Page 9

Chapter 9

Descent

Sunlight streams through the frost-rimmed window, illuminating dust motes dancing in golden beams. After days of relentless gray, the brightness feels almost intrusive, harsh in its clarity.

The storm has broken.

Jackson stands by the window, surveying the transformed landscape outside. His profile cuts a sharp silhouette against the brilliant white world beyond the glass, features set in that familiar mask of professional detachment.

"Clear skies." He speaks to the window rather than to me. "Wind's died down. Temperature's rising."

The words hang in the shelter's still air, their implication unmistakable. It's time to leave.

Our cocoon of isolation, with its intensities and revelations, must be abandoned. Reality beckons from the base of the mountain—my article, his guiding business, the separate lives temporarily entwined by circumstance and chemistry.

Sleep-warmed blankets pool around my waist as I sit on the cot. Cold air nips at my exposed skin despite the sunlight, raising goosebumps along my arms. Jackson turned away during this small vulnerability, offering privacy where none has existed for days. The consideration feels oddly painful after the intimacies we've shared.

"How soon can we head down?" My voice emerges steadier than expected.

"Noon." He moves to the woodstove, stoking the dying embers without looking my way. "Need to pack supplies, check conditions along the route first."

The awkwardness between us settles like a physical presence, taking up space in the small shelter. Last night's whispered wish—"I wish things were different"—hovers unacknowledged in daylight.

Breakfast consists of the last protein bars, consumed in silence punctuated only by the occasional crackle from the woodstove. Jackson packs methodically, equipment disappearing into his backpack—rope, emergency supplies, the half-empty first aid kit.

"You'll need to wear this." He finally approaches, holding out climbing gear—a harness similar to the one used in my rescue. "Snow's unstable after the storm. High avalanche risk."

Our fingers brush during the exchange, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm despite everything. Jackson quickly withdraws, turning back to his preparations.

"I'll need to secure you to my line." His voice remains professional and impersonal. "Whole mountain's a death trap right now for solo hikers."

"I won't argue this time." A weak attempt at lightening the mood.

The ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing. "Smart woman."

The praise shouldn't affect me, yet warmth blooms in my chest regardless. Pathetic how eagerly my heart responds to the smallest crumb of approval from this man.

By mid-morning, preparations are complete. The shelter stands ready for its next emergency occupant—wood stacked, supplies organized, surfaces wiped clean of our presence. Only memories remain as evidence of what transpired within these stone walls.

Jackson steps outside first, scanning the terrain. I follow into blinding brightness. The sun's reflection off pristine snow momentarily overwhelms me after days in the shelter's dim interior.

The world has transformed into a breathtaking winter wonderland—snow blankets every surface in crystalline perfection; icicles hang from rock outcroppings like nature’s chandeliers, and the sky stretches into endless blue above—beauty disguised as deadly danger, much like the man standing beside me.

"Stay close." Jackson secures the shelter door, locking away our temporary sanctuary. "Step exactly where I step. Touch nothing without asking first."

He approaches with the climbing harness, kneeling to help me into it. His hands move with professional efficiency, adjusting straps with precision, but something has changed. The fingers that checked my buckles tremble slightly, barely perceptible but unmistakable to someone who knows the steady certainty of those hands.

"Too tight?" His voice betrays nothing, eyes focused on equipment rather than my face.

"It's fine."

Jackson double-checks each connection, tugging testing straps that are already secure. The caution might seem excessive to an observer, but understanding dawns with painful clarity—he's replaying Emma's accident, determined not to repeat history.

"Ready?" He finally meets my gaze, eyes the color of glacier ice reflecting the brilliant sky.

"As I'll ever be."

The journey begins in a single file, Jackson breaking trail through snow that reaches mid-thigh in places. A climbing rope connects us, five feet of tether keeping me physically linked to him while my emotional distance grows with each careful step.

The descent proves more challenging than anticipated. What appeared to be gentle slopes reveal treacherous drops beneath deceptive snow blankets. Ice-glazed rocks lurk under innocent-looking powder. The mountain, beautiful in its winter dress, conceals deadly traps with seductive beauty.

Jackson remains hyper-vigilant, constantly glancing back, adjusting our course to avoid hidden dangers, never allowing me beyond arm's reach. When a snow shelf suddenly gives way beneath my boot, his reaction comes with lightning speed—hand shooting out to grasp my jacket, yanking me against his solid frame before I can fully register the danger.

For one breathless moment, we stand pressed together; his arm iron-tight around my waist, his heartbeat thundering against my back. Then, as quickly as it happened, he sets me upright, professional distance reinstated.

"Careful." The single word emerges rough-edged, revealing more than he likely intended.

The descent continues in this pattern—careful steps, occasional corrections, brief moments of physical contact that spark memories of intimacy now wrapped in professional necessity.

Around us, the mountain reveals its grandeur in ways impossible to appreciate during the blizzard. Like ancient giants wearing ermine cloaks, massive rock formations are draped in snow. Pine trees bent beneath white burdens, creating natural archways across sections of our path. In one clearing, sunlight refracts through ice crystals hanging from branches, casting rainbow prisms across undisturbed snow.

"It's beautiful." The words escape in a cloud of breath, inadequate against such majesty.

Jackson pauses, following my gaze across the vista where mountains stretch to the horizon, their peaks piercing the cobalt sky. "Worth writing about?"

"Beyond words." The honesty slips out unbidden. "Though I'll have to try anyway."

Something softens in his expression—a brief glimpse of the man from the shelter rather than the professional guide. "You'll do it justice."

The compliment warms despite the chill air. We continue downward, and the terrain gradually becomes less severe as elevation decreases. Trees grow more plentiful, offering occasional shelter from the brilliant sun that has begun transforming the snow surface from powder to slush.

Midway down, Jackson calls for a rest. We perch on a fallen log cleared of snow, water bottles passing between gloved hands, and energy bars providing necessary fuel. The silence between us has evolved from awkward to something more companionable, though the undercurrent of unspoken feelings remains.

"Will you mention me?" His question catches me off-guard. "In your article."

The vulnerability behind the query tugs at something deep within my chest. "Do you want me to?"

Jackson considers this, gaze fixed on the distant peaks. "Not the personal stuff. But the mountain safety aspects—maybe someone will listen to your experience better than my warnings."

"I'll make you sound properly intimidating and all-knowing." A smile tugs at my lips. "The Mountain King of Angel's Peak."

His laugh surprises us both—short but genuine, transforming his stern features into something breathtaking. "God, please don't."

"Mountain Guardian? Alpine Sentinel? Wilderness Wizard?"

"Stop." But amusement lingers in his eyes, a precious glimpse of what might have been under different circumstances.

The moment passes too quickly. Jackson’s professional demeanor returns as he checks his watch and surveys our remaining route. "I need to keep moving. I want to reach the base cabin before the afternoon melt makes conditions worse."

Back on our feet, the descent continues, each step bringing us closer to separation. As we drop in elevation, the snow thins, patches of exposed ground appearing with increasing frequency. The world gradually becomes less white, less pristine, and less isolated.

Jackson's base cabin appears around a bend in the trail—a substantially larger structure than the emergency shelter. It is constructed of sturdy logs with a metal roof currently shedding snow in slow-motion avalanches. Solar panels glint on the south-facing slope, a satellite dish nestled discreetly among them. This is a place where wilderness meets civilization in careful balance.

"Home sweet home." Jackson's voice carries no inflection as he unlocks the heavy wooden door.

Stepping inside feels like entering another world after days in the primitive shelter. Polished wooden floors stretch beneath boots that suddenly seem inappropriately snow-covered. A river stone fireplace dominates one wall, unlit but immaculately maintained. Modern appliances gleam in a compact kitchen. Comfortable furniture is arranged for both function and comfort. Books line built-in shelves—field guides, climbing manuals, classic literature.

Civilization strikes like a physical force—jarring and almost overwhelming after our primitive existence. The contrast highlights how far we've traveled physically and emotionally in four short days.

Jackson moves with the ease of long familiarity, stowing gear, checking thermostats, and performing the routine of homecoming. I stand awkwardly in the entry, suddenly uncertain of my place in this new context.

"You can put your things there." He gestures toward a bench clearly designed for shedding outdoor gear. "Bathroom's through that door if you want to clean up."

The hot water feels miraculous against skin that's known nothing but melted snow and cold-water sponge baths for days. Standing under the shower's steady stream, I finally acknowledge what I've been suppressing since waking—heartache.

Not dramatic, soul-crushing pain, but a quieter, more insidious ache of possibility lost before it could fully form.

Ridiculous to mourn something that never truly existed beyond a temporary bubble of intense physical attraction. Yet the feeling persists, settling behind my ribs like a small, cold stone.

Dressed again in clothes that smell of woodsmoke and mountain, I emerge to find Jackson in the kitchen, phone to his ear. The sight startles—technology reconnecting us to the wider world, another tether to reality.

"Yes, both safe. No injuries beyond her sprained ankle. Much better now." His eyes meet mine across the room, expression unreadable. "About an hour, depending on road conditions. Will do."

He sets the phone down, something shifting in his demeanor—a return to the reserved mountain guide I first encountered in the diner, professional mask firmly in place.

"That was the sheriff. Your hotel's been worried. Roads are clear enough to get you back to town." He busies himself collecting keys from a hook by the door. "Need to check some equipment first, then I'll drive you."

The statement lands with finality—our adventure concluding in mundane transportation arrangements and concerned innkeepers. The contrast between this ordinary ending and the extraordinary connection we forged feels almost surreal.

Jackson disappears into what appears to be a gear room, leaving me with the echo of what's ending. My article still needs completion, and our professional obligations wait for us regardless of our personal complications.

Thirty minutes pass before Jackson reemerges, keys jingling in his hand. "Ready?"

The drive to town passes largely in silence, broken only by occasional commentary about landmarks visible through freshly plowed roads. Angel's Peak appears around a bend—quaint buildings emerge from snow banks, smoke rises from chimneys, and life continues as if nothing extraordinary happened on the mountain above.

We pull up outside Mabel's Guesthouse, my temporary home before the shelter became our world. The transition feels impossibly abrupt—from an intimate connection to an awkward goodbye in the space of a four-mile drive.

"Thank you." The words encompass everything and nothing. "For the rescue. The shelter... Everything."

Jackson's hands remain on the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension. "Just doing my job."

The dismissal stings despite its obvious falsehood. "Right. The job."

Silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he turns slightly, profile sharp against the afternoon light. "How long will you stay? In town."

"Three more days." Hope flutters unwelcome in my chest. "I need to finish the interviews and take some photos of the trails. When weather permits."

He nods once, gaze fixed forward again. "Good luck with the article."

The dismissal lies beneath professional courtesy. This is goodbye.

Pride straightens my spine as I reach for the door handle. "Goodbye, Jackson."

No response comes as I exit the vehicle, collecting my backpack from the rear seat. Only when I reach the guesthouse steps does his window lower, voice carrying across the crisp air.

"Cloe." My name in his mouth still sends shivers down my spine. "Be careful out there."

Before I can respond, the window rises, the engine revs, and Jackson Hart disappears around the corner, leaving me standing in the snow with a heart full of words I never got to say.

Mabel greets me with effusive concern and endless questions that receive carefully edited answers. The hot bath and real food she insists upon should feel like luxuries after days of survival, yet something essential seems missing despite the comforts.

By evening, professional instincts reassert themselves. My laptop hums to life, fingers finding keyboard rhythm as I shape the article that brought me to Angel's Peak. The words flow surprisingly quickly, the experience still raw enough to translate into vivid prose.

Yet something nags beneath the writing—questions unanswered, story incomplete. After two hours of productive work, restlessness drives me from my room to the town's single bar, The Pickaxe, where locals gather nightly.

"Well, look who survived!" Darlene from the diner spots me immediately, waving from behind the bar where she apparently moonlights. "Hart got you down in one piece, I see."

The diner waitress's presence in this new context momentarily disorients me until I remember—small town, multiple jobs, everyone knowing everyone's business.

"He did." Settling onto a barstool feels strangely normal after days of extraordinary circumstances. "Very professional."

"That's our Jackson." Darlene slides a glass of amber liquid before me without asking. "On the house. Mountain rescue special."

The whiskey burns pleasantly, warming paths through my chest. Around me, locals cast curious glances, whispers barely disguised behind raised glasses. The outsider who needed rescuing—now the subject of hometown gossip.

"Working on your article?" Darlene wipes the already clean counter with practiced movements. "About our little slice of heaven?"

"Among other things." The opening presents itself naturally. "Actually, I'm curious about the town's history with mountain rescue. Jackson mentioned his grandfather started the first team?"

Darlene's face lights with local pride. "Old Man Hart was a legend around here. Taught Jackson everything he knows about these mountains."

The conversation flows from there—stories of dramatic rescues, the Hart family's three generations of mountain guides, the respect bordering on reverence that locals hold for their wilderness protectors.

"Jackson's the best we've ever had." The ranger from the diner joins the conversation, settling onto the neighboring stool. "Could've gone pro anywhere—had offers from major expedition companies. Everest, K2, you name it."

"Why didn't he?" The question emerges more personally invested than professionally curious.

Their exchanged glance speaks volumes.

"Emma." Darlene's voice drops. "They were planning to move after the wedding. She'd gotten some research grant in Colorado. Then the accident happened and..." She trails off, shaking her head.

"He changed." The ranger continues where she left off. "Shut down completely for months. When he came back, he was different. Focused. Obsessive about safety. Never leaves the mountain except for supplies."

"Hasn't been with anyone since." Darlene adds, then flushes slightly. "Not that we gossip or anything."

The information shouldn't affect me as it does, shouldn't twist something painful beneath my ribs. What happened in the shelter was an anomaly for him—an exception to three years of self-imposed isolation.

"Brilliant guide," the ranger concludes, "but a broken man. Mountain took something from him."

The conversation shifts to other topics, but their assessment echoes in my mind long after I return to the guesthouse. Jackson Hart—brilliant but broken, capable of saving others but unwilling to save himself.

As I prepare for bed in a room that feels too large, too quiet, too empty after days of shared space and body heat, their words continue to resonate. The man I glimpsed beneath the professional guide's exterior—the one who laughed at my ridiculous nickname suggestions, who trembled slightly when securing my harness, who whispered impossible wishes in darkness—remains trapped on that mountain, perhaps as surely as we were trapped by the storm.

The realization settles with unexpected weight: the most treacherous part of my Angel's Peak adventure wasn't the blizzard, the cliff face, or even the isolation.

It was falling for a man who gave his heart to these mountains long ago—and has no intention of ever taking it back.