Page 3 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man (Forbidden In Fall Mountain Man #1)

CHAPTER THREE

JAX

The storm rages outside, wind howling through the pines like a living thing. Rain lashes against the cabin windows in sheets, punctuated by thunder that shakes the foundations. I've seen worse in these mountains, but not much worse.

I stoke the fire in the woodstove, adding another log while Kevin snores on the couch. The kid fell asleep within minutes of getting warm, the day's drama apparently exhausting him. Teenagers. All drama until they crash.

The bedroom door opens, and Riley steps out wearing my clothes.

The sight hits me in an unexpected way. My flannel shirt hangs to her mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands.

The sweatpants are cinched tight at her waist but still pool around her feet.

Her hair is down now, falling in a straight black curtain past her shoulders.

Without her professional armor, she looks younger. Softer.

Dangerous thoughts for a man in my position.

"Better?" I ask, returning my attention to the fire.

"Warmer at least." She moves closer to the stove, hands extended toward the heat. "Thank you for the clothes."

"Can't have you filing a report about how I let the social worker freeze to death." I keep my tone neutral despite the joke.

She gives me a sidelong glance. "I'm sure that would violate several regulations."

"Add it to your list." I stand, putting necessary distance between us. "Coffee?"

"Please."

I move to the small kitchenette and prepare the percolator, an old-fashioned contraption that confounds most visitors. While I work, I feel her eyes on me, assessing.

"The landline's dead," I tell her. "Storm must have taken down the lines."

"Of course it did." She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "My supervisor will be concerned when I don't check in."

"Roads will be clear by morning." I set the percolator on the woodstove to boil. "You can file your complaints then."

"My evaluation," she corrects primly. "And you shouldn't assume it will be entirely negative."

This surprises me enough that I turn to face her fully. "No?"

She sits in one of the wooden chairs, looking small and out of place in my clothes. "The program has clear issues with regulatory compliance, but I've seen worse attitudes from the juveniles in state-run facilities. They seem to respect you, at least."

"They respect what I teach them. There's a difference."

"Which is?"

I lean against the counter, considering how to explain. "Most of these kids have never had reliable adults in their lives. Trust comes hard. But if they can learn to trust themselves, their own abilities, that’s a start."

"By making them build shelters in a storm?" Her tone is skeptical, but there's genuine curiosity in her eyes.

"By showing them they can survive more than they think." I check the percolator, which has begun to bubble. "Most of them believe they're worthless because that's what they've been told their whole lives."

"And harsh conditions prove otherwise?"

"Success under pressure builds confidence no amount of talk therapy can match." I pour coffee into two mugs and hand her one. "Though we do that too, before you write up another violation."

She accepts the mug, her fingers brushing mine. The brief contact shouldn't register, but it does. "Group sessions?"

"Individual. Mason comes up from town twice a week. He’s a licensed therapist who specializes in trauma."

She looks surprised again. "That's actually... impressive."

"Try not to sound so shocked." I sit across from her, the small table between us. "I'm not opposed to professional help when it's the right kind."

She sips her coffee, grimaces slightly at the strength. "What made you start this program?"

It's a personal question, the kind I normally deflect. But the storm has us trapped here, and keeping her talking might prevent her from finding more violations to document.

"Saw too many kids getting churned through the system." I stare into my coffee rather than at her. "In fifteen years of fighting wildfires, you go into a lot of communities. See a lot of lost causes nobody's fighting for."

"So you decided to fight for them instead of fires?"

Something about her tone makes me look up. There's no judgment there, just interest. In the firelight, her eyes are warm brown, almost golden.

"A career change was mandatory after an injury." I rarely discuss this with anyone, but something about the isolation of the storm and the late hour loosens my tongue. "Burning tree fell. Crushed my shoulder and broke three ribs. Doctors said I'd never carry a pack again."

"I'm sorry." Her voice softens with genuine sympathy.

"Don't be. Best thing that could have happened." I roll my shoulder unconsciously, feeling the familiar pull of scar tissue. "Made me reassess. Fire crew was working near a juvenile detention center that summer. Got talking to some of the staff. One thing led to another."

"That's quite a career pivot."

"Not really. Both jobs involve saving things worth saving."

She studies me over the rim of her mug. "And you decide what's worth saving?"

"The kids decide that themselves." I meet her gaze. "I just give them the tools to do the saving."

A particularly violent gust of wind rattles the windows. Riley glances toward the sound, concern crossing her features.

"Will the shelters hold?" she asks.

"If they built them right." I check my watch. "I'll do a patrol in an hour to make sure everyone's dry."

"In this?" She gestures toward the window where rain streams down the glass.

"Part of the job. I’m not a monster, the lesson is survival, not murder."

She sets her mug down decisively. "I'm coming with you."

"Not necessary."

"It is if I'm evaluating your program." Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I'm beginning to recognize. "I need to see how the participants fare in adverse conditions."

Arguing seems pointless. "Your shoes are still soaked. You'll need boots."

"I'll manage."

"You'll manage to get trench foot." I stand and move to a storage trunk near the door. After digging through it, I emerge with thick wool socks. "These should help the boots fit better."

She takes them with a nod of thanks, then glances at Kevin on the couch. "Should we wake him?"

"Let him sleep. He's got the easy assignment tonight."

"As punishment for provoking Darius," she clarifies, pulling on the socks.

"As a natural consequence." I hand her the boots again. "He sabotaged someone else's shelter, so he forfeits his spot in one. Simple cause and effect."

"There's nothing simple about rehabilitating troubled youth." She struggles with the oversized boots.

"Never said it was simple. Said it was natural." I open a closet and pull out rain gear for myself. "Nature doesn't negotiate or make exceptions. Neither do consequences in the real world."

"These aren't adults in the real world. They're children who need guidance."

"Teenagers," I correct her, shrugging into my jacket. "Almost adults with almost adult problems. Treating them like children is why traditional programs fail them."

She stands, testing the boots.

I hand her a flashlight. "State success average is what? Forty percent success?"

"Thirty-seven," she admits reluctantly. "But that doesn't justify methods that put them at risk."

"Calculated risk under supervision isn't the same as danger.

" I check that Kevin is still asleep before lowering my voice.

"These kids live with danger every day in their normal lives.

Gang violence. Domestic abuse. Addiction.

A night in a shelter they built themselves is probably the safest some of them have been in years. "

Something flickers across her face. Understanding, maybe. She doesn't argue further, just zips up the oversized jacket.

"Ready?" I ask.

She nods, and I lead her into the storm.

The rain hits us immediately, driven sideways by the wind. I instinctively put myself between Riley and the worst of it, using my body as a windbreak. The path to the shelters is slick with mud and debris, but the flashlight beams cut through the darkness.

"Stay close," I tell her, unnecessarily as it turns out. She sticks to my side like a shadow.

We check Mia and Tyler's shelter first. Their lean-to has held up surprisingly well, though water pools at the entrance. I kneel down and call softly.

"Status check."

"Mostly dry," comes Mia's response. "One leak, but we fixed it."

"Need anything?"

"We're good."

I move to the brothers' shelter next. Theirs is nearly invisible in the underbrush, the best design of the group. Both report being completely dry, their voices steady with well-earned pride.

Darius is last, his hastily rebuilt shelter the most vulnerable. I expect to find him soaked and miserable, a hard lesson learned. Instead, his structure has been reinforced with additional branches woven into the original frame. It's crude but effective.

"Where'd you get the extra material?" I ask him after confirming he's relatively dry.

"Found it," he answers, not quite meeting my eyes.

"After curfew?" I press, knowing he must have scavenged after dark.

"Had to." He shrugs, defiant but nervous. "Wasn't gonna spend the night getting soaked."

Rather than reprimand him, I nod. "Adaptation. Good instinct."

The surprise on his face is worth bending the rules. This kid needs to know his intelligence is seen and valued.

As we walk back toward the cabin, Riley is quiet beside me. The rain has slackened somewhat, though the wind still whips through the trees overhead.

"You're not going to discipline him for breaking curfew?" she finally asks.

"He solved his problem using available resources. That's the lesson." I steady her when she slips on the muddy path, my hand at her elbow. "Rules exist for safety, not control. He stayed within the area, didn't endanger himself or others. The objective was accomplished."

"That's actually a reasonable distinction." She sounds thoughtful.

"Try not to sound so surprised."

Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating her face, turned up toward mine. In that instant, I see something there that has nothing to do with professional assessment. Attraction.

Then darkness falls again, and we continue toward the cabin in silence. My hand remains at her elbow, ostensibly for stability on the treacherous path. Neither of us acknowledges that she's sure-footed now, no longer slipping.

Inside, we shed the wet outer layers. Kevin still sleeps on the couch, oblivious. The fire has died down, so I add another log while Riley removes the enormous boots.

"They're resilient," she says, watching me work. "The participants, I mean."

"More than most people give them credit for." I straighten, turning to face her. "Including your department."

"We're not the enemy, Mr. Reeves." She stands her ground, chin lifted.

"Jax," I correct her. "If you're wearing my clothes in my cabin at midnight, you might as well use my name."

Something flickers in her eyes. "Jax, then. And I'm Riley."

"I know." I step closer without meaning to. "Riley Chaffeur from Sacramento, here to evaluate my program out of existence."

"That's not my intention." She doesn't back away. "My job is to ensure the safety and welfare of those teens."

"And what about their futures? Their potential?" Another step brings me close enough to catch the scent of my soap on her skin. "Will your report consider what happens to them when they're sent back to programs that have already failed them?"

"I can only evaluate what I observe." Her voice has dropped to match my quieter tone. "But I observe more than you think."

Water drips from my hair onto my face. Without warning, she reaches up and brushes it away, her fingers light against my cheek. The contact is brief but electric.

We both freeze, caught in a moment neither of us planned. She's close enough that I can see the pulse beating in her throat, count the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her lips part slightly, and my gaze drops to them.

"I should check the fire," I say, my voice rougher than intended.

She steps back immediately, wrapping her arms around herself. "Of course."

I turn away, focusing on the mundane task of adjusting logs that don't need adjusting. Behind me, I hear her move to the other side of the room.

"I'll take the couch," she says. "Kevin can use the spare bunk."

"The couch is too short for you." I keep my back to her, not trusting myself to look at her yet. "I'll wake Kevin and move him."

"No need to disturb him." Her voice is carefully professional again. "I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself." I finally turn around, maintaining a safe distance. "Extra blankets in the trunk if you need them."

"Thank you." She doesn't quite meet my eyes.

"I'll be in the bedroom if you need anything else." I move toward the door, then pause. "Goodnight, Riley."

She looks up then, and for a second, I glimpse what might have happened if I hadn't pulled back. Heat. Interest. Possibility.

"Goodnight, Jax."

I close the bedroom door behind me, leaning against it. What the hell was I thinking? She's here to evaluate my program, possibly shut it down. She represents everything I distrust about the system. She's too young, too by-the-book, too different from me.

And yet.

There's something about her that gets under my skin. The way she stands her ground. Her genuine concern for the kids. Those eyes that see more than they should.

Outside, the storm continues to rage, but it's nothing compared to the one building inside me. I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much to risk it all on an attraction that can go nowhere. The program has to come first. The kids have to come first.

Riley Chaffeur is temporary. She'll be gone in three days, taking her report and her city ways with her. The sooner she leaves, the better for everyone.

I just need to remember that the next time I find myself close enough to count her freckles or notice the exact shade of her lips.

Sleep will be a long time coming tonight.