Page 14 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Progress."
He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the pine and woodsmoke scent that seems permanently embedded in his skin. Every instinct tells me to step back. I don't move.
"I should finish lunch," I say, though food is the last thing on my mind. "And continue the evaluation."
"Of course." He steps back, the moment broken. "We're doing orienteering this afternoon. Meet at the clearing in twenty minutes."
He leaves without another word, the cabin suddenly too empty and too full simultaneously. I sink back into my chair, sandwich forgotten.
What is happening to me? I came here to evaluate a program, not develop feelings for its ruggedly handsome, infuriatingly competent director. A man who represents everything I've been taught to question about unregulated approaches to youth rehabilitation.
A man who makes me question my own certainties with unsettling ease.
I force myself to finish eating, using the time to rebuild my professional walls. This attraction is inappropriate and impractical. In two more days, I'll return to Sacramento with my report, and Jaxon Reeves will become nothing more than a name in an evaluation file. The thought creates a hollow feeling I refuse to examine.
Outside, the afternoon sun has warmed the clearing. The teens are gathered around Jax, who distributes compasses and maps. His teaching style fascinates me despite myself. He doesn't coddle or over-explain, treating each teen as capable until proven otherwise.
"Ms. Chaffeur will join Torres and Mia for the orienteering exercise," he announces as I approach.
"I'd prefer to observe all groups," I counter, not wanting special treatment.
"Not possible with the terrain." His tone brooks no argument. "Unless you've developed advanced hiking skills since yesterday."
Muted snickers from the teens remind me of my audience. "Fine."
"Partners stay within sight of each other at all times," Jax instructs the group. "Find all five checkpoints, return by sunset. Each checkpoint has provisions you'll need for dinner."
"What if we get lost?" Kevin asks nervously.
"Don't." Jax's answer is simple. "But if you do, stay put and use your emergency whistle. Three short blasts, remember?"
They nod solemnly. This is clearly a test they've been prepared for.
"Ms. Chaffeur." Jax hands me a small pack. "Essentials inside. Stay with your partners."
Our fingers brush during the exchange, sending an electric current up my arm. I pull back too quickly, nearly dropping the pack. If he notices my reaction, he doesn't show it.
"Thanks," I mutter, slinging it over my shoulder.
The afternoon unfolds in a series of small revelations. Tyler is a natural navigator, confidently leading our group between checkpoints. Mia, initially standoffish, gradually shares her story when I express genuine interest. Foster care since eight. Three placements in two years. A shoplifting charge that escalated when she panicked and shoved a security guard.
By the fourth checkpoint, I've developed blisters despite borrowing proper hiking boots this time. The teens notice my limping but say nothing, silently adjusting our pace. When we stop for water, Mia wordlessly offers me a bandage from her pack.
The simple kindness touches me more than it should. These kids aren't the hardened delinquents described in their files. They're survivors, just as Jax said. Adapting to whatever circumstances they face.
Including me.
The sun hangslow as we return to camp, painting the pine trees in amber and gold. The temperature has dropped noticeablysince this afternoon, my breath now visible in small puffs. Aspen leaves drift down like golden coins, catching the slanting light.
"Ms. Chaffeur." Jax approaches as I'm putting away my borrowed hiking gear. "I need to gather some materials for tomorrow's lesson on wilderness food preservation. Could use an extra pair of hands if you're not too tired from the hike."
I should be exhausted. My feet ache, and I've been documenting observations all day. But something in his tone—less command, more invitation—makes me nod.
"What are we gathering?"
"Wild apples, acorns, rose hips. Whatever's left before the first hard frost hits." He hands me a canvas bag. "Won't take long."
We head away from the main camp, following a different trail than the teens took. The forest has transformed since I arrived three days ago. Or maybe I'm just seeing it differently now. The aspens blaze brilliant yellow against the evergreens, their leaves trembling in the cooling breeze. Oak leaves glow crimson and burnt orange in the fading light. The air carries that distinctive autumn scent—woodsmoke, pine, and the earthy sweetness of decomposing leaves.
