Page 15 of Found By the Mountain Man
The lead snowmobile pulls up in front of the cabin, and I recognize Jake even through his helmet and snow gear. He cuts the engine and waves at the window before dismounting, followed by two other Search and Rescue team members I don't know.
Connor moves to the door, opening it before they can knock. "Jake. Good timing."
"How are our patients?" Jake asks, stomping snow off his boots as he enters. His eyes find me by the window. "Ms. Aldana, how are you feeling?"
"Fine," I answer automatically. "Completely recovered."
"That's what I like to hear." Jake's grin is warm and genuine. "Ready to get back to civilization?"
"More than ready," I lie, forcing a smile I don't feel.
The other two team members introduce themselves—Jace and Tyler, both experienced rescuers who seem competent and friendly. They immediately begin assessing the situation, checking equipment, and discussing the best route back to town.
"Weather's supposed to hold for the next few hours," Jace reports. "Clear skies, minimal wind. Should be an easy ride down."
"How long will it take to get back to town?" I ask, already knowing I won't like the answer.
"About forty-five minutes," Tyler replies. "Hour at most, depending on trail conditions."
Forty-five minutes. Less than an hour, and this strange, intense chapter of my life will be over. I'll be back at the Darkmore Lodge, fielding calls from my editor, preparing to fly home tomorrow morning. Back to being just another photographer who got herself into trouble and needed to be rescued.
Back to pretending that nothing life-changing happened in this cabin.
"I should get my things," I say to no one in particular.
My "things" don't amount to much—my camera equipment, my wet clothes that Connor had hung to dry by the fire, my boots. Everything else was lost to the river, leaving no trace that I was ever here except for the faint lingering scent of my shampoo in his borrowed clothes.
I change back into my own clothes in Connor's bedroom, taking longer than necessary to fold his t-shirt and sweater. The fabric still smells like him—pine and wood smoke and something uniquely masculine. I press the shirt to my face for just a moment, breathing him in, before forcing myself to set it on his dresser.
When I emerge from the bedroom, the cabin is full of male voices discussing weather patterns and trail conditions and other practical matters. Connor is in full professional mode, briefing the team on my condition, discussing the rescue protocols, being every inch the competent SAR specialist.
Not once does he look at me.
"Ready?" Jake asks when he sees me with my pack.
"Ready," I confirm, though I've never felt less ready for anything in my life.
The goodbyes are brief and awkward. I thank Jace and Tyler for coming to get me. I shake Jake's hand and tell him how much I appreciate everything the SAR team has done. Standard rescue victim politeness, all surface level and meaningless.
Connor walks us to the door, still maintaining that careful professional distance. "Take care of yourself," he says to me, like I'm any other rescue victim. "And maybe stick to marked trails from now on."
His tone is light, almost joking, but there's no warmth in his eyes. No acknowledgment of what we shared, what we discovered together in this cabin while the storm raged outside.
"I'll keep that in mind," I reply, matching his casual tone even though my throat feels tight.
I want to say more. Want to tell him that this isn't over, that what happened between us was real and important and worth fighting for. Want to ask him to give us a chance, to not let fear and professional boundaries destroy something beautiful before it has a chance to grow.
But he's already turning away, helping Jace load equipment onto the snowmobiles, acting like I'm already gone.
The ride back to town is exactly as long and cold and miserable as I expected. I'm seated behind Jake on his snowmobile, holding on tight as we navigate the winding trail down the mountain. The landscape is stunning—endless expanses of pristine snow, towering pines heavy with powder, the majestic bulk of Darkmore Peak rising behind us—but I can barely appreciate the beauty through the fog of my own misery.
Every mile we travel takes me further from Connor, further from the possibility of something I never knew I wanted until I found it.
By the time we reach the outskirts of Darkmore, the sun is starting to set, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold. It's the kind of light photographers dream of, the magic hour that makes everything look like a fairy tale.
I should be taking pictures. Should be documenting this stunning Alberta wilderness, adding to my climate change portfolio. Instead, I can't bring myself to reach for my camera.
The SAR station is a modest building on the edge of town's small downtown, buzzing with activity despite the late hour.Jake parks the snowmobile and helps me dismount, my legs shaky after the long ride.
