Page 3 of Tension with the Mountain Man
The last thing I need is to get distracted by another logger.
Even if he doesn't seem reckless at all.
Even if he's the most attractive man I've ever laid eyes on.
Even if that brief touch of his fingers made me feel more alive than I have in months.
two
Tucker
Thetasteofbloodand the sound of snapping cable will haunt my dreams tonight. Twenty-two years in the woods, and I still feel the sick punch of adrenaline when something goes wrong. When the skidder cable let go, my first thought wasn't about my own safety—it was about the three guys working downhill who could've been killed if that machine had rolled.
That's what Dr. Sally Jacobson doesn't understand. What none of the medical staff seem to grasp when they lecture us about safety protocols. We're not adrenaline junkies looking for the next thrill. We're men trying to make a living in a dangerous profession, and some of us spend every waking moment trying to make it less dangerous for everyone else.
But, the way she looked at me when she walked into that room. Like I'd knocked the wind right out of her. I felt it too. That instant, electric recognition that happens maybe once in a lifetime. If you're lucky.
She’s mine.
The thought came out of nowhere, primal and absolute. I've never had a reaction like that to a woman. Hell, I've never had a reaction like that to anything. But something about Dr. Sally Jacobson made every protective instinct I possess roar to life.
I drive home slowly, favoring my shoulder and thinking about the young doctor who patched me up. She can't be more than twenty-six, twenty-seven tops, but she worked with the confidence of someone who's seen it all. Quick, efficient, professional. And beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with makeup or fancy clothes—just clean lines and intelligent eyes and hands that move with absolute certainty.
She thinks I'm just another reckless logger. I could see it in the way she questioned me, in the assumption behind her suggestion that I find "safer work." In her mind, I'm probably another knuckle-dragger who chose chainsaw over classroom and never looked back.
If only she knew.
The truth is, I started logging because I needed money for college. My family didn't have much, and student loans felt like an impossible burden. The plan was simple: work summers in the woods, save every penny, and start university in the fall.
Then John died.
My little brother was nineteen, two years younger than me, and thought he was invincible. Safety equipment was for other people. Protocols were suggestions. When that tree kicked back and caught him across the chest, he didn't even have time to scream.
I was the one who found him. I was the one who rode in the ambulance, held his hand while he tried to breathe around punctured lungs, watched him fade despite everything the doctors tried to do.
College stopped mattering after that. The only thing that mattered was making sure no other family had to get that phone call.
Twenty-two years later, I'm still here. Still fighting the same battle against carelessness and complacency. Still trying to honor John's memory by keeping other people's brothers alive.
Dr. Jacobson wouldn't understand that. In her world, education equals intelligence, degrees equal worth. She sees a logger and assumes ignorance, assumes recklessness. She doesn't see the man who reads safety manuals like other people read novels, who's taken every training course available, who knows the woods well enough to spot danger before it develops.
Still, she was beautiful when she worked. Completely focused, utterly confident. The way she handled my dislocated shoulder—no hesitation, no wasted motion. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it perfectly.
And those green eyes when she looked up from her suturing... intelligent, fierce, maybe a little lonely around the edges. Like she was carrying weight she didn't know how to set down.
I could help with that.The thought comes unbidden, followed immediately by the urge to protect her, to shield her from whatever shadows I glimpsed behind her professional mask.
Which is ridiculous. She's a doctor, accomplished, educated, probably planning to leave Silver Ridge for bigger opportunities. I'm a logger who never finished college, whose idea of excitement is a new safety manual and a quiet evening at home.
But I can't shake the feeling that she needs someone in her corner. Someone who sees past the competent exterior to the woman underneath.
I park in front of my cabin and sit for a moment, testing the range of motion in my shoulder. She did good work—clean stitches, proper alignment. I've had enough injuries over the years to recognize skill when I see it.
The cabin feels too quiet tonight. It always does after accidents, when the adrenaline fades and leaves room for darker thoughts. I make some decaf coffee and stand at the kitchen window, looking out at the forest that's been both a blessing and a curse for most of my adult life.
Tomorrow I'll be back at the site, investigating what went wrong with that cable. I'll file reports, recommend equipment changes, probably have to fight the penny-pinchers who think safety upgrades are optional. The same dance I do after every incident, trying to prevent the next one.
Dr. Jacobson probably goes home to a clean apartment, maybe a glass of wine and medical journals. She probably has plans, ambitions beyond this small town. Someone with her skills won't stay in Silver Ridge forever—she's just passing through, getting experience before moving on to bigger things.
