Page 2 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man (Forbidden In Fall Mountain Man #1)

CHAPTER TWO

RILEY

"The first aid kit should be in here," the girl named Mia says, leading me into what must be the most spartan administrative office I've ever seen.

The cabin consists of one main room with a desk covered in topographical maps, a woodstove in the corner, and exactly three chairs.

A doorway leads to what appears to be a small bedroom.

The only concession to comfort is a worn leather couch against one wall.

No computers. No filing cabinets. Not even a proper coffee maker.

"Is this the entire facility?" I ask, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.

"Just Reeves' office and where he sleeps," Mia explains, rooting through a cabinet. "The bunkhouse is for us, once we earn it."

"And where exactly are your beds?" I set my tablet on the desk, making mental notes of everything that violates standard care requirements.

"We have no beds. He said we’re sleeping in the shelters we're building." Kevin drops dramatically onto the couch, still holding his lip. "If they don't collapse on us."

I locate the first aid kit myself, labeled clearly on a shelf. At least Reeves follows some protocols. I bring it to Kevin and examine his injury with practiced efficiency.

"This doesn't need stitches," I tell him, cleaning the cut. "But that boy should not have hit you."

"Darius is always looking for a fight." Kevin winces as I apply antiseptic. "This place is dangerous. No proper supervision."

"That's what I'm here to assess." I place a small butterfly bandage on his lip. "Can you tell me more about the program structure?"

Kevin launches into a litany of complaints, from the lack of proper beds to the "insane" physical demands Reeves places on them. Mia rolls her eyes throughout his monologue.

"It's only been one day," she interrupts finally. "And you spent most of it whining."

"I'm not designed for this wilderness crap," Kevin snaps. "Some of us grew up in civilization."

I turn to Mia, who seems more balanced. "What do you think of the program so far?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "Better than juvie. At least here we're doing something instead of staring at walls."

"But building your own shelters?" I press. "That seems extreme for minors in state custody."

"Extreme is what some of these kids need."

The deep voice startles me. I turn to find Jaxon Reeves filling the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. The teenager named Darius hovers behind him, looking sullen but calmer.

"Your supervisory approach seems unusually hands-off, Mr. Reeves." I close the first aid kit with a decisive snap. "A physical altercation occurred on your watch."

"And consequences were assigned." He steps into the room, seeming to make it shrink with his presence. "Darius apologized. Kevin will be helping another group tonight as restitution."

"What?" Kevin jumps up. "That's not fair! I'm the victim here!"

"You deliberately sabotaged another person's shelter before a storm." Reeves doesn't raise his voice, but something in his tone makes Kevin sink back onto the couch. "Actions have consequences. Natural ones. You'll learn that here."

I bristle at his authoritarian approach but maintain my professional demeanor. "Mr. Reeves, I'd like to discuss your methods in private."

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 trees with increasing force. Dark clouds churn overhead, much closer than they were an hour ago.

When we reach the clearing, the teenagers are frantically reinforcing their structures. Mia and Tyler have created a serviceable lean-to, now covered with additional pine boughs. The brothers, Caleb and Jesse, have a small but solid shelter nearly hidden in the undergrowth.

Darius works alone on a much simpler structure, lashing branches together with strips of bark. Kevin stands uselessly nearby, looking miserable.

"Time check," Reeves calls, his voice carrying over the wind.

"Ten minutes," Tyler responds, checking his watch.

"Not enough," Mia mutters, struggling to secure a branch.

I move to help her, but Reeves puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. "They need to do this themselves."

"They're going to get soaked," I protest, jerking away from his touch. "This is neglect."

"This is learning." His eyes hold mine, challenging. "Sometimes the most important lessons come from failure."

"Not if failure means pneumonia." I step around him and approach Mia's shelter. "Let me help secure that branch."

Mia looks at Reeves, clearly seeking permission. He gives a slight nod, and she hands me one end of a length of cord.

"Hold this tight while I tie it," she instructs, and I comply, surprised by her competence.

Reeves moves to Darius, offering quiet advice but no physical assistance. I watch from the corner of my eye as he points out weaknesses in the structure, guiding without doing the work. Despite myself, I'm impressed by his teaching approach.

The first heavy drops begin to fall as the shelters are completed. Reeves inspects each one quickly, suggesting last-minute adjustments.

"Admin cabin for tonight," he tells Kevin, who looks pathetically relieved. "You'll bunk on the couch."

"What about Ms. Chaffeur?" Tyler asks, eyeing me with teenage curiosity.

"She'll take the spare bunk in the staff cabin," Reeves answers before I can speak.

"I plan to return to town," I correct him, though the rapidly deteriorating weather makes this seem increasingly unwise.

"Not in that car on these mountain roads." He points to the dark sky. "Storm's going to get worse before it gets better."

As if to punctuate his statement, lightning flashes, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that seems to shake the ground. The rain intensifies, soaking through my inadequate clothing in seconds.

"Inside," Reeves orders the teens. "Final assessment in the morning."

They scramble into their shelters, excitement and apprehension visible on their faces. This is clearly a test they're determined to pass.

Reeves turns to me, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. "You coming to the cabin, or do you want to evaluate from out here in the storm?"

The sarcasm isn't lost on me. "Fine. But I need to call my supervisor."

"No cell service during storms." He starts walking toward the admin cabin. "Landline works sometimes, if the lines don't go down."

I follow him, my shoes already sodden and my feet growing numb. The sensible choice would be returning to town, but even I can recognize when conditions make that impossible. I'm stuck here, in this primitive camp with this infuriating man and six troubled teenagers.

Perfect conditions for an objective evaluation.

By the time we reach the cabin, I'm shivering uncontrollably. Reeves pushes open the door and gestures for me to enter first. The interior feels blissfully warm after the freezing rain.

"Change into dry clothes," he orders, pointing to the bedroom. "I'll check on Kevin and start a fire."

"I don't have other clothes," I remind him through chattering teeth.

He disappears into the bedroom and returns with a flannel shirt and sweatpants that might fit three of me. "These will have to do."

I take them reluctantly. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Outhouse is twenty yards behind the cabin." His lips twitch at my expression of horror. "Calm down, I’m only joking. Bathroom is through there, and there's a privacy screen in the bedroom."

As I retreat to change, I hear him moving around the main room, speaking quietly to Kevin. Despite my discomfort and professional concerns, I can't help noticing how the teenagers respond to him. They're wary, but there's respect there, too. Maybe even trust.

It complicates my evaluation. On paper, everything about this program violates regulations. In practice, I'm seeing glimpses of what might be genuine progress with kids the system has failed repeatedly.

But regulations exist for a reason. My job isn't to make exceptions based on good intentions.

I change quickly, rolling up the sleeves and pants legs of the borrowed clothes. They smell like pine and something intoxicating. Him.

I push that thought firmly away. I'm here as a professional, not a woman noticing a man. Even if that man happens to be the most compelling person I've encountered in my carefully structured life.

Thunder crashes directly overhead, making the cabin shudder. Through the small window, I see trees bending in the wind. The storm has arrived in full force, and with it, my chance to see exactly how Jaxon Reeves handles a real crisis with his charges.

If nothing else, this evaluation just got a lot more interesting.