Chapter 3
Lilah
The morning feels frosty and smells like pine. I park at the trailhead before sunrise and keep the heat cranked up. The world is still half-asleep. My camera bag rides shotgun, seatbelted like a partner in crime. I check my lens caps twice even though I already did.
Then headlights appear in the rearview, cutting through the dark. It’s him … incredible Wade.
He steps out of his truck in a wool beanie and worn jacket. I swear the man moves like the air makes room for him with his muscular build and long legs.
“Didn’t think you’d beat me here.”
“I didn’t sleep much.” I smile. “Too excited or nervous. Maybe both.”
He nods, passes me the gloves. “Layer up. Ridge wind bites harder than it looks.”
“I’m wearing gloves … see?” I show him my hands.
Wade gives me a look like don’t argue with me this early. “You need to layer up, Lilah.”
It is too early to argue. I pull them on. They’re leather and large. Probably his. “You always this prepared?”
“Guides can’t afford surprises.” His eyes flick toward the east, where the light is breaking through the trees. “Come on. Sunrise won’t hold off for us.”
The trail rises quick and steep, the kind that wakes every muscle in your legs and your lungs too.
Wade leads without speaking much, checking back now and then to make sure I’m keeping pace.
He’s in prime physical shape still. He’s also a little wild around the edges.
But what could you expect from someone who used to parachute into wildfires for a living to save the forest?
Halfway up, I stop to catch a few shots of the valley below. Fog threads magically through spruce. My shutter clicks in a rhythm that makes me excited … like I’m actually getting some work done.
“You frame it before you even look through that thing,” Wade says behind me.
“I see it, then I take it,” I admit. “It’s not just luck.”
“I know. That’s what makes it worth looking at.”
He says it in a tone that lands somewhere deep, like a stone dropped into still water. I can’t tell if he’s talking about the photo or me, and I don’t ask.
When we crest the ridge, the whole world opens with peaks spilling toward the horizon. The morning sky spills gold over snowcaps. I notice the first elk herd moving across the flats below.
I raise my camera. “This is so perfect.”
“Got lucky,” he says softly.
“Your mountain,” I tease, “my lens.”
He chuckles, and it’s the first time I’ve heard it this morning. Warm, rough, real.
While I shoot, he lingers a few feet away, scanning the sky, gauging the weather with a guide’s intuition.
I should be focused on exposure and composition, but the way he stands there with his hands in his pockets makes me wonder.
Wade’s head is tilted slightly like he’s listening to something only he can hear.
I turn and have a sudden desire to capture his image …
because it feels like another view worth keeping.
A strong gust whips through, catching my hair that flows loose from my beanie. I reach to steady the tripod, but it shifts. Wade’s hand closes over mine — firm, sure, saving both camera and fingers.
“Careful,” he says.
The word isn’t scolding. It’s protective. Instinctive.
“I’ve got it,” I whisper, but neither of us moves right away. His glove is warm from his body heat, mine from his.
Finally, he steps back. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I blink hard, and focus on the horizon. “Just … perfect light.”
We stay until the sun clears the ridge. I pack up in silence, pretending to fuss with straps while my intrusive thoughts try to settle. When I glance up again, Wade’s looking at me, eyes reflecting a mood I can’t name.
He nods toward the slope. “Coffee back at the truck. Figured you’d need it.”
“Didn’t peg you for the kind who has a traveling coffee shop.”
“Old habit.” He gives a half-shrug. “You learn to bring warmth with you.”
I follow him down the trail, every step echoing that line. Bring warmth with you.
At the truck, he pours coffee into tin cups that look older than I am. The steam curls into the morning like a secret.
We drink in silence until I say, “You ever get tired of all this?”
He glances at the mountains. “You don’t get tired of something that keeps teaching you.”
I twirl that response around in my mind and take another sip. “Then maybe I’m here to learn.”
His mouth curves just slightly. “Maybe you are.”
A crow cuts across the pale sky, and the first flakes of snow drift through the air, early and unexpected. Wade catches one on his glove and looks up, as if surprised the season had the nerve to begin right in front of us.
“Guess the mountain’s ready for change,” he says.
I lower my cup. “Maybe we both are.”