Page 5 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
He nods once. "Mia, take everyone back to the shelters. Reinforce what you've built. That storm's moving in fast."
The teenagers file out, Darius giving Kevin a wide berth. Once they're gone, I turn to face Reeves fully.
Up close, he's even more intimidating. Six-foot-three at least, with shoulders that strain against his flannel shirt. His face is pure hard angles, defined by a strong jaw darkened with stubble. A thin scar runs along his right cheekbone, and his eyes are a startling clear blue against his tanned skin. He's handsome in a rugged, untamed way that makes my pulse quicken despite my professional objections.
I push that inappropriate observation aside. "Your program lacks basic safety protocols."
"My program has a ninety-three percent success rate in keeping kids out of the system permanently." He moves to his desk, forcing me to turn to maintain eye contact. "How's the state doing with their safety protocols?"
"Physical safety is non-negotiable." I stand my ground, though I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "These children deserve proper shelter and supervision."
"These teenagers need to learn self-reliance." He taps a file on his desk. "Every kid here has been through traditional programs. All failed. What I do works."
"By endangering them?"
"By challenging them." His eyes narrow. "They've survived worse than a night in a shelter they built themselves."
Something in his voice suggests he knows this from experience, not theory. I find myself curious despite my reservations.
"Your methods may have produced results," I concede, "but that doesn't exempt you from adhering to care standards. My preliminary observations indicate multiple violations."
"Such as?" He leans against his desk, arms still crossed.
I consult my tablet. "Inadequate shelter, insufficient supervision, lack of proper sleeping facilities, potentially dangerous activities without safety equipment, no visible boundary markings to prevent wandering off property, and that's just from my first hour here."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "The kids aren't prisoners. There are no fences because they choose to stay."
"They're minors in a court-ordered program," I correct him. "The state is responsible for their welfare."
"The state failed them long before they got here." His voice remains level, but his eyes flash with something dangerous. "I'm giving them skills no one else bothered to teach them."
The intensity of his gaze makes me want to step back, but I refuse to show weakness. "My job is to ensure their physical and emotional well-being."
"Your job," he says, leaning closer, "is to check boxes on a form. You have no idea what these kids actually need."
Heat rises to my face, partly from anger and partly from his proximity. He smells like pine and woodsmoke, earthy and masculine.
"I have a master's degree in social work with a focus on at-risk youth," I inform him crisply. "I'm perfectly qualified to assess what they need."
"Book learning." He dismisses years of my education with two words. "How many nights have you spent on the streets? How many foster homes have you been kicked out of? How many times have you gone hungry because no one cared if you ate?"
The questions sting. "My personal experience isn't relevant."
"It's the only thing that's relevant to these kids." He straightens, putting a welcomed distance between us. "They don't need another person who studied their problems in a classroom. They need someone who understands their reality."
Before I can respond, the cabin door bangs open. Tyler stands there, breathing hard. "Storm's coming in fast. Mia says the shelters might not hold."
Reeves moves immediately, grabbing a heavy jacket from a hook by the door. "Get your rain gear," he tells me. "If you're staying, you're helping."
"I didn't bring rain gear." I glance down at my sensible but definitely not wilderness-appropriate outfit.
He sighs heavily, disappears into the bedroom, and returns with a jacket and boots that will clearly swallow me whole. "These will have to do."
I hesitate, but the sound of thunder persuades me. I slip the jacket on, rolling the sleeves up several times. The boots are hopeless without multiple pairs of socks, so I stick with my own shoes.
"You'll regret that decision," he warns, already heading out the door.
I follow him into the gathering gloom. The temperature has dropped dramatically, and the wind whips through the treeswith increasing force. Dark clouds churn overhead, much closer than they were an hour ago.
