Page 15 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
My feet crunch through the carpet of fallen foliage as we walk. The sound is somehow both melancholy and comforting, a reminder that everything has its season.
"There." Jax points to a gnarled apple tree about fifty yards off the path, its branches heavy with small, twisted fruits. "Wild apples aren't pretty, but they're perfect for teaching preservation techniques."
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, gathering the misshapen fruits. Jax moves with efficient strides, selecting certain apples and leaving others. His hands are sure and capable, testing each one before adding it to his bag.
"Why those specifically?" I ask, watching him reject a perfectly round apple in favor of a scarred, ugly one.
"Firmness. Lack of rot." He hands me one to examine. "The prettiest ones are often the first to spoil. Same principle applies to a lot of things in life."
I turn the apple in my hand, noting the deliberate metaphor. "Is that what you're teaching them? To look past surface appearances?"
"Partly." He reaches for a higher branch, his flannel shirt pulling tight across his shoulders. A shower of golden leaves cascades down around him. "Mostly teaching them to trust their own judgment. To make decisions based on what actually matters instead of what they've been told should matter."
There's an edge to his voice—not quite bitterness, but something close to it. I've seen his dedication to the teens, but this feels more personal. More raw.
"Someone didn't trust your judgment once," I observe quietly, the insight arriving fully formed.
He stills, hand hovering over an apple. For a long moment, the only sound is the whisper of wind through the autumn leaves and the distant call of a crow. Then he lowers his arm and turns to face me, his expression unreadable.
"I've seen what happens when the system makes decisions based on policy instead of people." He sets down his bag, clearly signaling the personal topic is closed. "These kids deserve better than that."
The deflection is smooth but obvious. There's a story there, something that drives him, but he's not ready to share it. The realization creates an odd ache in my chest—a desire to know him better, to understand what shaped the man standing before me in the golden autumn light.
"They're lucky to have you," I say instead of pushing.
"They'd be luckier if people like you fought for programs that work instead of shutting them down." There's no accusation in his tone, just weary acceptance.
The words sting because they're fair. "I'm trying to see clearly," I tell him. "That's all I can promise."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I'm suddenly aware of how isolated we are out here. The sounds of camp have faded to nothing. It's just us, the fading light, and the quiet settling of autumn all around.
"You're doing better than most," he finally says, his voice softer. "Better than I expected."
"Was your bar really that low?" I attempt levity to cut through the intensity building between us.
"You showed up in impractical shoes with a tablet full of regulations." A hint of a smile touches his lips. "My expectations were... modest."
"And now?"
The question hangs in the cooling air. His eyes hold mine, and something passes between us—awareness, attraction, possibility. The space between us feels suddenly charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"Now you've got leaves in your hair," he says quietly, reaching toward me.
I freeze as his fingers brush my temple, gently extracting a small twig caught in my ponytail. The touch is brief but electric, sending warmth cascading through me despite the autumn chill. Our eyes lock, his hand still raised near my face.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.
Then his hand drops, and he steps back, the moment fracturing. "Getting dark," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "We should head back."
"Right." I clutch my canvas bag like a lifeline, grateful for something to do with my hands. "The teens will be waiting."
We gather our bags in silence, but it's different now. Charged. Aware. Every accidental brush of hands as we work sends sparks up my arm. When he helps me over a fallen log, his hand at my elbow lingers a fraction too long.
The walk back to camp feels both endless and too short. The forest darkens around us, temperature dropping as the sun sinks below the mountain ridge. My breath comes in visible puffs now, and I'm acutely conscious of Jax's warmth beside me, the bulk of him blocking the wind.
"You're shivering," he observes as we near the camp clearing.
"I'm fine." But my teeth chatter slightly, betraying the lie.
