Page 8 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

"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 andsaw 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 grumpyrescuer 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 stumbleslightly, 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.

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