Page 5 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

Max tilts his head, those soulful brown eyes seemingly in agreement.

"But that eagle," I continue, glancing at the magnificent bird, "she's why we're here. And she's got a fighting chance now."

I busy myself cleaning up the medical supplies, organizing everything for the evening treatment. Jack Mercer's treatment room is surprisingly well-equipped—professional-grade and meticulously maintained. Like everything else I've seen of this sanctuary, it reflects planning and attention to detail.

Yet the man himself remains a stark contrast to his environment—closed where the sanctuary is open, guarded where these spaces feel welcoming. The tension in his jaw when I mentioned staying, the way he creates physical distance at every opportunity... it's clear that Jack Mercer prefers his isolation.

"Well, tough luck," I murmur to myself. "That eagle needs consistent care."

Once everything is in order, I gather my overnight bag from the car and locate the north cabin Jack mentioned. It's a charming structure, smaller than the main lodge but built with the same attention to craftsmanship. Inside, the space is immaculate—a main room with a small kitchen, a bedroom with a handmade quilt on the bed, and a surprisingly modern bathroom. The furnishings are simple but beautiful, each piece obviously handcrafted.

I run my fingers along the smooth edge of a small side table, admiring the grain of the wood and the subtle carved detail of pine branches along its border. The same artistic hand that created the eagle marker on the road has touched everything here.

"He's full of contradictions, Max," I say as my companion explores the cabin, sniffing at each corner. "All this beauty created by someone who can barely maintain eye contact."

After settling in, I unpack the few supplies I brought and change into fresh clothes—jeans and a light sweater, still professional but more comfortable for the sanctuary environment. My stomach reminds me that breakfast was a hasty granola bar at 5 AM, so I investigate the kitchen. True to Jack's word, it's stocked with basics—coffee, tea, some fruit in a wooden bowl, bread, and simple sandwich fixings in the small refrigerator.

I make a quick sandwich and pour myself a glass of water, then step onto the cabin's small porch to eat. The view is spectacular—an expansive look across the valley with mountains rising in the distance. The air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and something floral I can't identify. Despite the tension withJack, I can understand why someone would choose this place for sanctuary.

As I eat, I observe the property. Beyond the main lodge and the treatment facility I've already seen, there appear to be several specialized habitats. I spot the deer enclosure Jack headed toward, and what looks like a large aviary structure farther back. Near the edge of the clearing, a small greenhouse catches the midday sun. Everything is connected by well-maintained gravel paths, the whole setup designed to maximize efficiency while providing natural environments for the animals.

My professional curiosity is definitely piqued. A sanctuary this sophisticated in such a remote location represents significant investment—of money, certainly, but more importantly, of time and passion. Yet the man behind it all seems determined to keep that passion hidden beneath layers of gruff detachment.

"Time for a little reconnaissance," I tell Max, finishing my sandwich. "Let's see what Jack Mercer is really doing up here."

We follow one of the paths away from the cabin, Max trotting happily at my heel. I'm careful to stay on the designated walkways, respecting that this is, first and foremost, a wildlife refuge. As we approach the deer enclosure, I slow our pace, not wanting to startle the animals—or their caretaker, if he's still there.

The enclosure is larger than it first appeared, with a natural woodland habitat and a clear spring-fed stream running through it. Inside, three deer—two does and what appears to be a yearling buck with small velvet-covered antlers—graze peacefully. What catches my attention, however, is Jack. He's inside the enclosure, kneeling beside the younger buck, examining something on its hind leg.

I stop at a respectful distance, but Max's movement must catch Jack's attention. His head snaps up, that ever-present vigilance immediately engaged. When he recognizes me, his expression shifts from alert to guarded.

"Sorry," I call softly, not wanting to disturb the deer. "Just exploring a bit. Should I come back later?"

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "It's fine. I'm almost done."

I watch as he gently palpates the young buck's leg, his touch surprisingly delicate for such large hands. The deer stands calmly, apparently accustomed to Jack. With a final check, Jack stands and steps away, giving the animal space. The buck rejoins the does, showing only the slightest hint of a limp.

He exits the enclosure through a small gate, latching it behind him. Up close, I notice a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool breeze.

"What happened to him?" I ask, nodding toward the buck.

"Caught in illegal wire snare about a month ago," Jack answers, his voice tight with anger. "Some hunters trespassing on the east ridge. The wire cut nearly to the bone."

"But you saved him," I observe.

A slight shrug. "He saved himself by not giving up. I just provided antibiotics and a safe place to heal."

There's something in the way he phrases this—the emphasis on the deer's own resilience rather than taking credit for the rescue—that feels revealing. Before I can follow that thread, Jack gestures toward the path leading deeper into the sanctuary.

"Since you're here, I might as well show you around. You should know the layout in case of emergency."

It's a practical justification for what is essentially a tour, but I accept it. "I'd appreciate that."

We walk side by side along the path, though Jack maintains some distance. Max stays slightly ahead, occasionally looking back as if making sure we're following.

"How long have you had him?" Jack asks unexpectedly, nodding toward Max.

"Three years," I reply, surprised by his initiative in conversation. "He was a rescue. Abandoned at a veterinary conference I was speaking at in Chicago. Nobody claimed him, and we just... connected."

---