Page 9 of Hunted by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Men #5)

"It's the dreams," Mike is saying, his voice barely audible over the creek's gentle babble. "Every night, same scenario. I could have saved him if I'd been faster, smarter, better."

I nod, understanding completely. "Survivor's guilt. Classic PTSD symptom. The mind's way of trying to make sense of senseless loss."

"How do you get past it?"

I consider his question while watching Anna corral Amber near the goat pen, Benny balanced on her hip as our daughter chatters excitedly about her rock collection. Five years ago, I thought I'd never be capable of this—family, purpose, peace.

"You don't get past it," I tell Mike honestly. "You learn to carry it differently. To honor your fallen friend by living fully instead of dying slowly."

"Sounds impossible."

"Felt impossible to me too." I gesture toward the retreat spread out around us. "This place? My family? None of it existed five years ago. I was hiding in a cabin, convinced I was too broken for human connection."

"What changed?"

I smile, thinking of Anna stumbling half-frozen through my woods, bringing light to my self-imposed darkness. "Someone reminded me that surviving trauma doesn't mean you're damaged goods. It means you're strong enough to help others survive theirs."

Mike follows my gaze to where Anna is now helping Amber feed the goats while Benny claps his hands in delight. "Your wife?"

"Among other things. She chose this life, this isolation, because she knew we could build something meaningful here together." I stand, brushing pine needles from my jeans. "That's what you and Sarah can do too. Not identical to this, but something that uses your pain to prevent others' pain."

"I don't know how."

"That's what we're here to figure out. Together." I clap him on the shoulder. "One day at a time, one conversation at a time. No pressure, no timeline except your own."

We walk back toward the main clearing where Anna has organized an impromptu picnic lunch.

The sight of her surrounded by veterans and their families, Benny babbling happily in his portable high chair while Amber distributes her rock collection as gifts, fills me with the same wonder I've felt every day for five years.

"Daddy!" Amber launches herself at my legs with typical three-year-old enthusiasm. "I gave everyone special rocks!"

"I see that. Very generous of you." I lift her up, noting the way Mike's face softens watching our interaction. Family life has a way of reminding broken people what they're fighting to reclaim.

"Cole," Sarah Thompson approaches with Benny on her hip—apparently my son has charmed another victim. "Anna was telling me about your remote therapy sessions. That's brilliant."

"Anna's idea," I admit. "She figured out how to use our satellite communications for video counseling. Now we can maintain support connections with alumni anywhere in North America."

"It's about building lasting community," Anna adds, accepting Benny back and settling him in his high chair. "The retreat experience is just the beginning. Real healing happens in ongoing relationships."

I watch her explain the program's philosophy to Sarah, noting the easy confidence with which she discusses therapeutic approaches she's learned alongside me.

Anna Rice-Manning is no longer just the forensic accountant who stumbled into my life.

She's my partner in every sense—business, parenting, healing work.

"Mama," Amber tugs on Anna's shirt. "Can we have campfire songs tonight?"

"If Daddy thinks the group would enjoy that."

I look around at the faces surrounding our outdoor lunch—veterans in various stages of healing, spouses learning to hope again, children playing without the shadows I remember from my own PTSD years.

"I think that sounds perfect," I say, meaning every word.

As the afternoon progresses into evening, I find myself on the porch of our main cabin, watching Anna put the children to bed while retreat participants gather around the fire pit for informal conversation.

The scene is so perfectly domestic, so far from the violence and isolation that once defined my life, that it still occasionally feels like someone else's dream.

"Contemplating your empire?" Anna asks, emerging from the cabin and settling beside me on the porch swing I built during her second pregnancy.

"Contemplating how lucky I am," I correct, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "Five years ago, I thought my life was over. Now..."

"Now you're helping dozens of veterans reclaim theirs." She curls against my side with the easy intimacy of long marriage. "I'm proud of you, Cole Manning."

"We," I correct. "We're helping them. This only works because you're here."

"Flatterer." But she's smiling as she says it.

From the fire pit, someone starts playing guitar while Amber's promised campfire songs begin. Benny sleeps peacefully in his crib upstairs, and around us, the mountain night settles with familiar comfort.

"Any regrets?" I ask, a question that's become our anniversary tradition.

"About choosing this life? Never." Anna tilts her face up to mine. "About trusting a grumpy mountain man who saved me from more than just hypothermia? Not even for a second."

I kiss her then, soft and sweet and full of five years' worth of love and gratitude. When we break apart, she's smiling with the same radiant joy that first captivated me in this very spot.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"The future. Our kids growing up here, learning to love these mountains the way we do. Maybe expanding the program, building a proper conference center." I squeeze her closer. "Growing old together in the place where we found each other."

"Sounds perfect," Anna murmurs against my throat. "Though you realize Amber's already planning to be a mountain rescue pilot when she grows up?"

"God help us all."

Her laughter mingles with the campfire songs and the eternal whisper of wind through pine trees. Somewhere in the forest, an owl calls to its mate, and the mountains that once sheltered my isolation now guard our family's happiness.

Anna came to my wilderness running from death.

She stayed for love.

And together, we've built a life that transforms other people's pain into purpose, their isolation into community, their despair into hope.

The mountains are no longer my hiding place.

They're our home.