Page 9 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

"The view never gets old, does it?" she says finally.

"No," I agree, because it's true.

The landscape's constant changes—the light, the seasons, the weather—provide endless variation. It's one of the reasons I chose this particular mountain for the sanctuary. That and its remoteness.

"How did you find this place?" she asks, as if reading my thoughts.

I clench my fists but remind myself this is a reasonable question with a non-revealing answer. "Land auction five years ago. Previous owner was a reclusive novelist who died without heirs. The property had been neglected for years."

"So you built all this yourself?" There's genuine admiration in her voice.

"Most of it," I acknowledge. "Hired contractors for some of the specialized work like electrical and plumbing. The rest is mine."

"Including all those beautiful carvings," she adds. "They're remarkable, Jack. Really."

The compliment makes me uneasy. I've never created the carvings for an audience—they're simply a way to occupy my hands during the long winter evenings, to work through thoughts that won't quiet otherwise.

"Just a hobby," I dismiss.

Nicole takes a sip of water, studying me over the rim of her glass. "You know, most people would just say 'thank you' when complimented."

Her directness catches me off guard. "Thank you," I say stiffly.

She laughs then, the sound unexpected and bright in the quiet space. "That sounded physically painful. Do you practice being difficult, or does it come naturally?"

I should be offended, but there's no malice in her question, just genuine curiosity tinged with amusement. For a brief moment, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch in what might have become a smile. I suppress it quickly.

"Natural talent," I reply dryly.

Her eyes widen slightly, perhaps surprised that I've engaged with her teasing. "Well, at least you're skilled at something besides animal care and woodworking."

The meal continues with less tension after that small exchange. Nicole asks more questions about the sanctuary—practicalthings about medical supplies, release protocols, follow-up tracking. Professional topics I can address without discomfort.

As we finish eating, I check my watch. "The eagle needs her evening medication."

"Right." Nicole stands, gathering her plate. "Let me just clean up here—"

"Leave it," I interrupt. "I'll handle it later."

She hesitates, then nods. "Alright. Let's check on our patient."

In the treatment room, the eagle has moved to a higher perch in her enclosure. Her posture remains good, but I notice a slight droop to her head that suggests fatigue or pain.

Nicole notices it too. "She needs the pain medication," she confirms, already preparing the injection. "Could you hold her again?"

Just as this morning, we work together to secure the eagle. The routine is smoother now, our movements more coordinated. I'm aware of Nicole's proximity as she administers the medication, her concentration absolute as she checks the splint for any shifting.

"Perfect," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "The swelling is already responding to treatment."

I return the eagle to her enclosure, making sure she's stable on her perch before closing the door. When I turn around, I find Nicole watching me with an unreadable expression.

"What?" I ask, more defensively than intended.

She shakes her head slightly. "Nothing. Just... you have good hands. Gentle, despite their size."

The observation feels intimate, crossing some invisible boundary. I step back, needing physical distance.

"Years of practice," I say shortly. "Will she need anything else tonight?"

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