Page 13 of Tension with the Mountain Man
"Good." I tighten my arms around her. "Because I'm not letting you go."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both."
She laughs, the sound filling my chest with warmth. "I can live with that."
six
Sally
Iwakeupfeelingmore rested than I have in months. Sunlight streams through Tucker's bedroom window, casting everything in a golden glow, and for a moment I let myself just enjoy the sensation of being held, protected, cherished.
Then my phone starts ringing.
"Shit," I mutter, reaching for it on his nightstand. "Dr. Jacobson."
"Sally, we've got a situation." Bronwyn's voice is tight with stress. "There's been an accident at the north logging site. Danny Marsh is coming in. A tree came down wrong, missed him by inches. He's shaken up but conscious. Marcus is driving him in now."
I'm instantly awake, already reaching for my clothes scattered on Tucker's floor. "How bad?"
"Concussion, possible internal injuries from when he dove for cover."
"I'm on my way." I hang up and start pulling on yesterday's dress, acutely aware of Tucker sitting up behind me.
"What happened?" His voice is still rough with sleep.
"Accident at the north site. Danny's hurt—close call with a falling tree." I turn to look at him and watch the color drain from his face.
"The north site." His voice goes flat. "The widow maker I flagged on Thursday."
"Tucker."
"It was my day off yesterday." He's out of bed, reaching for his jeans. "I should have gone in anyway. Should have made sure they dealt with it properly."
"You can't work seven days a week."
"John died on my day off too." The words come out sharp, bitter. "I was dealing with paperwork. Wasn't there."
My heart breaks for him, but there's no time. "I have to go. Danny needs—"
"I'm coming with you."
We drive separately, him following my car in his truck. By the time we reach the clinic, Bill's pickup is already there. He and another logger are helping Danny through the door.
"What happened?" I ask Bill as we get Danny onto an examination table.
"That dead pine Tucker marked on Thursday," Bill says, his face grim. "Wind picked up this morning, brought it down while Danny was checking the skidder. He dove behind the equipment, but the impact threw debris."
I glance at Tucker, who's gone completely still in the doorway. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"Tucker warned us about that tree," Danny manages through obvious pain. "Said to stay clear until it was dealt with. I got careless."
"Let me examine you," I say, moving into doctor mode. "Tucker, wait outside."
"I'm staying."
The tone brooks no argument. For the next two hours, he stands against the wall like a statue while I work—checking Danny's pupils, ordering X-rays, running a CT scan. Thankfully, there's no internal bleeding. Concussion, three cracked ribs, multiple contusions, but he'll recover.
