Page 1 of Tension with the Mountain Man (Silver Ridge Mountain Men #2)

one

Sally

The antiseptic smell of the clinic clings to my scrubs like a badge of honor I've stopped wanting to wear.

I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm already counting the hours until my shift ends.

The irony isn't lost on me. I fought tooth and nail to finish residency early, to prove I could handle anything the medical world threw at me, only to land in Silver Ridge treating an endless parade of banged-up loggers who think a Band-Aid fixes everything.

"Dr. Jacobson?" Nurse Bronwyn pokes her head through my office door. "We've got another one coming in. Logging accident."

I suppress a sigh and pull my hair back tighter. "Let me guess. He didn't follow safety protocols, thought he was invincible, now needs me to patch him up so he can go right back out and do it again?"

Bronwyn's mouth quirks. She's been here long enough to recognize my tone. "This one's different, according to the call. Crew leader brought him in personally. Says it was equipment failure, not user error."

Equipment failure. Right. That's what they all say when they don't want to admit they took unnecessary risks.

I've been the only doctor within fifty miles for two years now, which means I've seen every possible way a man can injure himself in the woods.

Chainsaws, falling branches, machinery that "just malfunctioned"—always someone else's fault.

"Put him in Room 2," I say, already washing my hands. "I'll be right there."

The truth is, I came to Silver Ridge for simple family medicine.

Sore throats, routine physicals, maybe the occasional broken bone from weekend adventures.

Instead, I've become the de facto trauma surgeon for an entire logging community that seems hell-bent on testing the limits of human durability.

And now Vancouver General is offering me a position in their Emergency Department.

A real ER with attending physicians, residents to teach, complex cases that would challenge everything I learned in residency.

A chance to work with the best of the best, to prove that age is just a number when you've got the skills to back it up.

No more small-town emergencies, no more being the only doctor for fifty miles.

I should be ecstatic. Instead, I feel conflicted. Which is ridiculous. This is what I've wanted since medical school.

I push through the door to Room 2 and stop short.

The man sitting on the examination table isn't what I expected.

He's big, probably six-three with shoulders that strain his flannel shirt, but there's something different about his stillness.

Most of my patients fidget, crack jokes, or make excuses.

This one sits perfectly composed despite the blood on his shirt and the way he's favoring his left shoulder.

And he's gorgeous . Not in a polished, city way, but in a rugged, capable way that hits me like a punch to the gut. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Mr...?" I check the chart Bronwyn handed me. "Reeves. Tucker Reeves."

"Just Tucker." His voice is low, calm. No bravado, no false cheer. Just simple acknowledgment.

Mine. The thought hits me from nowhere, so sudden and fierce it nearly steals my breath. I've never had a reaction like this to a patient—to anyone, really. This is insane.

"Right. Tucker." I move closer, my professional assessment automatically cataloging injuries even as my body responds to his presence. "What happened out there?"

"Cable snapped on the skidder. Caught me in the shoulder, threw me into some debris." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's reporting the weather. "Crew chief insisted I come in."

I raise an eyebrow. In my experience, loggers have to be practically unconscious before they'll seek medical attention. "And you didn't argue?"

Something that might be humor flickers in his hazel eyes. "Would've been poor example for the younger guys."

Interesting.

I start my examination. The dislocated shoulder, several deep lacerations along his forearm, and signs of a mild concussion.

All consistent with his story, but what surprises me is his reaction—or lack thereof.

No wincing when I probe the shoulder, no sharp intake of breath when I clean the cuts.

Either he's got an incredibly high pain tolerance, or he's used to this.

"This is going to hurt," I warn before reducing the dislocation.

"I know."

Two words. No flinching, no bracing. I pop the shoulder back into place with a quick, practiced motion, and he barely blinks. The control is impressive and somehow incredibly attractive.

"You've done this before," I observe, starting on the sutures.

"Once or twice."

I wait for elaboration that doesn't come. Most patients feel compelled to fill silence with explanations, war stories, or attempts to impress me with their toughness. Tucker Reeves just sits there, watching my hands work with quiet attention that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

It's unsettling. And attractive, which is even more unsettling.

"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.

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.