Page 15 of Rescuing Dr. Marian (Made Marian Legacy #1)
TOMMY
Just like the previous four nights, I’d barely slept, hyperaware of Foster’s breathing in the bed across from me. Every time he’d shifted, my body had gone on high alert, remembering the weight of his hands on my skin in Hawaii… and his obvious lack of interest now that we were in Montana.
Because despite our heated exchange on the drive back from town that first night, Foster had retreated back into professional mode as promised. Every attempt I’d made to talk to him since then had been shut down by polite dismissal.
Over and over since January, I’d told myself to stop thinking about the man. That our interaction had probably been a blip on his radar—and not one he cared to remember, given the way we’d parted .
But experiencing it up close and personal? Seeing him act cool and distant where he’d once been so warm and engaged? Having him so fucking close but not at all in the way I wanted him? It was soul-crushing. I felt even more depleted and hollowed out than I’d felt in New York.
Thankfully, the first few days of the program had been busy and overwhelming enough to distract me.
Our schedules were packed with orientations, education sessions, and hands-on preparation.
Although we’d been paired up several times in the course of our work, Foster had made it very clear he wanted to keep things professional, so I gave him the respect he deserved and stayed in my own damned lane.
During the day, that had worked fine. At night, however, it had been almost impossible. Being that close to something you wanted more than anything else in the world and knowing you couldn’t have it was excruciating.
By the time my alarm went off this morning, I felt like I’d run a marathon in my sleep.
Foster was already up, dressed in tactical pants and a dark SERA T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that should have been illegal. He’d taken Chickie out and returned with two cups of coffee, setting one on my nightstand without a word.
The gesture was so thoughtful it made my chest ache.
“Thanks,” I’d mumbled, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
He’d nodded curtly and gone back to checking his gear, his hands moving with calm competence.
It turned out Professional Foster was somehow even more devastating than the man who’d kissed me breathless under Hawaiian palms.
I got dressed as quickly as I could and made my way out into the lingering chill of the Montana morning, needing a Foster-less minute to get my brain engaged and my pulse under control.
Despite the early hour, the SERA campus was already buzzing with instructors and students moving with purpose—some heading to breakfast, others coming back from the gym, chatting with coffees outside their cabins, or practicing harnessing techniques on the helo pad before the day heated up.
On the far side of the facility was a neatly arranged grid of clean-lined, single-story buildings that housed the classrooms, offices, dining hall, equipment garages, and the main building.
Beyond, hiking trails of varying difficulties led through the foothills onto Slingshot Mountain, where the snow-dusted mountain caps were pink-tinged in the morning light.
I sucked in a deep lungful of air and felt my shoulders sink down from my ears. There was something about the air here, or maybe the call of the birds, or the way the sky stretched out so big and vast, that was both comforting and inspiring. I felt settled… and also like anything was possible.
A much calmer Tommy Marian walked into the yard outside the main building an hour later and found thirty students gathered around Trace.
As our leader explained today’s mission—the first rescue drill—they buzzed with nervous energy, all of them eager to learn, to impress, and to get out on the mountain .
“Alright, listen up,” Trace began. “Everyone should already know which team they’ve been assigned to and which instructor will be overseeing your team for this first rotation.”
Thirty heads nodded.
I caught Foster’s eye across the yard, and we shared an amused look at their eagerness before he remembered looking was unprofessional , or whatever the fuck, and resolutely looked away.
“You’ll be searching for a missing kayaker,” Trace continued, “who didn’t make it to their pickup point.
Thirty-two-year-old blonde female, last seen at Hellgate Narrows near the Blacktail Overlook.
She’s known to paddle a blue Pyranha Scorch with purple accents.
That means this is possibly a swift-water rescue.
” He nodded to Tevita, the instructor who specialized in swift-water rescues.
“Group Four will be taking point on this, with the other teams providing support. Understood? Good. Everyone, gear up. You have ten minutes for prep and loading before we head to the river.”
My group immediately huddled together to discuss the best approach. “Okay, Group Two, what are we thinking for medical supplies?” I asked.
One of the group, a SAR drone operator from Maryland named Omar, frowned. “We’ve gotta port it all in, so do we wanna take a standard med kit? Or maybe pare it down a bit?”
Sierra Vaughn, an experienced EMT from Asheville, tugged open the flap of a large dry bag.
“Opposite, I think. We don’t know what shape the kayaker will be in, so we have to assume the worst—blunt trauma, hypothermia, maybe even spinal involvement.
I say we load up a hypowrap kit, airway adjuncts, and at least two thermal blankets. ”
I nodded. “Sierra’s exactly right. Don’t count on routine when prepping for emergency response. The most important lesson in wilderness medicine: triple-check your supplies before leaving base. Once you’re out there, what you have is what you have.”
Cody, a high-mountain ranger from Rainier, nodded. “Been there. You gotta be resourceful.”
Omar flushed. “Shit. I should’ve known that.”
“Nah.” I nudged him lightly with my elbow.
“If you were already an expert on everything, you wouldn’t be here.
Wait until it’s time to work with drones, and you’ll find that some people on your team have the hand-eye coordination of a rhinoceros.
” I mimicked moving a joystick in quick, jerky movements.
“That’ll be me.” Sierra sighed grimly. “He’s talking about me.”
Everyone laughed, and Omar brightened.
While the team finished loading up our gear, I couldn’t help glancing over at Foster and his team…
because apparently, my eyes were magnets, and Foster Blake was one large, sexy, muscular metal filing.
His students had jumped into action, too, pulling out radios and topo maps of the area and asking Foster for access to the person who’d reported the woman missing.
“Jasper Lloyd,” Foster said, calling out a name from his roster. One of his students snapped his head up in surprise. “You’re on point for nav once we hit the river. Just like we talked about yesterday, yeah? ”
“Whoa, no.” Jasper shook his head. “I’m an EMT who relies heavily on the apps, if I’m being honest. No sense of direction. Let Kofi do it. He’s?—”
“I asked you. And I trust you to do it.” Foster gave the man the full weight of his attention, and even from this distance, it made me shiver, remembering how it felt to be the center of his focus. “You’re here to learn SAR, right? You can’t search if you’re shit at nav, so let’s go.”
“Yeah.” Jasper swallowed and nodded once. “Yeah, okay.”
We loaded into the bus for our drive to the trailhead, and while the SAR teams worked their case from the front seats and the swift-water specialists conferred about possible rescue scenarios and water conditions, I reviewed medical protocols with my team.
The energy was infectious—everyone excited for their first real drill.
“This’ll be sick,” Cody said, grinning. “You think they’re doing tagline or tethered swimmer?”
Sierra shifted her backpack. “Don’t get my hopes up. For all we know, she’ll be unconscious on the bank after taking a pee break.”
My team continued chatting excitedly after arriving at the trailhead parking lot and watching the other teams hurry up the trail. After several minutes, the radio operator for one of the SAR teams alerted us on the radio to a victim spotted in the water just southwest of Blacktail Overlook.
“Alright,” Sierra said, grabbing her pack. “Let’s do this.”
We headed out after them, keeping a quick but steady pace over the rocky terrain. But just before we arrived at our rally point, Foster’s own voice rang out over the radio, giving us new information.
“Blake to all units. Drill is canceled. We’ve got a real emergency. Climber down on the south face of Devil’s Backbone. Serious fall, unknown condition. Students and non-lead staff are to remain ready to assist. I need medical here ASAP. Repeat: drill is canceled. We’re live. Over.”
Devil’s Backbone was one of the steeper ridges of Slingshot Mountain, a jagged spine of rock with loose scree at the base, sheer drops, and terrain that punished hesitation.
As we hustled to the new coordinates, I took the radio from Sierra, my heart rate spiking as I switched from training mode to actual emergency response.
“Marian to Blake, we copy. Medical en route. We’re a minute out. Has someone contacted local dispatch?”
As my team and I entered the clearing at the base of the climb, Foster was instructing his crew: “Dr. Marian and I will make the climb for in-field triage and extraction.”
I raced forward while barking instructions to Sierra to hand over the supply backpack.
The climber had taken a popular but advanced climbing route called Spiny Tooth that led up the steepest part of Devil’s Backbone.
Foster was already rigging anchor points, his movements efficient and confident.
When he worked, there was no wasted motion, no hesitation.
It was mesmerizing to watch—and I caught myself staring at the fluid way his muscles moved as he handled the ropes.
Focus, Tommy.