"What the hell..." My voice is a rasp, barely audible even to my own ears.
"Welcome back." The deep voice startles me. I force my eyes fully open, wincing against the light from a nearby lamp.
He's sitting in a worn leather chair across the room, a German Shepherd curled at his feet. My rescuer. The man with the winter-sky eyes. Even through my fog of pain, I register that he's attractive in that rugged mountain-man way that's completely different from the polished ski bros I usually date.
"Where am I?" I try to sit up and immediately regret it, gasping as pain lances through my left side.
"Don't move." He rises and approaches, his movements careful, deliberate. "You've got three bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder that I had to put back, and enough bruising to win a bar fight. Plus mild hypothermia and possible concussion." He adjusts something beneath my head—a pillow. "You're at my cabin. Roads to town are blocked by the same storm system that triggered the avalanche."
The avalanche. Fragments of memory flash through my mind: the exhilaration of fresh powder, the terrible sound of snow shifting, the crushing weight as I was buried. A shudder runs through me.
"I'm Rhett Sullivan. Search and Rescue." He hands me a glass of water, supporting my head as I sip. "And you're Jade Wilson, ski instructor at Darkmore Resort who apparently doesn't understand what 'closed terrain' means."
The disapproval in his voice stings worse than my injuries. There's no sympathy there, just clinical assessment and judgment.
"How do you know my name?" My voice sounds pathetic even to me.
"Resort ID in your jacket. Plus, Carlson from the resort identified you when I radioed in. He wasn't surprised." Rhett sets the water down and checks my pulse, his fingers warm against my wrist.
"Is he mad?" I ask, knowing the answer.
"Mad? No." Rhett's eyes meet mine directly. "Worried. Disappointed. Probably reconsidering his hiring decisions."
"Ouch. Tell me how you really feel." I attempt a smirk but it probably looks more like a grimace.
"You want honesty? Fine. You're lucky to be alive. If Aspen hadn't caught your scent—" he gestures to the dog, who perks upat the mention of her name, "—you'd be a recovery, not a rescue. And I'd be digging out your frozen corpse in spring."
His bluntness is like a slap. I've been reprimanded for going off-trail before, but never by someone who had to risk their life to save me from my own stupidity.
I swallow hard. "Thank you. For saving me."
Something in his expression shifts slightly. "Just doing my job."
"Your job is risking your life for idiots like me?"
"My job is mountain safety. Sometimes that includes rescuing people who should know better." He stands and moves across the room, and I notice for the first time the slight irregularity in his gait.
As he reaches for something on a shelf, his pant leg rides up slightly, revealing a glimpse of metal and carbon fiber where flesh should be. A prosthetic leg. The realization hits me like another avalanche.
He turns back and catches me staring. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing, just brings over a medical kit and begins checking the bandage on my shoulder.
"I really am sorry," I whisper, embarrassment flooding through me. This man lost his leg, probably in these same mountains, and here I am, creating exactly the kind of situation he warns people about.
"Save your energy," he says, but his tone is marginally softer. "A doctor is on standby via radio if we need, but the roads won't be clear until tomorrow at the earliest."
For the first time, I take in my surroundings. The cabin is small but well-organized. A main room with a stone fireplace, kitchen area to one side, doors leading to what I assume are bedroom and bathroom. Large windows face the mountain. We could be miles from civilization.
"Where exactly are we?"
"North ridge service road. It's a SAR outpost I converted to living quarters." He reapplies a salve to the bruises on my arm. "I'm stationed here during the winter season."
"You live alone up here?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
"Me and Aspen. We prefer it." The dog wags her tail at the mention of her name. "Fewer people asking stupid questions."
"I don't know if you've noticed, but your bedside manner could use some work." I'm aiming for lighthearted, but it comes out weaker than I intended.
He smirks. “I leave that to the medical professionals. I just haul people out of trouble."
