Page 15 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

The insight was uncomfortably accurate. The sanctuary has always been about atonement. Each animal saved a small counterbalance to those I couldn't save, to the destruction I participated in. But healing?

That's never been the goal. Survival, purpose, isolation—those were what I sought when I built this place. Healing seemed like something meant for others.

Yet when I knelt by the spring this morning, in that moment before I sensed Nicole's presence, there had been something close to peace. Something that, if not healing exactly, at least felt like its distant cousin.

And when I turned to find her watching…

Her expression not intrusive but understanding, there had been an unexpected absence of shame. For a brief moment, I wasn't the damaged ex-operator hiding from the world. I was simply a man feeding a fox at dawn.

It felt... different. Not unwelcome.

That realization disturbs me more than her following me into the forest. I've built my life around not being seen, not being known. Around the certainty that isolation is safer: for me, for others. The fact that Nicole's presence didn't immediately trigger my usual defenses suggests a vulnerability I can't afford.

I check my watch: 8:47. Time to focus on the eagle, on the clear, uncomplicated purpose of tending to her injury. I load the last of the food containers and push the cart out into the morning sunshine.

The sanctuary is fully awakened now, animals stirring in their enclosures. I make my rounds efficiently, distributing food and performing quick visual assessments of each resident. The young buck watches me approach, no longer skittish as he had been when first rescued. The fox with the spinal injury drags himself eagerly to the feeding station, his determination a daily reminder of resilience.

By the time I reach the treatment room, it's precisely nine o'clock. Nicole is already there, her tablet open as she reviews notes. She's dressed similarly to yesterday with practical jeans and a light sweater, her dark hair pulled back from her face. Max sits at her feet, rising when I enter but remaining beside her.

"Good morning," she greets, looking up with a warm smile that catches me off guard. "How was the eagle overnight?"

"Stable," I report, moving to the enclosure for visual confirmation. "No signs of distress. She ate a small amount around six."

Nicole nods, making a note on her tablet. "Excellent. Appetite returning is a very positive sign."

We fall into the established routine, preparing medications and treatment supplies. There's an ease to our movements now, as if we've worked together far longer than a single day. I find myself anticipating her needs, handing her instruments before she asks, positioning myself to provide the best support as she works.

"The swelling has decreased significantly," Nicole observes as we examine the wing. "And the infection is responding well to the antibiotics. I'd like to adjust the splint slightly now that we have less inflammation to contend with."

I hand her the materials before she asks, earning a quick, appreciative smile.

"You're remarkably easy to work with," she comments, her fingers brushing mine as she takes the supplies.

"Good training," I reply, finding it unexpectedly simple to maintain conversation. "Special Forces teaches adaptability."

"I'd say it's more than training," she counters, adjusting the splint with gentle precision. "You have natural instincts for this work."

The eagle watches us with fierce eyes, tolerating everything with grudging cooperation.

"She has your temperament," Nicole says with a playful glint in her eye.

I look up, surprised by the observation. "How so?"

"Watchful. Reserved. Strong-willed." Her eyes meet mine, holding my gaze without hesitation. "Dignified, even when vulnerable."

The comparison would normally make me retreat, but something about Nicole's straightforward manner makes it easier to accept than I expected.

"She's a wild creature," I say, finding myself smiling slightly. "Independence is survival."

Nicole nods, administering the antibiotic injection. "True. Until it isn't."

"Meaning?"

She secures the final wrap on the splint, her movements confident but gentle. "Just that sometimes survival requires accepting help. For eagles. For people." She glances up at me, her expression warm. "Even the most self-sufficient creatures occasionally need others."

It's too pointed to be coincidental, too perceptive to dismiss. Yet I don't feel the usual urge to retreat from such observation.

"The eagle didn't choose her injury," I say, returning the bird to her enclosure. "Or her treatment."

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