Page 28 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

"You want this job," she said, not a question but a confident assessment. "I can hear it in your voice."

"It's not that simple."

"Actually, it is." Her tone grew softer. "What's really holding you back, Mack?"

The question penetrated defenses I hadn't realized I'd erected. What was stopping me? Pride? Fear? The comfortable familiarity of my routine?

"What if I can't do it?" The admission emerged barely above a whisper. "What if I'm not...fixed enough for this?"

Her silence lasted long enough that I feared we'd lost connection. Then: "You don't need to befixed,Mack. There’s no such thing, anyway. You just need to be willing to do your best."

The simple truth of her statement settled over me like a blanket. Not dismissing my concerns, not pretending the challenges didn't exist, but acknowledging them without allowing them to become insurmountable barriers.

"I miss you," I said, the words escaping before I could reconsider.

"I miss you too." The emotion in her voice matched the ache in my chest. "Two more weeks. The manuscript's almost done, just final edits left. Then promotional appearances, and I'm coming back for my car...and for you."

"For me," I echoed, still not entirely convinced someone like Brynn could choose someone like me.

"For you," she confirmed. "So maybe have something to show me when I return? Like a new job you're excited about?"

I smiled despite myself. "Subtle."

"I never claimed subtlety as a strength." Her laugh eased some tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. "Just promise you'll consider it? Really consider it?"

"I promise."

The following morning, I called Mrs. Lindstrom and accepted the position.

Ian's reaction when I told him bordered on evangelical fervor. "About damn time, bro," he declared over beers at his place while Scout and his Lab mix played in the fenced backyard. "Knew you'd come around eventually."

"Don't make it a bigger deal than it is," I warned, uncomfortable with his enthusiasm. "It's just a job."

"It's a start," he countered. "A good one."

That night, for the first time since Brynn's departure, I slept without dreams of desert sand or mountain ditches. Instead, my unconscious mind filled with apple trees and irrigation systems, practical problems with practical solutions.

I started the following Monday. Mrs. Lindstrom introduced me to the small year-round staff with minimal fuss, emphasized my military background and flood contribution, then left me to establish my own working relationships. By day's end, I'd reorganized the equipment maintenance schedule, inspected the recently repaired levee system, and begun drafting emergency procedures for various potential crises.

It felt good. Useful. Purposeful.

The days developed a rhythm I hadn't experienced since leaving the service. Each morning brought concrete challenges requiring specific solutions. Each evening I returned to the cabin pleasantly tired rather than restlessly empty. Scout adapted to the routine with characteristic flexibility, enjoying the expansive orchard grounds and the attention of staff who slipped him apple slices when they thought I wasn't looking.

Two weeks stretched into three. Brynn's calls remained consistent, though sometimes abbreviated as her publication deadline approached. Her manuscript was complete, she explained, but her promotional schedule had expanded beyond initial expectations.

"Just a few more days," she promised, disappointment evident in her voice. "The New York signing was added last minute. I can't skip it."

"I understand," I assured her, surprised to discover I genuinely did. Her career mattered—to her, but increasingly to me as well. I wanted her success as much as I wanted her return.

"How's the job?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Good." I surprised myself with the simple honesty of the response. "Really good, actually. Mrs. Lindstrom—er, Harriet as she insists I call her now—is letting me implement some security upgrades I suggested. The staff seems to be accepting my presence."

"Of course they are," she said with such certainty that I almost believed her. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."

Maybe she was right. The thought occurred with increasing frequency as spring edged toward summer, as I settled more comfortably into my role at Lindstrom Orchards. The job suited me in ways I hadn't anticipated—the blend of physical labor and strategic planning, the clear chain of command with Harriet at the top, the satisfaction of visible improvements under my supervision.

For the first time since returning from Afghanistan, I felt necessary. Not just tolerated or accommodated, but genuinely needed for skills only I could provide.

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