"Most writers who come here probably aren't still alive after filing from a Category 4 cyclone in the Bay of Bengal." I stand and brush the gravel from my knees. "I'm not here for the scenery, Cory. I mean, I'll take the scenery, it's stunning. But I'm here for the operation. How it works. Why it works. What makes this particular program different from every other 'tough guy teaches camping' outfit marketing itself on Instagram."
He uncrosses his arms. Not softening exactly, but shifting. "What did Rhea tell you about me?"
"That you're the best cold-weather specialist she ever worked adjacent to. That your program has a zero-incident record in three years of operation. And that you'd rather eat a pine cone than sit for an interview, so I should get my material through observation, not interrogation."
His mouth does something. Not a smile. Not even close. But the tension around his jaw loosens by a fraction, which on this man might as well be a standing ovation.
"Smart woman, Rhea."
"She's terrifying, is what she is. In the best possible way."
Almost. I almost get something resembling amusement out of him. His eyes warm by one degree and I feel it all the way down to my boots.
"Tomorrow I'm taking the Denver group through water purification and basic navigation," he says. "If you want to observe, you're welcome. But you gear up like everyone else. Full pack, full safety protocol. No shortcuts because you've climbed in Nepal."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"And tonight at dinner, I'll answer three questions. Three. Choose them well."
He turns and walks toward the lodge, and I watch him go for the second time today, which is becoming a habit I need to examine.
Three questions. He's rationing information like it's water in the desert. Like every word he gives me costs him something.
This man is locked up so tight that a crowbar couldn't pry him open. Every wall is reinforced, every entrance guarded. He's built his entire life around control and preparation and the absolute certainty that if he stays disciplined enough, nothing will get through.
I've spent my whole life getting through. Getting into places I'm not supposed to be. Getting stories out of people who swore they'd never talk. Getting past borders and barriers and bureaucracies with nothing but persistence and the honest belief that every human being wants to be seen if you just give them a safe enough place to show themselves.
Cory Matthews is the most fortified man I've ever met.
I'm going to find every crack in those walls.
Not for the article. I mean yes, for the article. That's why I'm here. That's the job. But something happened in that parking lot when I took his hand and looked into those frozen blue eyes and saw, beneath the ice, something burning. Something that recognized me before his brain had time to throw up defenses.
He felt it too. I know he did, because he walked away. Men who feel nothing don't retreat.
I head back to Cabin Four to prep my questions. Three chances. I need to make them count.
My phone buzzes on the desk where I left it. I check, expecting Rhea or my editor.
Channel 16 group chat:Who's got eyes on the NOAA alert? System's upgraded. Heavy snow above 8K starting tomorrow afternoon, not tomorrow night. Could be 18-24 inches.
Then another message from someone tagged "Rhea":Shelby, you seeing this? Your window just got shorter.
I pull up the weather data on my laptop, waiting through thirty seconds of satellite lag before it loads. The system that was supposed to arrive tomorrow night has accelerated. Current projections show heavy snowfall beginning midafternoon tomorrow, with accumulation potential of up to two feet at Mountain Ready's elevation.
Two feet of snow means the access road becomes impassable. Which means I either leave tomorrow morning with half an article and no real story, or I stay and ride out the storm with the man who just rationed me three questions like they were classified intelligence.
I type back to Rhea:I'm staying.
Her response:Figured. Be safe. And Shelby? He's worth the story. Trust me.
I set the phone down and stare at the mountains through the cabin window. The western sky is darkening earlier than it should, the steel gray from this morning thickening into something serious.
A blizzard is coming. I'm about to be trapped on a mountain with a former Navy SEAL who looks at me like I'm the most dangerous thing in his territory.
I pull out my notebook and uncap my pen.
Three questions. I need to choose them carefully, because if I'm going to be snowed in with Cory Matthews, I want to know exactly what I'm trapped with.
And underneath the professional calculation, underneath the reporter's instinct and the strategic planning, there's somethingelse. Something warm and inconvenient that started the second his rough hand closed around mine.
I want to be trapped with him. And that terrifies me more than the storm.
