Page 7 of Saved By the Mountain Man Ranger

"What did you expect?"

"A guy who grunts and points at the trail."

"Give me time."

That almost smile again. Closer to real this time. It changes her whole face. Opens it up. Softens the determined set of her jaw into something that makes my ribs ache.

By late afternoon, the light is gone. The storm has turned the windows into walls of white. Inside the cabin, the woodstove casts everything in amber. Shadows pool in the corners. The space feels smaller as darkness pushes in.

She's at the table still, but the files are closed now. She's writing in her notebook. Not research notes. Something personal. Her handwriting has changed. Looser. Bigger. Like she's thinking on the page instead of recording facts.

I bring her a fresh mug of tea. Set it beside her notebook. Her fingers brush mine when she reaches for it.

Neither of us pulls away.

"Thank you," she says. Quiet.

"For the tea?"

"For answering my questions. Most people in uniform treat cold case families like nuisances. Mrs. Farrell told me the last ranger she spoke to before you suggested she 'find closure.' You never said that to her."

"Closure is something people invented so they could stop feeling guilty about giving up."

She stands. The chair scrapes against the floor. We're close now. The kitchen is too small for two people who aren't trying to be close, which means there's no pretending this is accidental.

Her face is tilted up toward mine. Six inches between us. Maybe less. She smells like cocoa butter and my soap because she used it this morning. The combination does something devastating to my ability to think clearly.

"Weston."

My name in her mouth. Low. Deliberate. Like she's been turning it over in her mind all day, deciding whether to use it.

"You should go to bed." My voice comes out rough. Too rough.

"It's five thirty."

"Then you should go read."

"I don't have anything to read. My laptop's in the car, remember?"

"I have books."

"You're deflecting."

"Yes."

Her chin lifts. Challenge. Patience. This woman doesn't flinch. She walks into mountains she doesn't understand, chases ghosts nobody else cares about, and stands in a stranger's kitchen wearing his flannel, looking up at him like he's a puzzle she's going to solve whether he cooperates or not.

My hand moves before my brain gives permission. Thumb along her jaw. Her skin is warm now. Soft. The pad of my thumb traces the line of her cheekbone, and her breath catches.

"This is a bad idea," I tell her.

"Probably."

"I don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Any of it."