Page 17 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

"That's... actually not a bad idea," I find myself saying. "I'd want to review everything before publication, of course."

Nicole's smile brightens. "Absolutely. Equal partnership, complete transparency."

We eat while discussing the potential scope of such a project. The sounds of the sanctuary—birds calling, leaves rustling, the distant movement of animals in their enclosures—provide a pleasant backdrop.

"The craftsmanship is impressive," she comments, nodding toward the precisely joined framework of the new structure. "Military engineering training?"

"Some," I acknowledge. "But most of it is self-taught. Trial and error."

"Like the carvings," she observes.

I nod, finishing the last of my sandwich. "I've always been good with my hands. Even as a kid."

The personal detail emerges naturally, without the usual hesitation. Nicole receives it with interest rather than the prying curiosity I've come to expect from others.

"The eagle carving at the road entrance is museum-quality," she says. "How long did that take you?"

"Three months, working evenings," I explain. "Winter two years ago. Heavy snow made outside work impossible, so I had more time for carving."

"What else do you work on during the winters here?" she asks, her genuine interest evident. "It must be challenging with the weather."

"Maintenance. Planning. The indoor habitats require consistent care regardless of season." I pause, then add, "And I carve. It passes the time."

"It's more than a pastime, Jack," she says, her dark eyes serious. "It's art. Genuine art."

Normally I'd deflect such assessment, but Nicole's sincerity makes it easier to accept. "It's... therapeutic, I suppose. Helps me focus on creation rather than destruction."

Nicole smiles, understanding immediately. "That makes perfect sense. Using your hands to heal rather than harm."

“Yes, exactly that."

"The sanctuary tour," I say, standing and offering my hand to help her up. "You wanted to see the raptor rehabilitation progression."

She takes my hand, her grip firm yet surprisingly soft. As she stands, we're momentarily closer than we've been before, and I notice details I've been trying not to acknowledge like the warm brown of her eyes, the subtle scent of something herbal in her hair, the curve of her smile as she looks up at me.

"I did," she says, maintaining the connection a beat longer than necessary before releasing my hand. "Though I'm equally interested in this new construction now."

"We'll start with the aviaries," I say, gesturing toward the established facilities. "The progression starts with the initial recovery space you've seen, then moves through three stages of increasingly challenging environments."

She falls into step beside me, Max trotting ahead as if he's leading the tour himself. "Is this something you designed, or adapted from existing protocols?"

"Bit of both," I reply, finding myself enjoying the technical discussion. "The basic progression is standard, but I've modified the environments based on observed behaviors and recovery patterns."

For the next hour, I guide Nicole through the sanctuary's specialized rehabilitation spaces, explaining the designprinciples and therapeutic goals of each. The conversation flows easily between us, her questions insightful, her observations often offering perspectives I hadn't considered. There's a natural exchange of ideas that I haven't experienced in years, perhaps ever, in this context.

When we reach the final aviary, a massive structure with varying elevations, natural perches, and challenging flight paths designed to test a bird's readiness for release, Nicole stops to take it all in.

"This is extraordinary, Jack," she says, "I've visited major wildlife centers across the country, and I've never seen a rehabilitation progression this comprehensive or thoughtfully designed."

Her praise feels good, wanted even. "It's still evolving. Each case teaches me something new."

She nods, making notes on her tablet. "That's the mark of good science, you know? Continuous refinement based on observation." She looks up, meeting my eyes directly. "You're doing important work here. Work that matters."

"It doesn't balance the scales," I hear myself saying. "But it's something."

Nicole tilts her head slightly, questioning. "Balance the scales?"

I've said too much already and revealed more than I intended. But standing here in the sanctuary I've built with my own hands, with this woman whose perception is too acute to deflect, the truth emerges before I can stop it.

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