Page 29 of Seduced By the Mountain Man

I looked at my friends—these women who'd known me through every heartbreak and triumph, who'd watched me play it safe for so long they'd probably given up hope I'd ever take a real risk.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Let's go."

***

The ceremony took place on a bluff overlooking the lake, where a circle of stones surrounded a small fire pit. About twenty guests had gathered, sitting cross-legged on provided blankets while a weathered man with kind eyes and silver-streaked braids spoke in low, reverent tones.

"I am Joseph Crow Feather," he said, his voice carrying easily in the still morning air. "My grandmother was Blackfeet, my grandfather Salish. Both tribes have called these mountains home for thousands of years, long before resorts and roads and the boundaries we draw on maps."

He gestured to the fire, where sweet-smelling smoke spiraled upward. "Fire has always been sacred—it transforms, it purifies, it carries our prayers to the Creator. This morning, we offer you an old ceremony for a new day. A chance to release what no longer serves you and make space for what wants to be born."

Joseph held up a small piece of bark paper and a charcoal stick. "Write down what you wish to be free from. Not with your mind, but with your heart. What weighs you down? What holds you back from the life you're meant to live?"

The papers and charcoal were passed around the circle. I stared at the blank surface, charcoal stick poised, while my friends scribbled around me. What did I want freedom from?

The obvious answer came immediately:expectations. I wrote the word in careful letters, then sat back to wait my turn.

But as Joseph continued speaking about release and new beginnings, my thoughts wandered. Freedom from expectations was only half the equation, wasn't it? What did I want freedomtodo? Freedom to choose my own happiness. Freedom to take risks. Freedom to love without calculating the cost.

Freedom to be brave enough to reach for what I wanted, even if it scared me.

"Now," Joseph said, "one by one, we offer these burdens to the fire. As the smoke carries them away, know that you are making space for something better to take their place."

I watched as people approached the fire, some speaking their intentions aloud, others silently dropping their papers into the flames. Whitney went before me, her paper disappearing in a bright flare that sent sparks dancing toward the sky.

When my turn came, I walked to the fire on unsteady legs. The heat warmed my face as I held the paper over the flames.

"I release the need to meet everyone else's expectations," I said quietly, my voice stronger than I'd expected. "And I claim the courage to choose my own path."

The paper caught fire, the word "expectations" disappearing in a curl of smoke and ash. I watched it rise, feeling something tight in my chest loosen and fly away with it.

As I returned to my place in the circle, I caught sight of a familiar figure standing at the edge of the gathering. Jace leaned against a pine tree, arms crossed, watching the ceremony with respectful attention. When our eyes met, he gave me the slightest nod—approval, understanding, encouragement all wrapped in that simple gesture.

My pulse quickened, but this time it felt like an awakening.

After the ceremony, the day unfolded with the kind of peaceful rhythm that made you forget about clocks and schedules. Wereturned to the cabin for showers and a leisurely breakfast, then made our way to the resort's art pavilion, where a local watercolor artist named Margaret was setting up for a painting workshop.

"Today we're going to explore perspective," Margaret announced to the dozen guests who'd gathered around easels set up on the pavilion's wide deck. The view stretched across the lake to the mountains beyond, the morning light painting everything in soft pastels. "How the same scene can look completely different depending on where you stand, what time of day it is, how the light falls."

She held up a triangular piece of glass that caught the sunlight. "Anyone know what this is?"

"A kaleidoscope piece," Kayla said.

"Exactly. And what makes a kaleidoscope magical?"

"The way it changes," I said. "Every time you turn it, you see something completely new, even though it's the same pieces inside."

Margaret smiled. "Precisely. Life is like that too. The same situation can look entirely different depending on our perspective, our willingness to see with fresh eyes. Today, I want you to paint not just what you see, but how you feel about what you see."

I'd never been much of an artist, but something about the gentle instruction and the peaceful setting drew me in. I mixed colors on my palette—the deep blue of the lake, the soft green of the pines, the warm gold of the sunlight on the water.

As I painted, Margaret moved among us, offering quiet guidance. When she paused behind my easel, I tensed, expecting criticism.

"You're painting with your heart," she observed instead. "Look how you've captured the way the light seems to dance on the water. Very nice."

I stepped back to look at my work. The painting wasn't technically perfect, but it was... alive somehow. Full of movement and warmth and hope.

"So many people paint what they think they should see," Margaret continued. "But what happens when you open your eyes to inner landscapes as well as outer? What connections do you find? There lies the vision of the spirit."

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