Page 34 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Jamie raises an eyebrow but steps back, motioning us toward the central table where a map is spread out.
"I'm real sorry to drag you out here, Beau," he says, smoothing over the map. "But I didn't have a choice. Our biggest truck's transmission blew last week, and the storm cut of the delivery for a new one."
"It's fine. What do you need?"
"Family of four, SUV slid halfway down the north ridge. No injuries reported, but they're stranded."
"Details or visuals?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on the mission instead of the way Molly draws closer to me as the radio static increases behind us.
"Minnesota tourists. Tried to take a 'scenic route' according to their GPS. Hit an ice patch on the curve by Devil's Drop." Jamie traces the location on the map. "Front end's wedged against a pine, only thing keeping them from going all the way down."
I nod, already mentally cataloging what we'll need. "Winch, chains, stabilizers. How long they been out there?"
"About an hour. They've got heat, but the dad tried to get out and nearly went down the slope himself. Told them to stay put."
I scan the room, finding the equipment storage door. "Let's load up."
Molly follows me into the adjacent room, a cavernous space lined with shelves of rescue equipment. I grab a duffel and start filling it with what we'll need, then pause, really looking at her heels for the first time.
"You can't go up there in those."
She looks down. "What, these shoes don't say 'mountain rescue ready' to you?"
"They say 'asking for a broken ankle.' Wait here."
I find the women's gear section and grab thermal socks, insulated boots, and a set of snow pants. When I return, Molly's examining a length of climbing rope with curiosity.
"Put these on," I say, holding out the bundle.
She raises an eyebrow. "Most guys just ask me to take my clothes off on the second date, they don't drag me to a rescue mission."
My brain short-circuits. "This isn't—We're not—"
She laughs, the sound bright in the utilitarian space. "Relax, mountain man. I'm kidding." She takes the gear. "Where can I change?"
I point to a small locker room off to the side, trying to ignore the implications of what she said.Second date. Like this was a date. Like the dinner was a date. Which it wasn't.
Was it?
When she emerges minutes later, I almost don't recognize her.
The oversized snow pants make her look like a kid playing dress-up, the boots clunking with each step. But somehow, with her fancy makeup and that hair still perfectly styled, she manages to make rescue gear look good.
Real fucking good.
"Better?" she asks, doing a little turn.
Better for my concentration, maybe. Worse for my sanity, definitely.
I grunt and thrust a coil of rope into her arms. "Hold this."
She takes it, then reaches for the carabiners I hand her next. By the time I've gathered everything we need, she's loaded down like a pack mule, only her eyes visible above the gear piled in her arms.
"Are you sure you need all this?" she asks, voice muffled behind a bundle of straps.
"Rather have it and not need it."
She takes a step forward and stumbles, the entire pile wobbling precariously. I lunge to steady her, grabbing her shoulders before she can topple.
