Page 2 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
"What rain?" Kevin spreads his arms. "Sky's clear now."
I point to the western horizon where dark clouds are building. "Mountain weather changes fast. Those will reach us by midnight."
Before Kevin can respond, the sound of tires on gravel interrupts our conversation. I turn toward the main path leading to the small administrative cabin that serves as my office and home.
"Inspection in fifteen," I tell the group. "I need to deal with this."
I stride through the woods toward the parking area, irritation building with each step. Nobody is scheduled to visit today. The kids' families aren't allowed contact for the first week. Judge Martinez knows better than to send someone unannounced.
When I break through the tree line, I spot a silver Prius parked beside my truck. Small, pristine, California plates. Definitely not local.
Standing beside it is a woman, petite with straight black hair pulled into a severe bun. She wears dark slacks and a button-up shirt under a light jacket, totally inadequate for mountain weather. She's furiously tapping on a tablet, frowning at whatever she sees there.
I approach silently, a habit from years of stalking through burning forests. She doesn't notice me until I'm ten feet away. When she looks up, I see almond-shaped brown eyes, high cheekbones, and lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
"This is private property," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
She startles but recovers quickly, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. "Mr. Reeves? I'm Riley Chaffeur from Sacramento County Department of Social Services."
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.Social Services.The last time they got involved with my program, I nearly lost my license to operate. Not that I have much of an official license to begin with.
"You're trespassing," I tell her, keeping my voice level. "I don't recall scheduling an inspection."
"That's the point of unannounced visits, Mr. Reeves." She tucks the tablet under her arm and extends a hand. When I don't take it, she withdraws it smoothly as if she never offered. "I'm here to evaluate the Peak Survival Program for continued approval for juvenile referrals."
I narrow my eyes. "Judge Martinez didn't mention any evaluation."
"This comes from higher up." Her tone is professional, but there's something else there. Ambition. I recognize it immediately. This woman wants something, and my program is standing in her way.
"The kids are in the middle of a critical training exercise," I tell her. "Come back tomorrow."
"That won't be possible." She pulls out what looks like an official letter. "My assessment requires observation of your methods over a three-day period, starting immediately."
Three days? This woman plans to hang around my program for three fucking days? I take a deep breath, weighing my options. I could refuse, but that would only give her ammunition. Judge Martinez is the only one who sends me kids, and if Social Services pulls their approval, he can't legally refer anyone to Peak Survival.
"Fine," I finally say. "But you follow my rules while you're here. The kids are building emergency shelters. They need to complete the exercise without interference."
"Building shelters?" She looks past me toward the forest, alarm crossing her features. "You mean they're not housed in proper facilities?"
"That's the point of wilderness survival training." I don't hide my impatience. "They learn to build shelters, find food, start fires without matches. Things that might keep them alive if they're ever lost in the wilderness."
"But they're teenagers, not military recruits." She makes a note on her tablet. "Where do they normally sleep?"
"In shelters they build themselves for the first week. After that, they earn the right to stay in the bunkhouse." I gesture toward the rustic building visible through the trees. "Once they've mastered basic survival skills."
"And if they fail to build adequate shelter?" Her eyebrows rise in perfect arches.
"Then they learn a valuable lesson about preparation and consequences."
She makes another note, her fingers flying across the screen. I don't need to read it to know she's documenting what she considers violations.
"Ms. Chaffeur," I say, stepping closer until I'm looming over her. Most people back down when I use my size like this. She doesn't budge. "These kids aren't here for a camping trip. They're here because they've assaulted people, sold drugs, stolen cars. Traditional programs have failed them. Mine doesn't."
"Your success rate is impressive," she admits reluctantly. "But methodology matters, Mr. Reeves. We can't support programs that potentially endanger the welfare of minors, regardless of their backgrounds."
A crash and shouting from the direction of the shelters interrupts us. I turn immediately, already moving toward the sound.
"Stay here," I tell her over my shoulder.
