Page 2 of Mountain Man's City Girl
His face hardens, composing itself into something unreadable. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm—" I gesture to my camera, the familiar shape of it solid and real when everything else feels like a dream. "I'm the photographer. For the magazine feature."
"You're the journalist they sent?"
I nod, suddenly unsure if I should offer my hand or hug him or just crawl under the table. "Small world?"
Mr. Myers runs a hand through his hair—still thick, darker than I remember but streaked with silver at the temples. "This isn't going to work."
"Excuse me?"
"I can't be your guide." He turns to leave, his broad back a wall of rejection.
"Wait!" I scramble for my bag, the leather catching on the table edge as I pull out the printed contract and confirmation emails. "You already agreed. The magazine paid your fee."
"I'll return it."
"You can't just—" I lower my voice, aware that every person in the diner is watching our reunion like it's premium cable, leaning forward in their seats. "Look, I flew across the country for this assignment. It's important."
"Find another guide."
"In the next hour? In a town this size?" I step closer, clutching the papers, close enough to smell pine and something else—a hint of woodsmoke—on him. "I didn't know it would be you either, but here we are. We're both professionals. Surely we can manage four days."
His jaw works beneath his beard. "Two days."
"What?"
"I'll take you out for two days, show you enough for your story, then you're on the first bus back."
"That's not enough time—"
"Two days, or nothing."
I should argue. I should call my editor and explain. I should do anything except agree to his ridiculous terms. But there's something in his eyes—a guarded pain I don't understand—that stops me.
"Fine. Two days." I extend my hand, professional mode activated. "Thank you."
He ignores my hand. "Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes later, I'm settled in his Jeep, my luggage crammed in the back, camera clutched protectively in my lap. The ancient vehicle growls to life, vibrating beneath me as we pull away from the diner. The town of Fox Ridge grows smaller in the side mirror, quaint buildings giving way to towering pines and dramatic rock faces that catch the midday light, turning stone to gold.
The drive up the mountain passes in excruciating silence. Victor's Jeep crawls over roads that become progressively worse, until they're barely more than rutted trails. Dust billows around us, seeping through the vents and coating my tongue with grit. The air grows thinner, crisper, as we climb higher into wilderness so pristine it makes my photographer's heart ache. I try twice to make conversation.
"So, you've lived up here how long now?" The words fall into the space between us, landing with all the grace of dropped stones.
Grunt. The sound vibrates from somewhere deep in his chest.
Twenty minutes later, as we round a bend that reveals a valley of such staggering beauty I almost gasp—emerald pines spilling down slopes to a ribbon of silver water far below: "Beautiful country. The light is amazing for photography."
"Don't take pictures of me."
I nearly choke. "I wasn't—"
"You were. I saw you angle your phone when we hit the switchback."
Busted. I was, in fact, trying to capture his profile against the mountain backdrop. It was a good shot—the hard lines of his face echoing the rugged terrain, the silver in his beard catching sunlight like threads of starlight. Sue me for doing my job.
"It's just habit," I mutter. "Documenting things."
