Page 8 of Branded Mountain Man
"Everyone has stories."
"True. But not everyone isolates themselves for three years because of them."
Thunder rolled across the valley, and they both looked up at the darkening sky. The next storm was building faster than expected.
"We should head back," Colt said.
As they climbed the stairs to the tower, Sloan felt a shift between them. The hostility from the morning had mellowed into something more complex—part wariness, part curiosity, part recognition of something that might become understanding given time.
Three days suddenly didn't seem like nearly enough.
3
THE BRAND
SLOAN
By the second day, Sloan had fallen into a rhythm with Colt that felt dangerously natural.
She’d wake to coffee already brewing—he was up first, moving around the small space with careful quiet. They ate breakfast while checking the weather, then spent the morning working together on whatever project he'd planned for the day.
Today it was trail maintenance down the ridge, repairing washouts from the recent storms. Sloan had offered to help after watching him struggle with a particularly stubborn drainage channel, and to her surprise, he'd accepted.
"Hand me that shovel," Colt said, not looking up from where he was digging out debris.
Sloan passed it over, then moved to the other side of the washout to start clearing from that end. They'd been working in comfortable silence for an hour, and she could see the tension in his shoulders easing as he focused on the physical work.
This was what she'd hoped for when she'd suggested the wilderness therapy approach. Colt was more open when hishands were busy, less guarded when he wasn't being directly questioned. She'd learned more about him in the past day of working alongside him than she would have in weeks of traditional sessions.
"You're good at this," she said, nodding toward the neat way he'd rerouted the water flow around a boulder.
"Had plenty of practice."
"Before the tower, you mean?"
Colt's movements stilled slightly. "Yeah. Before."
Sloan waited, not pushing, just continuing to work. She'd learned that silence was often more effective than questions with him.
"Worked trail crew for eight years," he said finally. "After the military. Good work. Honest work."
"What made you stop?"
The question hung in the air between them, and Sloan immediately regretted asking it. Too direct. Too much like therapy.
Colt straightened up, his expression closing off. "Doesn't matter."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
"Yes, you did." He set down his tools and turned to face her fully. "That's what this is, isn't it? All of this. The working together, the casual questions, the way you act like we're just two people spending time together. It's all just therapy."
Heat flared in Sloan's chest. "That's not?—"
"Isn't it?" Colt stepped closer, and she could see anger building in his storm-gray eyes. "You're studying me. Taking mental notes. Figuring out what's broken so you can write it up in your report."
"I'm trying to understand you."
"Why? So you can fix me?"
