Page 27 of Rescuing Dr. Marian (Made Marian Legacy #1)

TOMMY

Morning brought awkward coffee and stolen glances across the breakfast table in the cafeteria.

Foster looked as tired as I felt, dark circles under his eyes and a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there yesterday.

He avoided my gaze, focusing intently on his eggs and bacon while Chickie begged shamelessly at his feet.

I’d made a point of staying at the bonfire until long after Foster had turned in.

His nonresponse to my comment about not wanting our relationship to be temporary had been a cold dose of reality.

This thing between us wasn’t just about what I wanted, and I was embarrassed, hurt, and guilty that I’d put him in a position where he had to hold his boundary with me.

He’d done a masterful job at avoiding me all evening, and by the time I’d slunk back to the cabin, he’d at least pretended to be dead asleep .

Now, I was stuck in the position of trying to act like nothing was wrong… while all I could think about was figuring out a way to smooth things over between us. We’d had a good thing going—even if it was only physical and only temporary—and I’d ruined it.

“Sleep well?” Robyn asked cheerfully, sliding into the seat next to me with her clipboard and eternal optimism.

“Like a baby,” I lied, forcing a smile while hyperaware of Foster’s presence two seats away.

The students were chattering excitedly about today’s exercise—a complex multi-team operation that would test everything they’d learned so far.

I tried to focus on their questions about medical protocols and emergency triage, but my attention kept drifting to Foster as he explained rappelling techniques to his group.

“Dr. Marian?” Lorelai, one of the students on my team in this third week of rotations, called down the table. “Could you repeat the hypothermia protocols you mentioned yesterday?”

I blinked, realizing I’d completely zoned out while staring at the way Foster’s tactical pants hugged his thighs.

“Er. Yes. Hypothermia.” I cleared my throat and tried to project professionalism while my brain was entirely occupied with memories of those same thighs pressed against mine.

“Always assume severe until proven otherwise in wilderness settings.”

Twenty minutes later, we were loaded onto the bus heading into the backcountry for today’s exercise. The weather had been iffy all morning—thick clouds building over the mountains and an oppressive humidity that made everyone’s clothes stick to their skin .

I found myself sitting across the aisle from Foster, close enough to smell his soap and see the way his jaw clenched every time our eyes met. The memory of his hands in my hair, the desperate sound he’d made yesterday when I’d whispered his name—it was driving me crazy.

“Focus,” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?” Foster asked, glancing over.

“Nothing.” Heat crept up my neck. “Just thinking through medical scenarios.”

Something flickered in his eyes—heat, awareness, maybe even concern. “Mm.”

I shifted in my seat, grateful for the noise of the bus engine covering our conversation. “Can we…”

He lowered his eyebrows and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “What do you need?”

His kindness and concern washed over me. For a split second, I wondered what it would have been like if Kari had asked me the same question in Hawaii when I’d expressed my confusion and anxiety over the wedding. I got the feeling Foster would help me in any way I needed.

Any way, that is, except giving me a real chance at something more than a summer fling.

“To go back to the way things were,” I said, almost silently. “I’m sorry I fucked it up.”

Foster leaned back and met my eyes. “Not sure that’s what you really want.”

“It is,” I said quickly before inhaling a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “It’s not. But it’s our only option.”

That was a lie, of course. I believed if two people wanted it badly enough, they could find a way to make it happen. I’d heard many stories of my uncles doing it when they’d found someone worth fighting for.

But I also knew Foster and I had only been… whatever it was… for a couple of weeks. Expecting him to even consider changing his life for me—or mine for him—was absurd.

He studied me for a moment. “You sure?”

I took a breath and forced a grin. “Yes, please.”

He rolled his eyes and nodded before turning back to answer a student’s question, but I caught the way his gaze lingered on my mouth for just a second too long in the process.

We were so fucked.

The training exercise was supposed to be straightforward—a multi-team rescue scenario involving a hiker who’d fallen down a soft shoulder into rocks and trees, sustaining multiple injuries.

SAR would locate and access the victim, medical would provide treatment and stabilization, and swift-water would handle extraction across a creek that had been swollen by recent rains.

What we hadn’t counted on was just how much more challenging Mother Nature would make it for our students.

The first rumble of thunder came just as Foster’s team had established a route up the embankment for the patient. I glanced up at the sky, noting the way the clouds had darkened from gray to an ominous green-black.

“How long do we have?” I called to Trace, who was monitoring weather reports on his radio.

Had these been untrained amateurs in a beginner course, we would have aborted the drill at the first sign of bad weather, but in this case, with advanced students, drilling in real-world weather challenges was a gift we couldn’t have asked for.

“Maybe twenty minutes before it hits,” he replied, frowning at the device. “Lightning risk is high. Foster’s team needs to?—”

The SAR lead on Foster’s team opened her mouth when Foster shouted, “I’m calling a halt for all nonessential personnel. Take emergency cover now!”

His words were punctuated by a flash of lightning that seemed to split the sky in half, followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it made everyone duck.

“Shelter!” Trace bellowed. “Everyone to the overhang, and I mean everyone!”

The next few minutes were controlled chaos as thirty-plus people scrambled toward a stone ledge jutting out of the mountain about a hundred yards away and the small cave nestled beneath it.

The first fat raindrops were already spattering the ground as we reached the designated shelter—a cramped space meant to hold maybe fifteen people in an emergency.

“This is cozy,” Cody muttered as we all pressed inside.

He wasn’t wrong. The cave had a reinforced entrance, which was why the SAR team had selected it as our emergency shelter.

Unfortunately, with our entire group crammed inside, there was barely room to breathe.

I found myself wedged against the far wall with Foster pressed against my side, his warmth seeping through my shirt.

“Everyone accounted for?” Foster called, doing a quick headcount across the stack of various backpacks and equipment scattered on the floor in the middle of the circle .

“All here,” Foster’s team lead called from near the cave entrance. “Weather’s expected to clear in sixty to ninety.”

An hour or two. In a space the size of a walk-in closet. With Foster’s thigh pressed against mine and the scent of pine, sweat, and whatever soap he used fogging up my brain.

This was either going to be the best hour of my life or the longest slow burn of all time.

Lightning cracked overhead, followed instantly by a boom so loud the cave floor trembled beneath us. A few of the younger students flinched, and I saw Foster shift into calming mode without missing a beat.

“It’s just noise,” he said gently to a woman from Oregon who’d gone pale. “Stone and earth are your best friends in a storm. This cave’s solid. We’re safe.”

She gave a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. You probably grew up in caves like this.”

“Wyoming,” Foster said, nodding. “We’ve got blizzards, bears, and worse… matchmaking mamas. But I’ll take a thunderstorm over a whiteout any day.”

“Says the guy who probably skis to work,” I said, trying not to think about the nice, small-town guys his mom wanted to set him up with. Probably a buff rancher in a cowboy hat or the local insurance salesman.

Foster caught my eye, and his mouth curved. “Only when Chickie pulls the sled too slow.”

That earned a few chuckles from the group, but Sierra raised her eyebrows. “Please tell me you don’t actually own a dog sled. Chickie would unionize after the first mile. ”

“No sled,” Foster admitted. “Though I’ve thought about getting a fat-tire bike for winter patrol.”

“Oh god,” I groaned. “You’re one of those.”

“What kind?”

“The kind who thinks forty below is ‘invigorating’ and wears crampons to brunch.”

Foster grinned, slow and wicked. “Forty below builds character. Separates the tourists from the locals.”

“I’m from San Francisco,” I said. “Winter there is sixty degrees and passive-aggressive fog.”

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “Explains a lot. Lightweight .”

“Ass,” I muttered, but I was smiling as I said it.

“How did the two of you meet?” asked Marcus. “You had to have known each other before this, but I thought Dr. Marian was from New York?”

Foster and I looked away from each other, both suddenly aware of how easily we’d fallen into this rhythm. How natural it felt to tease him, to see his eyes light up when he fired back.

“He is,” Trace said without looking up, scraping a hunk of mud off his boot with a multi-tool.

“You’re looking at a recipient of Manhattan’s Nightingale Valor award during his first year of residency.

He won it for his extraordinary valor and lifesaving leadership on-scene during a mass casualty event. ”

Marcus leaned around Foster to gawp at me. “What happened?”

“Train derailment,” I said brusquely, shooting daggers at Trace .

He winked at me. “He doesn’t like talking about it,” he explained. “Which makes it all the more fun to trot out from time to time. Remember the subway explosion that caused two trains to collide and one to derail? It was all over the news a few years back.”

I felt Foster’s eyes heat the side of my face. “You were the guy who did a field amputation ?”

I winced. “To be fair, the train did most of the heavy lifting on that one.”

Sierra’s jaw had dropped. She finally closed it long enough to form words. “That was you? For real? Holy fuck. I thought that guy was a med student.”

“The Subway Surgeon,” someone murmured in disbelief.

I shook my head. “First-year resident. And definitely not a surgeon. More like a scared idiot who only muddled through it because he happened to have had the best first responders from FDNY and a top-rated field surgeon on speed dial.” The attention was making me squirm.

“Hey, so, Foster and I met on an airplane. Someone asked how we met. That’s how.

He was sitting in front of me, and his seatmate was drunk off her ass.

Kept slurring her words and spilling vodka cran all over the guy. ”

Sierra shook her head as if still having a hard time believing she was this close to someone who’d been in a horrific medical emergency. “What I wouldn’t give to respond to a mass casualty incident,” she said wistfully.

Foster’s voice was dry when he responded. “That’s the spirit, Sierra.”

Trace must have felt guilty for putting me on the spot because he took Foster’s lead and ran with it. “By a show of hands, how many of you have actually been through MCI training? Because tomorrow’s scenario is going to test whether you can think on your feet when everything goes sideways.”

I tried to focus on his words, but most of my attention was focused on Foster.

Once the attention was truly off me and completely focused on tomorrow’s exercise, I leaned over and whispered, “Thanks.”

“How about ‘You owe me one, Doc’?”

Whenever his voice was that low and soft, it was like a hot breath on my inner thigh, all promise but not quite there yet.

I sucked in a breath and looked around before mouthing, “Promise?”

The conversation shifted to equipment maintenance and weather protocols. I tried to follow along, but the cramped space and Foster’s proximity were making it hard to concentrate. When thunder crashed overhead again, I noticed a few students checking their phones.

We’d been getting spotty cell service all day, so when the storm had sent us into the cave, I’d powered mine down to preserve battery.

When I powered it back on, the notifications came pouring in. Seven missed calls from Ella. Three from my cousin Alex. Two from my mom. And a string of increasingly urgent text messages. All seemingly sent within the last ten minutes.

My blood went cold as I read the latest one.

Ella

CALL ME NOW. Hazel and Avery have been in an accident. They can’t get Hazel out of the car.

My hands started shaking as I scrolled through the other messages, trying to piece together what had happened. The words “multi-vehicle” and “hydroplane” and “blood loss” jumped out at me like physical blows.

“Oh god,” I whispered.