Page 14 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

"Twenty-seven," he answers without hesitation. "Eight deer, four foxes, three raccoons, nine birds of various species, two bobcats, and a young black bear."

The precise count speaks volumes about how seriously he takes his work. "That's impressive. Do you track them after release?"

Jack nods. "When possible. Some are tagged or banded. The larger mammals have tracking collars that eventually detach. I maintain field cameras at key locations around the property."

"You've created something remarkable here," I say sincerely. "A genuine second chance for these animals."

He glances at me, then back to the path. "It's the least I can do."

There's weight to those words that gives me pause. The least he can do… As if in repayment for something. Atonement, perhaps.

We walk in silence for a while, the growing light revealing more details of the forest around us. It's beautiful in the early morning. The mist lingering between the trees, dew glistening on spider webs strung between branches.

"Why wildlife?" I ask finally. "With your medical knowledge, you could have worked with domestic animals. Or people, for that matter."

Jack's pace doesn't falter, but I sense his retreat behind towering walls. "Wildlife needs advocates. Most people only care about animals they can pet."

It's a deflection, but also a truth I can't disagree with. "Fair point. Though I've found there are more people who care than you might think."

"Not enough," he says simply.

We emerge from the forest near the main lodge, the sanctuary buildings now visible in the strengthening dawn light. Jack checks his watch.

"Eight-thirty," he notes. "I need to start morning feedings. The eagle's next treatment is at nine."

"I'll meet you in the treatment room," I reply. "I want to get my notes in order first."

He nods and turns toward the food preparation building, but pauses after a few steps. Without looking back, he says, "The fox… Don't mention her to wildlife services if they contact you. They have opinions about habituation."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality extends to all my cases," I assure him. "Even the ones that aren't technically my patients."

He glances back then, and whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he gives a short nod before continuing on his way.

I watch him go, struck again by the contradictions of this man. So determined to isolate himself from human connection, yet devoted to the wellbeing of creatures most people would never notice. So careful to maintain professional distance, yet vulnerable in his communion with a wild fox at dawn.

"Come on, Max," I say softly. "Let's get ready for rounds."

As we walk back to the cabin, I find myself thinking about healing—how it happens, what it requires, how long it takes. In veterinary medicine, we measure recovery in observable markers: infection cleared, wound closed, function restored. But I've always known there's more to true healing than physical repair.

I wonder if Jack Mercer knows that too. If his sanctuary is as much about healing himself as it is about healing the creatures in his care. If each bird that flies again, each deer that returns tothe forest, each fox that thrives in freedom somehow helps mend something broken inside him.

And I wonder if he'll ever allow himself the same compassion he offers so freely to his wounded charges.

Chapter 6 - Jack

I'm restless as I prepare the morning meals, my hands moving through familiar tasks while my mind circles back to the encounter in the forest. To Nicole witnessing something I've never shared with anyone. To the words that spilled from my mouth last night about Afghanistan and Syria.

What the hell was I thinking?

Five years of isolation and minimal human contact, of guarding my past like a state secret and within twenty-four hours this woman has me volunteering information I haven't spoken aloud since my discharge.

The raccoons' food preparation provides a welcome distraction. The precise measurements of proteins and supplements requiring just enough focus to temporarily quiet my internal chatter.

I work methodically, compartmentalizing as I've been trained to do. Complete the task at hand. Process the rest later. Or preferably, not at all.

But as I load the feeding cart with labeled containers, Nicole's words from last night echo through my defenses:

“Who better to understand the importance of healing than someone who's had to heal himself?”

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