Page 1 of Tension with the Mountain Man
one
Sally
Theantisepticsmellofthe clinic clings to my scrubs like a badge of honor I've stopped wanting to wear. I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm already counting the hours until my shift ends. The irony isn't lost on me. I fought tooth and nail to finish residency early, to prove I could handle anything the medical world threw at me, only to land in Silver Ridge treating an endless parade of banged-up loggers who think a Band-Aid fixes everything.
"Dr. Jacobson?" Nurse Bronwyn pokes her head through my office door. "We've got another one coming in. Logging accident."
I suppress a sigh and pull my hair back tighter. "Let me guess. He didn't follow safety protocols, thought he was invincible, now needs me to patch him up so he can go right back out and do it again?"
Bronwyn's mouth quirks. She's been here long enough to recognize my tone. "This one's different, according to the call.Crew leader brought him in personally. Says it was equipment failure, not user error."
Equipment failure. Right. That's what they all say when they don't want to admit they took unnecessary risks. I've been the only doctor within fifty miles for two years now, which means I've seen every possible way a man can injure himself in the woods. Chainsaws, falling branches, machinery that "just malfunctioned"—always someone else's fault.
"Put him in Room 2," I say, already washing my hands. "I'll be right there."
The truth is, I came to Silver Ridge for simple family medicine. Sore throats, routine physicals, maybe the occasional broken bone from weekend adventures. Instead, I've become the de facto trauma surgeon for an entire logging community that seems hell-bent on testing the limits of human durability.
And now Vancouver General is offering me a position in their Emergency Department. A real ER with attending physicians, residents to teach, complex cases that would challenge everything I learned in residency. A chance to work with the best of the best, to prove that age is just a number when you've got the skills to back it up. No more small-town emergencies, no more being the only doctor for fifty miles.
I should be ecstatic. Instead, I feel conflicted. Which is ridiculous. This is what I've wanted since medical school.
I push through the door to Room 2 and stop short.
The man sitting on the examination table isn't what I expected. He's big, probably six-three with shoulders that strain his flannel shirt, but there's something different about his stillness. Most of my patients fidget, crack jokes, or make excuses. This one sits perfectly composed despite the blood on his shirt and the way he's favoring his left shoulder.
And he'sgorgeous. Not in a polished, city way, but in a rugged, capable way that hits me like a punch to the gut. What the hell is wrong with me?
"Mr...?" I check the chart Bronwyn handed me. "Reeves. Tucker Reeves."
"Just Tucker." His voice is low, calm. No bravado, no false cheer. Just simple acknowledgment.
Mine. The thought hits me from nowhere, so sudden and fierce it nearly steals my breath. I've never had a reaction like this to a patient—to anyone, really. This is insane.
"Right. Tucker." I move closer, my professional assessment automatically cataloging injuries even as my body responds to his presence. "What happened out there?"
"Cable snapped on the skidder. Caught me in the shoulder, threw me into some debris." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's reporting the weather. "Crew chief insisted I come in."
I raise an eyebrow. In my experience, loggers have to be practically unconscious before they'll seek medical attention. "And you didn't argue?"
Something that might be humor flickers in his hazel eyes. "Would've been poor example for the younger guys."
Interesting.
I start my examination. The dislocated shoulder, several deep lacerations along his forearm, and signs of a mild concussion. All consistent with his story, but what surprises me is his reaction—or lack thereof. No wincing when I probe the shoulder, no sharp intake of breath when I clean the cuts. Either he's got an incredibly high pain tolerance, or he's used to this.
"This is going to hurt," I warn before reducing the dislocation.
"I know."
Two words. No flinching, no bracing. I pop the shoulder back into place with a quick, practiced motion, and he barely blinks. The control is impressive and somehow incredibly attractive.
"You've done this before," I observe, starting on the sutures.
"Once or twice."
I wait for elaboration that doesn't come. Most patients feel compelled to fill silence with explanations, war stories, or attempts to impress me with their toughness. Tucker Reeves just sits there, watching my hands work with quiet attention that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
It's unsettling. And attractive, which is even more unsettling.
