Page 2 of Tension with the Mountain Man
"How long have you been logging?" I ask, trying to fill the silence and distract myself from the way his presence seems to fill the small room.
"Twenty-two years."
Math puts him at starting when he was eighteen? Nineteen? Right out of high school, then. No college, no exploration of other options. Just straight into the woods with an axe and a willingness to risk his life for a paycheck.
"Ever consider a safer line of work?" The question slips out before I can stop it, sharper than I intended.
This time he does react, tilting his head slightly to study me. "Have you ever considered a more exciting line of work?"
Touché. "I'm trying to help people."
"So am I."
I pause in my suturing. "By cutting down trees?"
"By making sure the guys cutting down trees go home to their families every night." There's something in his voice now, a quiet intensity that makes me look up from his arm. "That's my job, Dr. Jacobson. Safety. Training. Making sure accidents like today don't happen."
Oh. Well, that's... not what I expected. I finish the last suture, hyperaware of his gaze on my hands. "So you're the responsible one."
"Somebody has to be."
The simple honesty in that statement hits me harder than it should. This isn't just another reckless logger. This is a man who's dedicated his life to protecting others, and I completely misjudged him.
"You'll need to keep these dry for the next few days," I say, falling back on my professional routine. "And someone should monitor you for signs of concussion. Nausea, dizziness, confusion." I list them off my fingers.
"I live alone."
"Then you need to be extra careful. Any of those symptoms, you come back immediately." I tear off aftercare instructions and hand them to him. "And for God's sake, take a day off. Let your shoulder rest."
He takes the paper, our fingers brushing briefly. "You don't take days off."
"That's different."
"How?"
I open my mouth to explain, then close it. Because he's right. I work seven days a week, covering the clinic during the day and on-call emergencies at night. When was the last time I took a real break? When was the last time I did something just for me?
"It just is," I say finally, knowing how weak that sounds.
Tucker stands, moving carefully but without obvious pain. He's even taller than I estimated, and in the small examination room, his presence feels overwhelming. Not threatening—just substantial. Like he takes up more space than his physical form should allow.
"Thank you, Dr. Jacobson." He pauses at the door. "And just so you know, you don't seem like you need to prove anything to anyone."
And then he's gone, leaving me staring at the empty doorway with his words echoing in my head.
How did he know I was trying to prove something? How did a logger I've never met before see right through the professional facade I've spent years perfecting?
I strip off my gloves and wash my hands, trying to shake off the lingering effect of his quiet confidence. This is exactly why I need to take the Vancouver job. Small-town medicine makes everything too personal, too complicated.
But as I write up his chart, I find myself wondering about Tucker Reeves. What made him the safety guy? What kind of accidents had he seen that turned him into the responsible one? And why did his calm certainty feel like a challenge I wasn't sure I wanted to face?
More importantly, why couldn't I stop thinking about the way my body had responded to him? I've never been the type to get flustered by a patient, but something about Tucker Reeves had completely thrown me off balance.
"Doctor?" Bronwyn appears in the doorway. "Your next patient is here for her blood pressure check."
"Right. Send her in."
I push all thoughts of hazel eyes and quiet intensity out of my mind. I have work to do, a career to build, a decision to make about my future.
