Page 35 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
The first fat raindrops begin to fall as we hurry along a narrow trail I wouldn't have noticed without Noah's guidance. The path descends slightly before cutting across the face of the ridge, offering less protection from the elements.
Within minutes, the rain becomes a deluge. Wind-driven sheets of water reduce visibility to mere feet. My light hiking jacket provides minimal protection, and soon I'm soaked through, cold water running down my neck and back.
A sharp crack of thunder directly overhead makes me flinch. Lightning illuminates the mountainside in stark relief, too close for comfort.
"Almost there," Noah shouts over the storm's roar, his hand finding mine to guide me along an increasingly slippery section of trail.
The shelter cabin appears so suddenly that it seems like a mirage—a small, sturdy structure nestled against the mountainside, nearly invisible against the granite backdrop.Noah fumbles with the simple lock mechanism, then pulls the door open, ushering me inside just as hail begins to pelt down.
The interior is dark until Noah locates and lights a lantern hanging near the door. The small flame illuminates a space that can generously be called rustic—perhaps ten feet square, with a narrow cot against one wall, a tiny woodstove, and shelves holding basic emergency supplies.
“One of Jackson Hart's shelter cabins,” Noah explains, water streaming from his hair and clothing onto the rough plank floor. "He maintains several of these along the more remote trails. Basic survival setup."
"Thank God for Jackson Hart," I say through chattering teeth, my body registering the cold now that we've stopped moving.
Noah moves efficiently, checking the woodstove and finding it stocked with dry kindling and split logs. "First priority is getting warm and dry. That rain's near freezing."
Within minutes, he has a small fire crackling in the stove. Its heat feels miraculous against my chilled skin, but my soaked clothing negates much of the benefit.
"You need to get out of those wet clothes." Noah rummages through a storage trunk, pulling out what appears to be emergency supplies. "Hypothermia's no joke at this elevation."
He produces two foil emergency blankets, a few thin towels, and what appear to be hospital scrubs. "Hart keeps the basics in all the shelters. Not exactly fashion-forward, but dry."
The practicality of the situation doesn't diminish its awkwardness. The cabin is tiny, with no separate space for privacy. Noah seems to realize this at the same moment I do. Without a word, he turns his back to me, giving me the privacy I need to change.
As I watch him, I can't help but feel a sense of irony. It's almost comical that he's being such a gentleman now, turninghis back to give me privacy. After all, this is the man who has seen every inch of me, who has kissed, licked, tortured, and fucked every part of me.
But that was ten years ago, and if anything's true, it's that things have changed.
I peel off my sodden jacket, fleece, and top, using one of the towels to dry off as quickly as possible before pulling on the scrub top. It's thin but blessedly dry. The hiking pants are more problematic—completely soaked and clinging to my legs like a second skin.
I struggle out of the wet fabric. Despite the tension between us, there's a certain comfort in this moment, a sense of shared history that makes the awkwardness bearable. I can't help but appreciate Noah’s gesture of respect, a small act of kindness that speaks volumes about the man he's become.
I towel off my legs and pull on the scrub pants, which hang loose but at least provide coverage. "Okay, decent. Your turn."
We execute an awkward dance of position switching, me facing the rough-hewn wall while Noah changes behind me. I'm acutely aware of every rustle of fabric, every soft curse as he navigates out of his wet clothing in the confined space. My imagination provides unwelcome but vivid images of what's happening just a few feet away.
"All clear," he says finally.
I turn to find him in similar scrubs, his hair damp and tousled, feet bare like mine. The sight of Noah Morgan—professional, authoritative Fire Chief Noah Morgan—in baggy blue hospital scrubs shouldn't be attractive, but somehow it is.
Disarmingly so.
He hangs our wet clothes on a rope line strung near the stove, arranging them for maximum drying effect. I wrap one of the foil blankets around my shoulders, trying to stop the occasional shivers running through me.
"Storms like this usually pass quickly," Noah says, checking his radio. "But the trail will be dangerous for a few hours after. We're probably here until morning."
The reality of our situation settles over me—a full night alone in this tiny cabin with the man I've been trying not to fall for again. One small cot, minimal supplies, and nowhere to escape the growing tension between us.
"I should let someone know.” I reach for my phone. "Mabel will worry."
"No service up here." Noah holds up his own phone, showing the no-signal indicator. "But don't worry—this is standard procedure in mountain rescue. They'll check the shelters when we don't report back by the scheduled time. They know where we are."
"You told someone we were coming here?" I wrap the blanket tighter.
"Always file a route plan before heading into the backcountry. Basic safety." He opens a cabinet, examining the contents. "Looks like we've got some emergency rations. Protein bars, dried fruit, water purification tablets."
"Gourmet dining at its finest," I joke, trying to lighten the atmosphere that grows more charged by the minute.
