Page 6 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

Jack nods but doesn't respond further. His question seems to have used up his conversational quota for the moment.

"The sanctuary is impressive," I offer after a brief silence. "How many animals do you usually care for at once?"

"Depends on the season. Currently seventeen permanent residents and five in rehabilitation." He points toward a series of connected enclosures. "Small mammals there—mostly raccoons and squirrels right now. One fox with a healed spinal injury that can't be released."

As we continue, Jack provides brief explanations of each habitat and its occupants. His descriptions are concise but thorough, focusing on medical conditions and care requirements rather than personalities or names. It's clinical, yet I notice how his voice softens almost imperceptibly when discussing particularly difficult cases.

We pass the aviary, which houses several birds of prey that, like our eagle patient, have suffered wing injuries preventing full release. Jack demonstrates how the feeding stations and medicalaccess points work, his explanations becoming more detailed when discussing technical aspects of care.

"You've thought of everything," I comment as he shows me a specialized feeding system for birds that can't grasp naturally.

"Trial and error," he replies with another of those minimal shrugs. "Each injury presents unique challenges."

"Speaking from experience helps," I suggest carefully, watching for his reaction.

His jaw tightens, and his right hand moves unconsciously toward his left arm where I'd glimpsed scarring earlier.

"Medical training helps," he corrects, deliberately misinterpreting my comment.

I don't press the issue. Professional distance, I remind myself. I'm here for the eagle, not to unravel the mystery of Jack Mercer, regardless of how intriguing that mystery might be.

We complete our circuit at the greenhouse, which turns out to be part garden, part natural pharmacy. Rows of medicinal plants grow in organized sections, labeled with both common and scientific names.

"You grow your own medicine?" I ask, genuinely impressed as I recognize echinacea, yarrow, and several other plants with known veterinary applications.

"When possible," Jack confirms. "Reduces dependency on supply chains that can be interrupted. The animals don't stop needing care because a delivery truck can't make it up the mountain."

That military background showing again—planning for contingencies, establishing self-sufficiency. I wonder what scenarios Jack has lived through that make such preparation second nature.

"The eagle will need specialized antibiotics," I note. "Plant-based won't be sufficient for that infection."

"I'm aware," he says, and for the first time, a hint of dryness enters his tone. "I maintain a full pharmaceutical inventory in the treatment room. Your prescribed medications are already stocked."

I raise an eyebrow. "Impressive for a private sanctuary."

"You said that earlier."

"It bears repeating." I meet his gaze directly, and for a moment, something flickers in those blue eyes—something less guarded, almost vulnerable—before the shutters come down again.

He checks his watch. "It's nearly two. I need to prepare food for the nocturnal residents before they wake. The eagle should be coming out of sedation soon. You'll want to be there to monitor."

Just like that, the professional wall is back in place. I nod, accepting the dismissal for what it is. "I'll head back now. Thank you for the tour."

He gives a curt nod and turns toward a small outbuilding I assume is used for food preparation. I watch him go, struck again by the contradiction of this man—capable of such gentleness with injured creatures yet so determined to keep human connection at bay.

"Come on, Max," I say, turning back toward the lodge. "We've got an eagle to check on."

As we walk, I find myself thinking about the scars Jack keeps covered. In my years of veterinary work, I've seen countless injuries, and the physical damage that trauma leaves behind. But I've also seen how animals adapt, how they find new ways to function, to thrive despite their scars.

Humans, though... we tend to wear our scars differently. Sometimes as badges of honor, sometimes as shields, sometimes as reasons to hide.

I wonder which Jack's are for him.

Chapter 4 - Jack

I'm chopping carrots with more force than necessary, the steady rhythm of knife against cutting board usually calming. Today, it isn't working.

The Doctor. Nicole, as she insists, has thrown a wrench into the calibrated machinery of my life. Not just by her presence, but by her observations. The way she looks at things. At me.

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