Page 25 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

Jack chuckles, "The child gates are secure, Dr. Mercer. I triple-checked them myself."

Dr. Mercer. The name still gives me a little thrill, even after two years of marriage.

"The Australian group arrives tomorrow," I remind him, though I know he's well aware. "Are you ready?"

I feel rather than see his slight tension at the mention of our visitors. Even after three years and multiple successful consultations, Jack still finds these professional intrusions challenging. But he's trying—for the sanctuary, for our research, for me.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he says, his tone wry but not resistant. "Peters has the guest cabins prepared, and I finalized the tour schedule this morning."

David Peters, our sanctuary manager hired last year when the operation grew beyond what Jack and I could handle alone, has been a godsend. His background in wildlife management and unflappable demeanor make him the perfect buffer between Jack's occasional need for solitude and the increasing demands on the sanctuary.

"You don't have to lead all the tours," I remind Jack gently. "David can handle the general overview. You only need to step in for the specialized rehabilitation techniques they're specifically coming to learn."

Jack nods, his chin resting on top of my head. "I know. I'm getting better at delegation."

"You are," I agree, turning in his arms to face him. "Much better."

The changes in Jack over these three years have been both subtle and profound. The permanent tension he once carried has eased, though not disappeared entirely. He still has difficult days—nightmares that leave him silent and distant, moments when a sudden noise sends him into hypervigilance. But they're less frequent now, and he's learned to communicate when he needs space rather than simply retreating behind emotional walls.

Across the yard, Ella plops down beside Max, her chubby hands patting his side with uncoordinated affection. Our daughter has her father's startling blue eyes and my dark hair, a combination that draws comments wherever we go. Her arrival eighteen months ago marked another turning point in Jack's healing. The fierce protectiveness and tender love he shows her revealing depths of emotion he once kept rigidly contained.

"The journal wants final revisions by next week," I mention, thinking of our latest research publication. The fourth in aseries documenting the sanctuary's innovative rehabilitation techniques. "I can handle it if you want to focus on the visitors."

Jack shakes his head. "We'll do it together tonight after Ella's asleep. Your clinical perspective balances my practical experience."

This collaborative approach to our research has become our professional signature. The Nicole-Mercer Methodology, as it's now known in wildlife rehabilitation circles, combines Jack's intuitive understanding of animal behavior and rehabilitation engineering with my veterinary expertise.

What began as a single case study on our eagle has evolved into a comprehensive approach that's being implemented in wildlife centers across three continents.

Hence tomorrow's Australian visitors, the fifth international consultation this year alone.

"Did you ever imagine this?" I ask, gesturing toward the expanded sanctuary around us. "When you built this place, did you ever think it would become a model for rehabilitation centers worldwide?"

Jack follows my gaze, taking in the specialized facilities that have grown from his original designs.

"Never," he admits quietly. "This was meant to be... penance. Isolation. Not legacy."

I reach up to touch his face, tracing the lines that have softened somewhat with time. "And now?"

His eyes, clear and present in a way they weren't when we first met, meet mine steadily. "Now it's something else entirely. Something better."

"Dada!" Ella's voice interrupts our moment as she pushes herself up and totters toward us with determination, Max following protectively at her heels.

Jack immediately bends to scoop her up, his large hands gentle as he settles her on his hip. "What's up, little eagle?" he asks, using the nickname he gave her when she was born—a reference to both her fierce personality and the bird that brought us together.

Ella babbles enthusiastically, a stream of semi-coherent sounds interspersed with the few clear words in her growing vocabulary. Jack listens with the same serious attention he gives to everything that matters, nodding as if her communication makes perfect sense.

"Is that right?" he responds, his face softening with the smile he reserves only for her. "Well, we should probably investigate that."

My heart swells watching them together. This man who once believed himself too damaged for connection now completely at ease with the purest form of love.

It hasn't always been easy. Jack still struggles with accepting the public recognition our work has brought, still prefers to let me handle most interactions with visitors. There have been challenging periods—particularly during my pregnancy, when Jack's anxiety about potential complications nearly overwhelmed him. And the first three months after Ella's birth tested us both, sleep deprivation triggering Jack's hypervigilance in ways that required patient navigation.

But through it all, we've honored our earliest promises to each other, giving space when needed, offering presence when welcomed, always seeing each other as whole despite our individual wounds.

"The eagle's being released tomorrow," Jack says, interrupting my reflections. "I thought our visitors might appreciate witnessing a successful rehabilitation outcome."

He's referring to our latest patient, a young bald eagle with a wing injury remarkably similar to our first case together. The symmetry seems fitting.

---