Page 17 of Hunted By the Mountain Man
"Wait until you see it in action," I tell her. "Cole's built something special here."
And he has. The retreat now encompasses several cabins scattered through the forest, each designed for maximum privacy while maintaining community connection. Veterans come alone or with families, staying anywhere from a week to a month while they work through trauma with Cole's unique combination of wilderness therapy and peer support.
"Mama, can I show Benny the baby goats?" Amber asks, tugging on my shirt.
"After breakfast," I promise. "Why don't you help Daddy show Mr. and Mrs. Thompson to their cabin?"
Cole nods gratefully, still holding Benny who's now grabbing enthusiastically at his father's beard. "Amber's our best tour guide," he tells the Thompsons. "She knows where all the good hiding spots are."
I watch my husband lead the family toward the guest cabins, noting the careful way he positions himself to give Mike space while remaining available for support. Marriage and two children have only deepened my appreciation for Cole's quiet strength and infinite patience.
The morning flies by in the familiar rhythm of retreat days. Breakfast for twelve people, cabin check-ins, coordinating the day's activities between wilderness skills and group therapy. I handle the administrative side while Cole manages the therapeutic programming, our partnership as seamless in work as it is in marriage.
"Mama, look!" Amber runs toward me across the clearing, her latest treasure clutched in her small fist. "I found a pretty rock for baby!"
She opens her palm to reveal a piece of quartz that catches the mountain sunlight like captured stars. Everything is magical when you're three and live in paradise.
"That's beautiful, sweetheart. Benny will love it." I tuck the rock into my pocket for safekeeping. "Where's Daddy?"
"With the sad man by the creek. They're talking about feelings."
I spot Cole sitting on a fallen log beside Silver Creek, Mike Thompson next to him as they watch the water flow over granite stones. Even from here, I can see the tension leaving Mike's shoulders as Cole works his particular brand of healing magic.
Cole
"It's the dreams," Mike is saying, his voice barely audible over the creek's gentle babble. "Every night, same scenario. I could have saved him if I'd been faster, smarter, better."
I nod, understanding completely. "Survivor's guilt. Classic PTSD symptom. The mind's way of trying to make sense of senseless loss."
"How do you get past it?"
I consider his question while watching Anna corral Amber near the goat pen, Benny balanced on her hip as our daughter chatters excitedly about her rock collection. Five years ago, I thought I'd never be capable of this—family, purpose, peace.
"You don't get past it," I tell Mike honestly. "You learn to carry it differently. To honor your fallen friend by living fully instead of dying slowly."
"Sounds impossible."
"Felt impossible to me too." I gesture toward the retreat spread out around us. "This place? My family? None of it existed five years ago. I was hiding in a cabin, convinced I was too broken for human connection."
"What changed?"
I smile, thinking of Anna stumbling half-frozen through my woods, bringing light to my self-imposed darkness. "Someone reminded me that surviving trauma doesn't mean you're damaged goods. It means you're strong enough to help others survive theirs."
Mike follows my gaze to where Anna is now helping Amber feed the goats while Benny claps his hands in delight. "Your wife?"
"Among other things. She chose this life, this isolation, because she knew we could build something meaningful here together." I stand, brushing pine needles from my jeans. "That's what you and Sarah can do too. Not identical to this, but something that uses your pain to prevent others' pain."
"I don't know how."
"That's what we're here to figure out. Together." I clap him on the shoulder. "One day at a time, one conversation at a time. No pressure, no timeline except your own."
We walk back toward the main clearing where Anna has organized an impromptu picnic lunch. The sight of her surrounded by veterans and their families, Benny babbling happily in his portable high chair while Amber distributes her rock collection as gifts, fills me with the same wonder I've felt every day for five years.
"Daddy!" Amber launches herself at my legs with typical three-year-old enthusiasm. "I gave everyone special rocks!"
"I see that. Very generous of you." I lift her up, noting the way Mike's face softens watching our interaction. Family life has a way of reminding broken people what they're fighting to reclaim.
"Cole," Sarah Thompson approaches with Benny on her hip—apparently my son has charmed another victim. "Anna was telling me about your remote therapy sessions. That's brilliant."
