But Tyler Rawlings' mother cared about him. And I was the one who called her.
My phone buzzes again. I check it expecting Logan with another lecture about hospitality.
It's from an unknown number:Hi, this is Shelby Cruise from Altitude Magazine. I'm about two hours out. Rhea Alvarez from Salt & Steel connected us. Looking forward to the embed. Is there anything I should know before I arrive?
Professional. Direct. No exclamation points. No emojis. That's either a good sign or a very effective mask.
I type:Bring cold weather gear rated to zero. Trail runners won't cut it, you'll need boots with ankle support. Altitude is 9,200 at base, 11,400 at the upper course. If you have altitude sickness history, disclose it now.
Her response comes in under thirty seconds:Gear is sorted. Boots are Salomon X Ultra, broken in. No altitude history. I've filed at 14,000+ in Nepal and Peru. I'll be there by 1400.
Fourteen thousand feet. Nepal and Peru. So she's not a lifestyle blogger playing dress-up.
I don't respond. She doesn't need acknowledgment. She needs to show up prepared, follow the rules, and stay out of my way.
The Denver group arrives at nine sharp and I spend the next three hours running them through fire-starting fundamentals, water purification, and basic shelter construction. They're a corporate team, eight mid-level managers from a tech company who booked the beginner package as a team-building retreat. Two of them are competent. The rest are terrified, which is appropriate. Fear keeps you alive up here.
By noon, I've got them building debris huts in the clearing behind the lodge, and Tuck is coaching the ones who can't seem to grasp that insulation needs to be three feet thick before it does anything useful. I'm correcting a guy named Trevor on his ridgepole angle when Tuck catches my eye and nods toward the access road.
A rental SUV is climbing the last switchback toward base camp. Dusty. Loaded. The driver is handling the gravel with confidence, which means she's either done mountain driving before or she's too stubborn to slow down.
I straighten up and wipe my hands on my pants.
"That's her," Tuck says, jogging over. "Want me to handle the intake?"
"No. My operation. My problem."
The SUV pulls into the gravel lot beside the lodge and the engine cuts. The driver's door opens.
And Shelby Cruise steps out.
Strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot that's already losing the fight against the wind. Blue eyes, and I meanblue, the kind that look backlit even in flat afternoon light. Freckles across the bridge of her nose like someone scattered them there on purpose. She's wearing broken-in hiking pants, a fitted base layer under an open flannel, and the Salomon bootsshe mentioned. Camera bag over one shoulder. Duffel over the other. She moves like someone who's used to carrying her own weight.
She looks up at the mountains and smiles.
Not a polite smile. Not a professional one. The kind of smile that happens when someone sees something that genuinely stuns them. Open. Unguarded. Like the landscape just told her a secret and she's delighted by it.
Something shifts in my chest. A tectonic plate I didn't know was loose.
She turns, spots me, and the smile redirects. Full wattage. Aimed directly at me.
"Cory Matthews?" She walks toward me with her hand extended. Her grip is firm, warm, and she doesn't let go a second too early or a second too late. "Shelby Cruise. I promise I'll stay out of your way."
Her voice is warm and a little raspy, like she's been singing along to the radio for the last two hours. She smells like sunscreen and something citrus and the open window of a car that's been driving through pine country.
"You won't be in my way," I say. "You'll be following my schedule, my rules, and my safety protocols. If that works for you, we'll get along fine."
Most people flinch at that. Or bristle. Or laugh nervously and try to charm their way around it.
Shelby Cruise does none of those things. She holds my gaze and those blue eyes flicker with something I can't name. Interest. Challenge. Maybe both.
"I'm very good at following instructions," she says. Then her mouth twitches at the corner like she's fighting something back. "When they're worth following."
I stare at her.
She stares at me.
The wind pushes a strand of hair across her face and she doesn't move to fix it.
I have stood in Arctic whiteouts. I have held my position in negative-forty windchill for six hours without moving. I have been trained to withstand every form of physical and psychological discomfort the United States Navy could devise.
None of it prepared me for this woman standing in my parking lot with the mountains behind her and a dare in her eyes.
"Tuck," I say, without breaking eye contact. "Show Ms. Cruise to Cabin Four."
I turn and walk away before she can say anything else. Before I can notice anything else. Before whatever just shifted in my chest has time to settle into something I recognize.
Three days. She's here for three days.
I can survive three days.
