Page 8 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

"Come on, Max," she calls, and the dog immediately rises from his spot, trotting to her side. At the doorway, she pauses.

"Thank you for the tour earlier," she says. "The sanctuary is remarkable. Those animals are lucky to have found you."

Before I can respond—not that I know what I would say—she's gone, the door closing softly behind her.

I exhale slowly, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly with her absence. Moving to the eagle's enclosure, I kneel to study our patient. Her eyes—yellow-gold and fierce—regard me steadily.

"Just you and me for a while," I tell her quietly. "Bet that's a relief."

Working with the animals always centers me. Their needs are straightforward, their responses honest. An animal in pain doesn't pretend otherwise. An animal healing doesn't hide its progress out of pride or fear.

I spend the next hour checking on the other residents, making my usual afternoon rounds. The young buck's leg is healing well, though he'll never regain full speed. The fox with the spinal injury is having a good day, more mobile than usual. Two rehabilitating squirrels are nearly ready for release. Perhaps by the end of the week if they continue to improve.

Each case has its own timeline, its own requirements. I keep meticulous records, tracking progress and setbacks, adjusting care plans accordingly. This methodical approach has proven effective over the years. It's also kept me sane, giving structure to days that might otherwise blur together.

By the time I return to the lodge, the afternoon is waning. I shower quickly, changing into clean clothes, jeans and a long-sleeved henley that covers the worst of the scarring on my arms. Out of habit, I check the perimeter sensors on my phone, confirming that the sanctuary's security system is functioning properly. Another layer of protection, another barrier between this place and the world beyond.

At six o'clock precisely, there's a knock at the door. I open it to find Nicole, her hair still damp from a shower, carrying a small bag of what appears to be groceries from her car.

"I went to town and brought a few things to supplement what you had," she explains, stepping past me into the kitchen. "Hope that's okay."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the casual invasion but unwilling to make an issue of it. "Whatever you need."

Max follows her in, immediately settling himself in a corner of the kitchen where he can observe without being in the way. The dog's discipline is admirable, I have to admit.

Nicole sets down her bag and begins unpacking ingredients—fresh herbs, a lemon, a small container of olives. "I'm justmaking a simple pasta with chicken," she says, moving around. "Nothing fancy."

I stand awkwardly for a moment, unsure of my role in this domestic scene. "Do you... need help?"

She glances up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Sure. You could chop these herbs if you don't mind."

The task gives me something to do with my hands, a reason to maintain distance while still participating. We work in relative silence, the only sounds the rhythmic chopping of the knife and the sizzle of chicken in the pan. It's strange having someone else in this space, yet the routine of food preparation is grounding.

"How did you get into wildlife rehabilitation?" Nicole asks after several minutes, breaking the silence.

The question seems innocent enough, but I know from experience how one query leads to another, creating a chain that inevitably reaches places I won't go.

"It was a natural fit," I reply vaguely. "I had the land. The privacy animals need to heal without human interference."

"And the skills," she adds, not looking up from the sauce she's stirring. "Your medical knowledge is obvious. The splinting work you did on that eagle was textbook perfect."

I don't acknowledge the compliment. "Animals are straightforward. They either get better or they don't. No complications."

Nicole adds white wine to the pan, the sharp scent filling the kitchen. "I've found animals can be quite complex, actually. Especially in recovery. They have distinct personalities, trauma responses, coping mechanisms."

"Still simpler than people," I counter.

She glances at me then, her dark eyes thoughtful. "Maybe. Or maybe we just expect less from them."

I don't have a response to that. We continue cooking in silence, but her observation lingers in the air between us.

When the meal is ready, I set two places at the small table in the dining nook—a space I rarely use, preferring to eat at the counter or sometimes not at all. Nicole brings over the pasta, and the scene’s normality is almost disorienting.

"This looks great," I say as she serves the food, basic courtesy overriding my discomfort.

"Wait until you taste it before you compliment," she replies with a small smile. "I'm a decent cook, but no chef."

We eat in what begins as uncomfortable silence, at least for me. Nicole seems content enough, occasionally glancing out the window at the sunset painting the mountains in shades of gold and purple.

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