Page 12 of Wrecked on the Mountain

I push through the front door and immediately smell coffee, bacon, and something that makes my mouth water.

Is that fresh bread? In a rescue station?

The entry area is like stepping into a high-end mountain retreat. Polished hardwood floors, framed action shots of dramatic rescues, and a reception desk made from what looks like a single piece of reclaimed wood.

Behind it sits a woman with silver-streaked hair and the kind of genuine smile that makes you want to confess your life story.

"You must be Dr. Shields," she says, standing up from behind a computer that looks like it survived Y2K. "I'm Martha, the administrative coordinator. Welcome to Stone River Mountain Rescue."

"Thank you," I say, grateful that someone here seems normal and professional. I've worked with some whackjobs in my life, so this is off to a good start. "I'm excited to be here."

Excitedmight be overselling it, but at least I'm not running screaming back to Chicago. Yet.

"Coffee?" Martha gestures toward a professional-grade espresso setup that probably belongs in a boutique café, not a mountain rescue station. "Fair warning, the boys like it strong enough to wake the dead."

"Please." I need all the caffeine I can get.

She hands me a mug that says "Number One Rescuer" and I take a sip that immediately makes my eyes widen. This isn'tcoffee. It's rich, smooth, with hints of chocolate and caramel that definitely didn't come from a standard office pot.

It'sdelicious.

"Jamie should be here any minute," Martha says, settling back behind her desk. "He likes to do orientation himself instead of pawning it off on the assistant coordinators."

Jamie.The coordinator's name is Jamie.

I've got images of someone older, gruff and battle-hardened. Maybe a retired forest service guy with a white beard and suspicious attitude toward outsiders.

"Is he... nice?" I ask, then immediately regret the question.

Niceisn't exactly the standard of professional inquiry I managed in my medical thesis.

Martha's smile turns distinctly amused. "Oh, Jamie's... well, you'll see. He's fair. Protective of his team and this community. But he doesn't suffer fools gladly, if you know what I mean."

Doesn't suffer fools gladly.Great. More pressure to prove I belong here.

I sip my coffee and take a look around. My dad would have loved this place.

He always said the best medicine happened in communities, not institutions. I can almost see him leaning against that leather couch, nodding approvingly at the maps and rescue gear. He would have gotten such a kick out of this whole operation, no doubt making friends with everyone within the first hour.

You're doing good work, little doctor.

I can almost hear his voice, and for the first time in months, it doesn't make me want to cry.

"Jamie should be here any minute," Martha says, hanging up the phone. She looks at me and smiles. "Stop stressing, Doctor. You'll be fine. He's probably just running late because Tommy Stewart spray-painted something inappropriate on the water tower again."

I'm about to ask who Tommy Stewart is when voices drift from what must be the kitchen area. Deep, male laughter and the sound of chairs scraping against floors.

"Breakfast crew's finishing up," Martha explains. "The boys start early around here."

The boys.Right.

I try to look casual as I peek around the corner toward the kitchen, and holy mother of all that is good and pure in this world.

It's like someone took my deepest, most secret fantasies about rugged mountain men and made them real.

Three—no, four—absolutely gorgeous men are seated around a massive wooden table that looks hand-crafted. They're all various shades of scruffy and muscled, wearing tightly fitted thermals and cargo pants, looking like they just finished the world's sexiest workout.

And the food.Jesus Christ, the food.