that mountain. She was an expert climber who made her own decisions."

"It's not that simple."

"No, it's not. Nothing about loss is simple." My voice softens. "But punishing yourself forever won't bring her back. And it won't honor what she loved about the mountains, climbing, taking necessary risks for things that matter."

Jackson withdraws his hand from mine, but instead of retreating into coldness, he simply looks... tired. Bone-deep exhausted from carrying his guilt for so long.

"Why do you care?" The question contains genuine bewilderment. "You barely know me."

The answer requires honesty I'm not sure I'm ready to give. "Because I recognize someone running from themselves. I've been doing it my whole life."

His eyebrows lift slightly, inviting elaboration.

"My parents..." I pause, organizing thoughts rarely verbalized. "They meant well, but from the moment I was diagnosed with childhood leukemia, they treated me like I was made of glass. No sports. Limited outdoor activities. Constant monitoring. Every cough was a crisis."

"You had cancer?"

"Had and beat. It’s been over twenty years. I was little, a toddler. My memories of what happened are fuzzy."

"Is that why they were overprotective?"

"I suppose. I beat the cancer, but they were always looking for the other shoe to drop. I could barely breathe." The memories surface with surprising clarity—the sidelines I was relegated to, the adventures forbidden, the pitying glances from classmates.

"They convinced everyone, including me, that I was fragile." My fingers trace patterns on the rough tabletop. "College was my escape. But even then, their voices stayed in my head. 'Be careful, Cloe. Don't push yourself, Cloe. Know your limitations, Cloe.'"

Jackson listens with unexpected intensity, his focus complete.

"Journalism became my rebellion. Particularly travel writing." A small smile tugs at my lips. "Every assignment was proof that their expectations didn’t bind me. Every risk I took was a middle finger to years of cautionary tales."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Including hiking alone in a blizzard."

"Including that." Shame colors my admission. "In my defense, it wasn’t a blizzard when I started out."

"You were warned."

"Not my proudest moment."

"We all have those." His voice holds no judgment now.

Silence settles between us, not uncomfortable but contemplative. Outside, the wind has calmed to a steady moan rather than its previous howl. The lantern flickers, shadows shifting across Jackson's features, softening his customary intensity.

"So we're both running." His observation comes quietly. "Me from guilt, you from being underestimated."

"Pretty much."

"And now we're stuck here. Nowhere to run."

The irony makes me laugh out loud, surprising us both with its warmth. "The Universe has a twisted sense of humor."

A hint of a smile tugs at Jackson's mouth—the first I've seen. The expression transforms him, cracking the stoic facade to reveal something warmer beneath.

"Emma would have appreciated the cosmic joke." His tone carries fondness among the grief. "She always said mountains had their own wisdom."

"She sounds remarkable."

"She was." His fingers trace her photograph once more before carefully returning it to the shelf. This time, he leaves it visible rather than hidden. A small but significant change.

Night approaches rapidly, darkness gathering in the shelter's corners despite the lantern's valiant efforts. The temperature drops further as the sun abandons us, cold seeping through walls designed to withstand wind but not to retain heat.

"We should conserve the lantern fuel." Jackson eyes the flame critically.

Darkness falls completely when he extinguishes the light, leaving only the woodstove's orange glow. Our world narrows to this small circle of warmth, the boundaries of the shelter fading into shadow.

"Come closer to the fire." Jackson's voice emerges from the dimness. "Body heat is critical tonight."

We arrange blankets on the floor near the stove, necessity overriding awkwardness. The shared vulnerability of our earlier conversations lingers, creating a different atmosphere than previous nights.

Jackson settles beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. The contact sends awareness skittering across my skin despite the layers between us.

"Thank you." His words emerge so quietly I almost miss them. "For listening. About Emma."

"Thank you for telling me."

Minutes pass in companionable silence, broken only by the fire's occasional pop and crackle. The darkness creates a strange intimacy, as if we exist in a world unto ourselves, separated from reality.

"I've never told anyone the full story." His confession emerges quietly. "Not even the investigation team."

The trust implied in this admission sends warmth through me, unrelated to the fire's heat.

"Why me?" The question emerges unbidden.

Jackson shifts slightly, his profile illuminated by flames. "Because you push. Because you don't accept the surface answer. Because..."

He pauses, struggling visibly with words.

"Because I shouldn't want to tell you anything, but I do." The confession emerges rough-edged, reluctant. "I shouldn't notice how your eyes change color in different light. Shouldn't care about your childhood or your parents or your career ambitions. Shouldn't think about your mouth when I'm collecting firewood."

My breath catches, and my heart accelerates wildly.

"But I do." His voice drops lower, rumbling through the darkness. "God help me, I do."

The confession hovers between us, impossible to ignore or dismiss. Heat that has nothing to do with the woodstove floods through me.

"If we’re being honest, I shouldn't wonder what would have happened if the generator hadn't broken last night." My admission emerges slightly breathless. "I shouldn't replay that kiss every time I close my eyes. I shouldn't imagine your hands on me instead of just your shoulder against mine."

Jackson's breath audibly catches. "Cloe?—"

"But I do." The truth flows easier in darkness. "I know it's inconvenient and complicated and probably temporary. But whatever it is—it feels more real than anything I’ve known."

His hand finds mine in the shadows, fingers intertwining with deliberate intent. The simple contact sends electricity racing up my arm.

"This is a terrible idea." His voice has roughened, deeper than before.

"Absolutely terrible."

"You're leaving in days. Back to your life."

"And you're staying here. Back to yours."

Our hands remain connected despite these practical objections, neither willing to break the tentative contact.

"So what do we do?" The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities.

The fire casts flickering shadows across his features, highlighting the warring emotions there—desire, hesitation, need, restraint. His thumb traces circles on my palm, each movement sending shivers through me.

"I don't know." Honesty colors his response. "But pretending this isn't happening isn't working anymore."

The admission cracks something open between us—the final barrier of denial. Attraction crackles in the small space separating our bodies, palpable as the cold pressing against the shelter's walls.

"No," I agree softly. "It's not."

Our gazes lock in the firelight, unspoken desire reflected between us. The decision point looms, heavy with potential consequences—for hearts, for boundaries, for the careful distance we've maintained despite close physical proximity.

Whatever path we choose, one truth emerges: the real storm was never the blizzard raging outside but the emotions brewing between two people who found each other at exactly the wrong time, in exactly the wrong place.