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

two

Tucker

The taste of blood and 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.

The thought bothers me more than it should.

I've lived in this town my entire life, and I've never been particularly social.

After my brother died, I retreated into work and solitude.

Dating seemed pointless when I had nothing to offer except baggage and a dangerous job.

The few women I've been with over the years were casual encounters, nothing serious enough to complicate either of our lives.

But something about Dr. Jacobson makes me want to complicate things.

Maybe it's the way she challenged me, assuming things about me that were completely wrong. Or maybe it's just that I recognize something in her—the same drive to prove herself, the same weight of responsibility she carries alone.

Over the next few days, I find myself noticing her around town. Always alone, always reading something on her phone. She eats lunch at Juniper's when she has time, usually salad and soup, never lingering to chat with other diners.

She works too much. I can see it in the tiredness around her eyes, the way she moves like someone carrying invisible weight. When was the last time she took a real break? When was the last time someone looked after her?

I can't stop thinking about her. About the way she looked when she touched my skin, like she'd been hit by lightning. About the loneliness I glimpsed in her eyes. About how it might feel to hold her, to be the one she turns to when the weight gets too heavy.

Mine. The thought comes again, stronger this time. More certain.

I don't know what I'm going to do about it, but I know I can't just let her slip away. Not without trying.

One day, she's sitting alone in a corner booth, picking at a salad while reviewing what looks like lab results. Even from across the room, I can see the exhaustion in her posture.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk over.

"Dr. Jacobson."

She looks up, and for a moment I see surprise flicker across her features. Then awareness, interest, a spark of the same electricity I felt in the clinic.

"Tucker. How's the shoulder?"

"Good as new, thanks to you." I gesture to the empty seat across from her. "Mind if I join you? Looks like you could use some company."

She hesitates, and I brace myself for polite rejection. Instead, she closes the file and nods toward the seat.

"Just Sally is fine," she says as I sit down. "When I'm not stitching people up, I'm just Sally."

"Tucker works for me too." I flag down Juniper for coffee, noting the way Sally's gaze follows the movement of my hands. "Busy day?"

"Are there any other kind in Silver Ridge?" She takes a sip of what looks like her third cup of coffee. "Four stitches, two potential concussions, and one very stubborn woman who insists her chest pains are just heartburn."

I don’t press for info, because of patient confidentiality and all that, but I have a solid guess of who she’s talking about.

"Can't blame them for being cautious. Dr. Walsh was here for thirty years before you came.

He knew everyone's family history, their quirks, their fears.

People trusted him because he understood them. "

Something defensive flashes in Sally's eyes. "And they don't trust me?"

"They don't know you," I correct gently. "There's a difference."

She's quiet for a moment, considering that. "I suppose it doesn't help that I'm younger than half their children."

"Age is just a number. Competence is what matters." I meet her gaze directly. "And you're very competent, Dr. Jacobson. Sally. "

Pink touches her cheeks at the compliment, and I smile back. When was the last time someone told her she was good at her job? When was the last time she had anyone in her corner?

"Thank you," she says quietly. "That actually means more than you know."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I find myself studying her face.

"Can I ask you something?" I say finally.

"Sure."

"Why Silver Ridge? You could work anywhere with your skills. Why here?"

The question seems to surprise her. "Honestly?

I thought it would be simple. Family medicine, regular hours, maybe time to actually have a life outside the hospital.

" She laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"Turns out small-town medicine is just as demanding as big-city trauma surgery, just with fewer resources. "

"You miss the city?"

"Sometimes." She stirs her soup absently. "I miss the challenge, the complexity. Here, it's the same injuries over and over—logging accidents, farm mishaps, the occasional tourist who didn't respect the mountains."

Her words sting, but I push past it. "Sounds like you think we're all idiots."

Her cheeks flush deeper. "That's not what I meant."

"It's okay," I say, though her assumption bothers me more than it should. "I get it. We probably seem pretty simple from your perspective."

"That's not..." She stops, seeming to wrestle with herself. "I'm sorry. That was unfair. I know you take safety seriously. It's just frustrating when people take unnecessary risks."

"Like the idiots who get hurt in preventable accidents?"

"I didn't say idiots."

"But you thought it."

She meets my gaze directly this time, and I see something shift in her expression. "Yes. Sometimes I do. And that makes me a terrible person, doesn't it?"

Her honesty surprises me. "No, it makes you human. We all make assumptions."

"What assumptions do you make about me?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility. I could give her the safe answer, something polite and meaningless. Instead, I decide on honesty.

"I think you're brilliant and dedicated and probably the best doctor this town has ever had," I say quietly. "I think you work too hard and don't give yourself enough credit. And I think you're running from something, though I don't know what."

Her breath catches slightly. "That's quite an assessment from someone who's known me for three days."

"Sometimes outsiders see things more clearly."

She looks away, back to her forgotten soup. "Maybe they do."

We're interrupted by her phone buzzing. She glances at it and sighs.

"Emergency?"

"It's my job." She pauses, looking down at me. "Thank you for the company, Tucker. It was... nice."

"Anytime, Dr. Sally."

Sally Jacobson is definitely running from something. The question is whether she'll ever stop running long enough to figure out what she's running toward.

And whether I'll be brave enough to be there when she does.

More importantly, whether I can convince her that what she's looking for might be right here in Silver Ridge. With me.