five
Rhett
One day. Just one day trapped in this cabin with her, and I'm losing my mind.
I sit on the cabin's small covered porch, the bitter cold a welcome distraction from the thoughts that have been circling my brain like hungry wolves. Aspen whines and nudges my hand with her nose. At least someone understands.
"I know, girl. I'm a mess." I scratch behind her ears, watching my breath form clouds in the frigid air.
The storm finally broke last night, leaving behind three feet of fresh snow and a world silent except for the occasional creak of laden branches. In the distance, Darkmore Peak rises against a flawless blue sky, deceptively peaceful after trying to kill us both.
My radio crackles to life. "Base to Rhett, come in."
I grab it from my pocket. "Rhett here."
"Jake here with your morning update. Road crews made good progress overnight. They should reach your access road by tomorrow afternoon."
Relief and something that feels unnervingly like disappointment war within me. "Copy that. How are things in town?"
"Digging out. The resort's closed until tomorrow for avalanche mitigation. Carlson has been calling every hour for updates on his wayward instructor."
"Tell him she'll live," I say, glancing back at the cabin where Jade sleeps. "Against my better judgment."
Jake chuckles. "That bad, huh? The infamous Jade Wilson finally met her match in you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that your rescue is quite the talk of the town. Local hotshot ski instructor saved by the grumpy mountain hermit. It's like the start of a Lifetime movie."
"Watch it, Jake." My tone carries a warning that surprises even me.
A pause. "Sorry, man. Just trying to lighten the mood. How's she doing, really?"
I sigh, tension draining. "Better. Fever broke yesterday. Shoulder's healing. She's tougher than she looks."
"Good to hear. Think you can handle another day of playing nurse?"
"I've survived worse," I mutter, though I'm not entirely convinced.
"Roger that. Base out."
I clip the radio back to my belt and lean against the porch railing, staring at the snow-covered landscape. The truth is, I don't know if I can handle another day with her. Not because she's a difficult patient—surprisingly, she's not—but because of what's happening to me.
I haven't felt this way about a woman since before the accident. Before Rebecca, my ex, looked at my missing leg and saw a burden she hadn't signed up for. Before I decided that loneliness was preferable to pity.
And now there's Jade. Young, beautiful, reckless Jade who reminds me so much of myself before the mountain took my leg and my arrogance in one brutal lesson. She can't be more than twenty-five. I turned forty-one last month. The age gap alone should be enough to stop these thoughts.
Not to mention she represents everything I've spent the last five years fighting against—the cavalier attitude toward mountain safety, the belief that bad things only happen to other people. Her casual disregard for boundaries and warnings feels like a personal affront to the price I've paid.
Yet when I pulled her from that snow, something shifted inside me.
When her fever spiked and I thought I might lose her, the panic I felt went far beyond professional concern.
I've rescued dozens of people over the years, but I've never sat up all night holding someone's hand, counting each breath like it was precious gold.
I push away from the railing and pace the small porch, the skin rubbing against the prosthetic protests against the cold. Aspen watches me with knowing eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell her. "Nothing's going to happen."
The memory of this morning ambushes me—Jade waking, our eyes meeting, that moment of connection that felt like recognition of something neither of us was looking for. The way her eyes, green as summer pine, had held mine without pity or revulsion when she noticed my prosthetic leg.
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the days-old growth of my beard.
This is insane. In another day, she'll be gone.
Back to her life at the resort, back to taking reckless chances with her perfect body and vibrant spirit.
I'll be a story she tells—the grumpy rescuer with the missing leg who lectured her while saving her life.
Better that way. Safer.
The cabin door creaks open behind me. I don't turn, knowing exactly who it is. I've become attuned to her movements, to the particular rhythm of her breathing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I ask, turning to see Jade hobbling onto the porch, wrapped in the blanket from the couch. Even with bruises mottling her face and her hair a tangled mess, she's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Getting fresh air," she says, her voice clearer now that the fever has passed. "I was suffocating in there."
"It's freezing out here. You have three bruised ribs and you're recovering from a fever. Get back inside." My voice comes out harsher than intended, fueled by concern and these unwanted feelings churning inside me.
She raises an eyebrow, visibly swaying but determined. "Make me."
Aspen glances between us, sensing the tension. I stare at Jade for a long moment, weighing my options. Her lips are already taking on a bluish tint, and she's shivering despite her bravado.
"Fine." In two strides, I'm next to her. Before she can protest, I scoop her up in my arms, careful of her injured shoulder.
"Hey!" she yelps, startled. "I can walk!"
"Barely," I counter, carrying her back through the doorway. I kick the door closed behind us, the cabin's warmth enveloping us both.
She's so light in my arms, so fragile despite her fierce spirit. I can feel her heart racing—or maybe that's mine. The scent of her hair fills my senses; even after a day without a shower, she somehow smells like mountain wildflowers.
I make it to the couch and attempt to set her down gently, but my prosthetic catches on the edge of the coffee table. I stumble slightly, instinctively tightening my grip to keep from dropping her. The adjustment brings her face inches from mine, her arms now locked around my neck for stability.
Time stops. Her eyes, wide and startlingly green, lock onto mine. Her lips part slightly, and I watch, transfixed, as the tip of her tongue darts out to wet them. My body responds instantly, viscerally, to her proximity. Blood rushes south with such intensity that I nearly groan aloud.
"Rhett..." she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips breaks something loose inside me.
I lower her to the couch, but don't immediately straighten. We remain suspended in this moment, my face hovering above hers, her arms still around my neck. I can feel her breath against my lips, count each freckle scattered across her nose, see the tiny flecks of brown in her green irises.
Every cell in my body screams to close that final distance, to claim her mouth with mine, to discover if she tastes as sweet as I've imagined during my wakeful night keeping vigil.
With herculean effort, I pull away, disentangling myself from her arms. The loss of contact is physical pain, but I force myself to straighten, to step back, to rebuild the walls she's somehow breached without even trying.
"You need to rest," I say, my voice rough with restraint. "Doctor's orders."
She simply nods, settling back against the cushions. Disappointed.
"Whatever you say, Mountain Man." There's a new awareness in her voice, a knowledge of the power she holds over me despite her injured state.
I busy myself adjusting her blankets, checking her bandages, anything to avoid meeting her gaze again. My body is still betraying me, my cock is aching, and the cabin suddenly feels too small, too intimate, too dangerous.
"I'll get you some tea," I mutter, retreating to the kitchen area. With my back to her, I grip the edge of the counter, forcing deep breaths until my heart rate slows.
This is temporary, I remind myself. The roads will be clear tomorrow.
She'll go back to her life, and I'll go back to mine.
This strange, powerful connection is nothing more than the natural result of extreme circumstances—her brush with death, my role as rescuer, the forced intimacy of our situation.
But even as I think it, I know it's a lie. In twenty years of search and rescue, I've never felt this way about someone I've pulled from the snow. Never spent the night memorizing the curve of a sleeping woman's cheek, the rhythm of her breathing, the small sounds she makes in dreams.
Behind me, I hear her shifting on the couch. "You know," she says, her voice casual but with an undercurrent I can't ignore, "for someone determined to keep me at arm's length, you have a funny way of showing it."
I don't turn around. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do." I can hear the smile in her voice. "But it's okay. Your secret's safe with me."
And that's the problem. Nothing feels safe anymore. Not since I pulled her from that snow and felt something buried inside me begin to thaw for the first time in five years.
The tea kettle whistles, startling me from my thoughts. Outside, the winter sun glints off the new snow, promising another clear, cold night ahead.
One more night. I just have to make it through one more night without crossing lines that can't be uncrossed. Without admitting that this woman—this reckless, beautiful, too-young woman—has awakened something in me I thought was dead and buried.
I pour the tea with hands that aren't quite steady, bracing myself to turn and face her again. To resist the gravitational pull that seems to draw me toward her despite every rational objection.
Tomorrow the roads will be clear. Tomorrow this will be over. I can’t fall for her.