Page 4 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man (Forbidden In Fall Mountain Man #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

RILEY

Iwake to the sound of voices. For a moment, I'm disoriented, stiff neck protesting as I sit up on the too-short couch. Sunlight streams through the cabin windows, indicating the storm has passed. Kevin is gone, and my borrowed clothes are rumpled beyond professional salvation.

Perfect start to day two of my evaluation.

The voices come from outside. I peer through the window to see Jax standing in the clearing, surrounded by his teenage charges. They look remarkably alert for kids who spent the night in makeshift shelters during a storm.

I quickly change back into my now-dry clothes from yesterday, grimacing at their wrinkled state. My hair is a lost cause without proper products, so I pull it into a simple ponytail. Professional appearance matters, especially when your authority is already being questioned.

When I step outside, the morning air hits me with bracing coldness. The storm has left everything drenched but oddly refreshed, like the forest took a much-needed shower. Pine needles glisten with water droplets, and the sky stretches clear blue overhead.

"Nice of you to join us, Ms. Chaffeur," Jax calls, his voice carrying across the clearing. "We're evaluating last night's shelter performance."

I approach the group, conscious of six pairs of teenage eyes tracking my every move. "Good morning. I trust everyone stayed reasonably dry?"

"Mostly," Tyler grins, mud streaking his face. "We even fixed a leak in our roof."

"Impressive problem-solving," I say, meaning it despite myself.

Jax gives me a surprised look, as if he expected criticism rather than praise. I maintain a neutral expression, refusing to be baited into the "fun police" role he seems determined to cast me in.

"Today's lesson," Jax continues, addressing the group, "is fire starting without matches. Essential survival skill when everything's wet."

I open my tablet, ready to document more safety violations, when I notice he's created a stone-ringed fire pit well away from any trees. Each teen has a designated area with proper clearance. Basic fire safety is being observed.

Another preconception challenged. Irritating.

"Ms. Chaffeur will observe today's activities," Jax tells the group. "Remember, you're representing Peak Survival with your actions."

The not-so-subtle message isn't lost on me. He's warning them to be on their best behavior, reminding them that my report could impact the program's future.

The morning proceeds with surprising order. Jax demonstrates various fire-starting techniques, from flint and steel to friction methods. He's a natural teacher, patient yet demanding. The kids respond to his matter-of-fact approach, trying harder after each failure rather than giving up.

Darius is the first to produce a flame, his face lighting with genuine pride when Jax nods approval. Even Kevin, sullen after his night on the couch, eventually manages a small blaze.

I take notes throughout, documenting both the safety protocols and the educational value. By noon, I have pages of observations that don't fit neatly into my pre-conceived notion of a program needing shutdown.

"Lunch break," Jax announces after inspecting each fire. "Pack protein and trail mix in the mess cabin. Fifteen minutes."

As the teens disperse, he approaches me. In daylight, he's even more imposing than I remembered. Tall and broad-shouldered, with those startling blue eyes that seem to see right through professional facades.

"Thoughts so far?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Your fire safety protocols are adequate," I concede. "And the educational component is stronger than I expected."

"Try to contain your enthusiasm." His mouth quirks in what might be the beginning of a smile.

"I'm being objective." I close my tablet. "That's my job."

"Your job," he says, stepping closer, "is deciding whether these kids get a second chance or get shipped back to programs that failed them the first time."

His intensity strangely sends an entirely inappropriate thrill through me. I back up a step, needing distance to maintain professional clarity.

"The program's merits will be evaluated fairly," I assure him. "But regulations exist for a reason."

"So do alternatives to the standard approach." He gestures toward the teens gathering at the mess cabin. "Look at Darius. Three assault charges, expelled from two schools. Today, he created something instead of destroying it."

I follow his gaze. Darius stands taller today, less defensive in his posture. "One success doesn't validate the entire methodology."

"No," Jax agrees, surprising me. "But six successes this month, and fourteen last month might. Want to see the data?"

I blink. "You track outcomes?"

"Every participant, every skill, every behavioral incident." Now he definitely smiles, though it holds a challenge. "I may not have a master's degree, Ms. Chaffeur, but I know what works with these kids."

The use of my formal name stings after last night's brief intimacy. "Riley," I correct him.

Something flashes in his eyes. "Riley," he repeats, his deep voice doing unreasonable things to my pulse. "Hungry?"

The question seems loaded with double meaning, though I'm probably imagining it. "I should call my supervisor. Is the landline working now?"

"Fixed it this morning. Admin cabin has the phone."

I nod and turn toward the cabin, aware of his eyes on me as I walk away. Inside, I dial my supervisor's number, bracing for the conversation.

"Margaret Winters," she answers crisply.

"It's Riley Chaffeur. I'm calling about the Peak Survival evaluation."

"Riley! We were concerned when you didn't check in yesterday." Her tone carries a subtle reprimand.

"A storm took out the phone lines," I explain. "The conditions were unsafe for travel."

"And the program? Grounds for immediate shutdown as expected?"

There's eagerness in her question that gives me pause. This evaluation wasn't randomly assigned; Margaret has had Peak Survival in her sights for months. The program's unorthodox methods make our department nervous, its success rate, an implied criticism of our more traditional approaches.

"The evaluation is ongoing," I say carefully. "There are compliance issues, but also evidence of positive outcomes."

"Focus on the compliance," Margaret instructs. "We need documentation of all violations for the report."

"Shouldn't we also document what's working?" I find myself asking. "The behavioral improvements are notable."

"That's not our primary concern." Her voice cools. "Remember, this promotion depends on a thorough evaluation that allows the department to make appropriate decisions."

The implication is clear. A negative report is expected. Desired, even.

"I understand." I keep my tone neutral. "I'll complete the full evaluation as planned."

After hanging up, I stand motionless, Margaret's words echoing in my head. My promotion has been dangled as incentive for the outcome they want, not the evaluation the program deserves.

A knock interrupts my thoughts. Jax stands in the doorway, holding a plate with a sandwich and an apple.

"Thought you might be hungry," he says, setting it on the desk.

"Thank you." I'm genuinely touched by the gesture. "That's thoughtful."

He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. "Can't have you passing out from hunger during your important evaluation."

The sarcasm is there, but milder than before. Progress, maybe.

"The kids seem to be responding well to the program," I offer as a peace gesture.

"They're survivors." He says it matter-of-factly. "Most of them have been surviving their whole lives. I just teach them to do it better."

"Is that why you call it Peak Survival? Because they're already survivors?"

Something changes in his expression, a softening around the eyes. "Exactly. They don't need saving. They need skills."

I take a bite of the sandwich, simple but good. "Your data tracking surprised me. Most alternative programs don't maintain detailed records."

"Hard to argue with results." He moves into the room, sitting across from me. "Every kid gets assessed daily across five domains. Physical skills, emotional regulation, peer relationships, future orientation, problem-solving."

"That's... remarkably comprehensive."

"Judge Martinez insists on it. Says if I want to keep getting referrals, I need to prove it works better than juvie."

I set down my sandwich. "You know him personally?"

"He sent his nephew here four years ago." Jax stretches his long legs out, the picture of casual confidence. "Kid was headed for serious trouble. Now he's in college, studying forestry."

Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. "That's why the program continues despite its unorthodox methods. Judicial discretion."

"That, and the fact that it works." He leans forward, elbows on knees. "Look, I know what the regulations say. I also know those regulations were written for institutional settings with dozens of kids and minimal supervision. This is different."

"Different doesn't mean exempt," I point out.

"No, but it should mean evaluated on its own merits." His gaze holds mine. "Which is supposedly your job."

The challenge hits its mark. "My supervisor expects a thorough documentation of compliance issues."

"But not successes?" He raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like an agenda rather than an evaluation."

Heat rises to my face. "That's not what I said."

"Didn't have to." He stands, suddenly looming over me. "I know how bureaucracy works, Riley. Your department wants my program gone because it's easier to check boxes than to rethink approaches."

"That's unfair." I rise too, refusing to be physically dominated. "I'm trying to be objective."

"Are you?" He steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises. "Or are you seeing what you expected to see?"

"I'm seeing plenty I didn't expect," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.