Page 28 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
"You smile more." She shrugs, adjusting her helmet. "It's weird but nice."
With that assessment, she begins her climb, leaving me to process the observation. Do I smile more? Has Riley's presence changed me that visibly in just four days?
By the time evening falls and the teens head to the bunkhouse, I have my answer. Something's changed, not justbetween Riley and me, but within me. A door long closed has been reopened, letting in light I'd forgotten how to see.
When I return to the cabin, Riley stands on the porch, silhouetted against the sunset. Her hair shines copper in the fading light, face turned toward the mountains as if seeking answers in their ancient strength.
She turns at the sound of my approach, and the smile that blooms across her face tells me everything I need to know. This isn't just desire. This isn't just compatibility. This is something rare and precious. Something worth fighting for.
"Dinner's ready," she says, gesturing inside. "I hope you don't mind. I found supplies and thought you might be hungry after a full day."
She's cooked for me. Such a simple gesture that carries such meaning.
"Mind? I'm starving." I climb the steps, pulling her into my arms. "For more than just food."
Her laugh fills the gathering darkness with warmth. "One thing at a time."
The cabin feels different with her in it. Warmer. More like a home than just a place to sleep. The simple meal she's prepared sits on the table, nothing fancy but made with care. Something tightens in my chest at the sight.
We eat by lamplight, talking about the day's activities. Her observations about the teens are insightful, noticing patterns I've seen but never articulated. The way Kevin responds to positive reinforcement. How Mia tests boundaries before accepting them. Jesse's natural leadership that needs channeling.
"What made you start this program?" she asks, setting down her fork. "You mentioned leaving the fire service after your injury, but why this specifically?"
The question digs deeper than she knows. I consider deflecting, keeping to the surface story I tell most people. But Riley deserves more than that. She sees the truth in what we do here. Maybe she should know the truth behind why I do it.
"My brother, Colt," I say finally. "This program exists because the system failed him."
Interest sparks in her eyes. "You have a brother? You've never mentioned him."
"We're not as close as I'd like." I push my plate away, memories surfacing that I usually keep buried. "He's three years younger. Thirty-four now. Lives on the other side of the mountain, closer to town."
"What happened with him and the system?" She leans forward, fully engaged now.
"Our parents weren't exactly parent material." I keep my voice level despite the old anger stirring. "Dad left when I was ten, Colt was seven. Mom checked out even before that. Bottles were more interesting than her kids."
Riley's expression softens with understanding rather than pity. It makes continuing easier.
"I looked after Colt as best I could. But I was just a kid myself." The admission still carries guilt after all these years. "When I was sixteen, Mom disappeared for two weeks. Neighbor reported us. System stepped in."
"They separated you?" She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine.
"Different foster homes." I turn my hand to grip hers. "I was 'nearly grown' according to my caseworker. Colt was thirteen, angry, trouble in school. No one wanted to take both of us."
"That's horrible." The genuine outrage in her voice touches something deep in me.
"Standard procedure." I meet her eyes. "Isn't that what they teach you in social worker school?"
She winces slightly. "Sometimes separation is necessary for safety, but siblings should stay together whenever possible. That's the ideal."
"Not much ideal about the system." I take a breath, pushing down the bitterness. "Anyway, I aged out at eighteen. Got my GED, joined the wildfire crews. Physical work, good pay, no time to think."
"And Colt?"
"By fifteen, he'd been through four foster homes. Each one gave up on him faster than the last." The old anger burns in my chest. "Last one called him 'incorrigible' in the official report. Like he was broken beyond fixing."
"What happened to him?" Her voice is gentle, encouraging without pushing.
"He fell in with a motorcycle club. Not quite a gang, but close enough. Guys who accepted him. Gave him the belonging he never had anywhere else." I can still picture him at seventeen, leather jacket too big for his frame, trying to look tough. "By eighteen, he had a record. Illegal street racing, mostly. Minor stuff, but enough to close doors."
