Page 16 of Wrecked on the Mountain

"Medical coordination," he says, still watching my mouth. "You'll join the guys for emergency response and trauma stabilization, as well as all the team training. Your job is to make sure everyone stays alive and functional."

The familiar weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders, but it feels different here. Lighter, somehow.

Maybe because this isn't about impossible surgical outcomes in a trauma bay where failure means devastating someone's family again.

It's not about those endless nights when I'd scrub my hands raw after losing patients, as if I could somehow wash away the guilt along with their blood.

When Jamie talks about keeping people "alive and functional," it doesn't carry the crushing weight of my Chicago mantra:I will never let another little girl watch her daddy die.

"I can handle that," I say with more confidence than I've felt in months.

"Can you?" He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Because field medicine isn't like your sterile Operating Room, sweetheart. It's messy. Physical. Sometimes you're treating hypothermia while hanging from a rope in a blizzard."

There's that challenge again, but this time there's something else underneath it. Heat. Interest. Like he's testing me but also hoping I'll pass.

"Are you questioning my qualifications again?" I ask, letting some sass creep into my voice as I pop a hand on my hip.

"I'm questioning whether you can handle getting your hands dirty." His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. "Whether you can work as part of a team instead of running the show."

"I think I can manage to play nice with others," I reply, stepping closer until we're almost touching.

"We'll see." His voice has dropped to that dangerous whisper that makes me want to do things that would definitely violate workplace harassment policies. "I've told you once, and I won't say it again now. The mountains don't care about your medical degree, Dr. Shields. They don't care how smart you are or how many lives you've saved in Chicago."

"What do they care about?" I challenge.

"Heart," he says simply. "Whether you give a damn about the people you're trying to save. Whether you'll fight for them even when everything goes wrong."

Something in his voice makes my chest tight. There's pain there, old wounds that he's covering with professional authority.

"I give a damn," I say quietly, thinking about the nine-year-old girl who swore she'd never let another child feel the same pain I did the day I watched my father die. "Maybe too much. That's why I'm here."

For a moment, something shifts in his expression. The challenging mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable underneath.

Then he steps back, and the moment's gone.

"Good," he says briskly. "Because in about an hour, you're going to meet the rest of the team, and they're going to put you through your paces. These guys don't trust easy, and they sure as hell don't cut slack for temporary personnel."

Temporary.

Right. I'm temporary. Three months and then back to Chicago, back to my real life.

Except standing here in this incredible place, surrounded by evidence of a team that actually cares about each other, with a man who makes my pulse race just by breathing...

Chicago feels very far away.

And for the first time since I left the hospital, that doesn't terrify me.

Chapter Four

Jamie

I need to stop thinking about her ass.

Specifically, I need to stop thinking about how it looked in those yoga pants when she was bent over trying to murder that piece of firewood.

Or the way she bit her lip when I caught her staring at me through that fence. Or how her fitted blazer hugged her curves during orientation.

"Jamie Michael Striker, are you even listening to me?"