Page 13 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

And I wonder if Jack Mercer has ever allowed anyone to help mend his own wounds, or if he's been trying to heal himself, alone on this mountain, one broken creature at a time.

Next Morning

A rustle outside the cabin window startles me awake. Max is already alert, standing by the bed, his body tense but not alarmed. I blink at my phone display: 6:37 AM. Still dark.

The sound comes again. Movement near the cabin. It doesn’t sound random, so probably not an animal.

I slip out of bed and move to the window, careful to stay to the side where I won't be visible. In the predawn light, I can make out a figure moving along the path toward the forest edge. Jack, carrying what looks like a small container.

Curious, I quickly pull on my clothes and boots. "What do you think, Max? Should we investigate?"

His wagging tail answers for him. Ever the adventurer, my dog.

We exit the cabin quietly, the crisp air raising goosebumps on my skin. There's enough light to navigate by, the sky beginning to lighten with the earliest suggestion of dawn. I follow the path Jack took, Max trotting ahead with his nose to the ground.

The trail leads into the forest, winding between tall pines. I hesitate briefly—this isn't my property to wander—but professional curiosity wins out. If Jack is tending to wildlife at this hour, it could be relevant to our case.

That's what I tell myself, at least.

About a quarter-mile in, the path opens to a small clearing. I stop at the edge, suddenly unsure about intruding. Jack is there, kneeling beside what appears to be a small, natural spring. The container he carried sits nearby, and I realize it holds food. Seeds and berries, from what I can see.

But it's not the food that captures my attention. It's Jack himself, and the small creature approaching him.

A fox, russet-colored and slender, steps cautiously into the clearing. Unlike the injured fox I saw in the sanctuary enclosure, this one moves quickly, clearly wild and unharmed. It approaches Jack with the wariness of a wild animal, but without fear, stopping a few feet away.

Jack remains perfectly still, his posture relaxed, patient. He speaks softly, the words indistinct from where I stand but the gentle tone unmistakable. The fox listens, head tilted, before moving closer to investigate the offered food.

For several minutes, man and fox share the clearing, neither attempting to breach the natural distance between them but coexisting in what appears to be a routine both understand. Jack doesn't try to touch the animal or tame it. He simply provides the food and his quiet presence.

It's a side of him I wouldn't have imagined. This patient communion with a wild creature under no obligation to trust him. There's something deeply intimate about the scene, and I suddenly feel like an interloper witnessing something not meant for others to see.

I start to back away quietly, but Max shifts beside me, a twig snapping under his paw. The fox's head jerks up, instantly alert. It locks eyes with me for a split second before vanishing into the underbrush in a flash of russet fur.

Jack turns sharply, his body language transforming from open peacefulness to defensive alertness in an instant. When he recognizes me, his expression hardens.

"Sorry," I call softly, stepping into the clearing. "I saw you from my window and was curious."

"So, you followed me." His voice is flat, the openness I glimpsed completely gone.

"Professional interest," I offer, though the excuse sounds thin even to my ears. "I thought you might be checking on another patient."

Jack stands, collecting the now-empty container. "She's not a patient. She's wild. Free. That's the point."

I nod, understanding more than he might realize. "A relationship on her terms. No captivity, no obligation. How long have you been feeding her?"

Jack hesitates, as if weighing whether to engage or dismiss me. Finally, he says, "Two years. She was part of a litter born near the property line. The mother was killed by coyotes. I rehabilitated the kits but released them once they were old enough."

"And she returned," I finish, smiling slightly. "That's rare. You must have done an excellent job with the rehabilitation."

He shrugs, but I catch a glimpse of what might be pride before his expression returns to neutral. "She remembers where food was reliable. Nothing more significant than that."

I'm not so sure, but I don't argue. Instead, I ask, "Do you have many success stories like hers? Former patients who thrive after release?"

The question seems to ease his tension slightly. "Some. Depends on the species, the extent of injury, how young they were when they came to me." He gestures toward the path. "We should head back. The eagle will need checking soon."

I fall into step beside him, Max trailing slightly behind. The forest is coming alive with morning sounds—birds beginning their dawn chorus, small creatures rustling in the underbrush.

"How many have you released successfully?" I ask, genuinely curious about his track record.

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