Page 12 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

"The eagle should sleep through till morning now. Next treatment at nine, right?"

It's a dismissal, but a gentler one than I've received previously. I accept it with a nod of my own.

"Goodnight, Jack. Again." I offer a small smile. "See you at nine."

I turn to leave, Max falling into step beside me. At the door, Jack's voice stops me.

"Afghanistan. Then Syria."

I turn back, finding him still standing by the eagle's enclosure, his posture rigid but his eyes meeting mine steadily.

"IED on a routine patrol outside Kandahar. The second time was a building collapse during an extraction operation near Aleppo." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "Since you're not going to ask."

I understand immediately what he's giving me—not the full story, but enough to silence the questions he assumes I must have. Enough to explain the scars, his isolation, perhaps even the sanctuary itself.

"Thank you for telling me," I say. "It can't be easy to talk about."

"It's not," he confirms. "Which is why I don't."

I nod, accepting this boundary. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said about your hands being gentle. Some things can't be taught, Jack. Some people just have a natural ability to heal."

He looks away then, his profile sharp in the treatment room's light. "Ironic, considering."

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implications I can guess at but don't press. Instead, I simply say, "Not ironic. Appropriate. Even necessary, maybe."

His eyes find mine again, questioning.

"Who better to understand the importance of healing than someone who's had to heal himself?" I elaborate. "Empathy born of experience is powerful medicine."

Jack doesn't respond immediately, and I don't expect him to. I've already pushed further than I intended.

"Goodnight, Jack," I say again, more gently this time.

As Max and I step outside into the cool night air, I hear his response, so low I almost miss it.

"Goodnight, Nicole."

The walk back to the cabin gives me time to process the brief exchange. Jack's disclosure wasn't an invitation to familiarity, I understand that clearly. It was a tactical move: providing basic information to prevent further questioning. Clinical, efficient, controlled, just like everything else about him.

Except his hands with the animals. Except the intricate carvings that grace the sanctuary. Except the way his eyes held mine when he said my name.

Back in the cabin, I settle into bed again, Max resuming his place in the corner. Sleep feels more possible now, but my mind is still active, reframing what I've learned about Jack Mercer.

Military. Combat injuries. Trauma significant enough to drive him to this remote mountain. These puzzle pieces fit with what I've observed… His vigilance, his self-sufficiency, his reluctance to engage. Classic symptoms of PTSD, though I'm careful not to diagnose what isn't my specialty.

What's less expected is the sanctuary itself. The commitment to healing, the gentleness he shows the animals, the obvious care that goes into every aspect of their rehabilitation. There's profound compassion in this work, a quality that seems at odds with his determined isolation from human connection.

Then again, perhaps it's not contradictory at all. Animals don't judge. They don't ask questions about scars or past actions. They accept care without demanding explanations or emotional engagement.

I understand the appeal. In my own practice, I've sometimes found more peace in the surgery room with my animal patients than in the waiting room with their humans. Animals bring a purity to the healing relationship.

After all, they either trust you or they don't. They either improve under your care or they don't. The parameters are clearer.

But even knowing this, I've never been tempted to withdraw from human connection entirely. Jack's isolation feels like more than preference. It feels like protection. The question is, who is he protecting? Himself? Or others?

I sigh, turning onto my side. Psychoanalyzing Jack Mercer isn't my job. I'm here for the eagle, for forty-eight hours of professional consultation. Whatever demons brought Jack to this mountain are his to wrestle with, not mine to dissect.

Still, as sleep finally begins to claim me, I can't help but wonder about the man behind those careful barriers. About the events that scarred not just his body but clearly his spirit as well. About the path that led from combat zones to this peaceful sanctuary where broken wings and wounded paws are tenderly mended.

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