Page 8 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"I drove him crazy sometimes." I smile at the memory. "But he was the same way. Always telling stories, making jokes. The life of every party."
"He was good at that," Victor agrees, voice gone soft. "Making people feel welcome."
"Until he wasn't." I trace a pattern in the frost on the log beside me. "After Mom left, he changed. Got angry. Started drinking more."
Victor goes very still beside me. "When was this?"
"I was eighteen. In college." The old pain surfaces, dulled by time but never completely gone. "They split right after Christmas. Dad never really recovered."
I can feel Victor's eyes on me, but I keep my gaze on the wildflowers, shimmering as the breeze moves through them.
"He died two years ago," I continue. "Heart attack. They said it was quick, at least."
"Jade, I—" Victor's voice breaks. "I didn't know."
"How could you? You two weren't speaking." I finally look at him. His face is a mask of shock and grief. "I tried to find you, actually. For the funeral. But you were off the grid by then."
"I was on a remote expedition in the backcountry," he says quietly. "No phone service for almost a year."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of shared history between us.
"He talked about you, you know," I say finally. "Even after whatever happened between you. He'd see something on TV about survival skills and say, 'Victor would do it better.'"
Victor looks away, his profile sharp against the morning light. "We had a falling out. About his drinking, actually."
"I figured it was something like that." I hesitate, then add, "He didn't blame you. For what it's worth."
"He should have."
The simple statement holds so much pain that I instinctively reach out, my hand hovering near his before I think better of it and pull back.
"Tell me something good about him," I say instead.
Victor is quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then: "Yosemite, summer of '99, just before your mom got pregnant. We were climbing Half Dome. Got caught in a thunderstormhalfway up. Had to shelter on a narrow ledge for three hours." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Your dad told the worst jokes I've ever heard, one after another, until we were both laughing so hard we almost fell off the mountain."
The image hits me with unexpected force—my father young and strong, laughing in the face of danger. My throat tightens, and to my horror, tears well up.
"Sorry," I mutter, wiping at my eyes. "I don't usually—"
"Don't apologize." Victor's voice is gentle. "He was worth missing."
A tear escapes, tracking down my cheek. Before I can brush it away, Victor's thumb does it for me—a brief, whisper-soft touch that stops my breath.
"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm thanking him for the story or the gesture or just for being here, solid and real, when memories threaten to pull me under.
He nods once, dropping his hand. We sit in silence as the sun rises fully, warming the glade and burning off the last of the mist.
"I should get more shots before the light changes," I say eventually, standing.
Victor rises too, stretching his long frame. "Take your time."
I work for another twenty minutes, capturing the glade from every angle. But something else has caught my attention—Victor, standing at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, watching the wilderness with a quiet intensity that makes my fingers itch.
"Can I take your portrait?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He frowns. "No."
"Why not?"
