Page 10 of Sniper Daddy
After Eli leaves, Boyd helps me settle back into bed. He brings me water and a fresh muffin from the basket the women keep restocking. I eat slowly, savoring the sweet blueberry taste. The cabin feels warmer today. Safer. I trust Boyd now. I feel it in my bones. He hasn’t left my side for days. He’s fed me, helped me wash my face, adjusted pillows a hundred times, and never once made me feel like a burden.
But the future keeps creeping in at the edges of my mind. What happens when I’m healed? When I can walk out of this cabin on my own? I don’t want to think about leaving. I don’t want to think about going back to the world where my father can find me. So I push the worry down and look at Boyd instead.
“What do you like to do for fun?” I ask. The question feels light and normal after everything we’ve been through. I need normal right now.
He settles into the chair beside the bed, rifle still within easy reach against the wall. He thinks for a second, like the question surprises him.
“I like walking in nature,” he says. “Quiet trails. Early mornings when the mountain’s still waking up. And bird watching.”
I blink. Then I giggle. I can’t help it. The big, silent, rifle-carrying man who pulled me out of a wrecked car likes… bird watching.
Boyd raises one eyebrow. “Something funny about that?”
“No,” I say, still smiling. “It’s just… unexpected. You seem more like the type to stare at a target through a scope for hours, not watch little birds.”
He shrugs, but his eyes are warm. “The scope work taught me patience. Bird watching is the same thing. You sit still. You watch. You learn their patterns. Their colors. Their calls. It’s peaceful.”
I like the way he says it. Peaceful. Like the word itself relaxes him.
“Show me,” I say. “If you have books or something. I want to see what you like.”
He stands and walks over to the small bookshelf in the corner. He pulls out three worn field guides and brings them back to the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress this time, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his arm against mine. He opens the first book to a page marked with a small scrap of paper.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says. “Mountain bluebird. See the color?”
He tilts the book so I can see the photograph. The bird is a striking blue, almost electric against the sky.
“They nest up here in the spring,” he continues. “The males are brighter than the females. They do this little display flight when they’re trying to impress a mate. Wings spread, fluttering like they’re showing off.”
I trace the picture with my finger. “It’s beautiful. Do you see them often?”
“Every spring. I have a spot on the ridge where I sit for hours. No rifle. Just binoculars and quiet.”
He flips to another page. “This one is a Clark’s nutcracker. Smart bird. They hide thousands of pine seeds and rememberwhere they put them months later. They help the forest grow by forgetting a few.”
I listen as he turns pages, his voice low and steady. He tells me about the white-breasted nuthatch that walks down tree trunks headfirst. About the golden eagle that rides the mountain thermals so high it looks like a speck against the clouds. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t make it feel like a lesson. He just shares what he loves, and I soak up every word.
I watch his hands as he turns the pages. Strong, calloused, but gentle with the books. I watch the way his eyes soften when he talks about the birds. This is a side of him I haven’t seen before. The sniper who can sit perfectly still for hours, watching the world instead of hunting it.
“You’re really good at this,” I say after a while. “Explaining things. Making them interesting.”
He closes the book and sets it on the nightstand. “Never had anyone to tell before.”
The words hang between us. I feel a little flutter in my chest. I like being the first person he’s shared this with. I like it more than I should.
We spend the rest of the afternoon like that. He shows me more pictures. I ask questions. He answers every one with the same quiet patience. When my leg starts to ache, he helps me shift positions without me having to ask. When I get tired, he sets the books aside and lets me rest.
Later that evening, after Eli stops by for his nightly check, I feel brave enough to say what has been on my mind all day.
“Boyd?”
He looks up from the fire he’s stoking. “Yeah?”
“What happens when I’m healed? When I can walk out of here on my own?”
He sets the poker down and comes back to the chair. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, steady and sure. “You don’t have to think about that yet,” he says finally. “You’re still healing. There’s time.”
I nod, but the worry stays. I don’t want to leave. I like the quiet of this cabin. I like the way Boyd watches over me. I like the way the women check on me and the way the mountain feels like it is wrapping itself around me. But I know I can’t stay forever. Not when my father is still out there.
