Page 9 of Wrecked on the Mountain

It's been years since anyone called meSergeant Striker, but the nickname stuck.

Earned it in Afghanistan for taking out targets. One shot, one kill.Strike.

These days I use that same precision to bring people home alive instead of putting them in the ground. Different mission, same skills. It was military first, then mountain rescue.

I deal with the same principles daily… Read the terrain, assess the threat, adapt or die. Rinse and repeat. Whether it's terrorists or hypothermic hikers, the fundamentals don't change.

She stares at my hand for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to play nice or tell me to go fuck myself.

To my surprise, she reaches out and shakes my hand.

Her palm is soft but strong.Surgeon's hands. The contact sends heat racing through my bloodstream, and from the way her pupils dilate, she feels it too.

I should let go. Professional courtesy and all that.

Instead, I trace my thumb across her knuckles and watch her breath catch.

"Brooke," she says, and her voice is slightly breathless now.

"Brooke." I don't let go of her hand immediately. "Pretty name. So what brings you to Stone River Mountain, Brooke? Besides the apparent wood-chopping challenges."

"Work, actually." She tries to extract her hand, but I hold on just long enough to make it interesting. "Despite my pathetic attempts at chopping wood, believe it or not, I'm starting a position with the local Mountain Rescue tomorrow."

Bingo.

This is the moment I could tell her.

Could reveal that she's talking to her new boss, that I know exactly who she is and why she's here.

But watching her try to maintain her composure while clearly fighting the urge to stare at my chest?

This is too much fun.

"Mountain Rescue," I repeat, like I'm impressed. "That's serious work. You sure you're cut out for mountain emergencies? Because if that wood-chopping performance is any indication..."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "I'll have you know,Strike…I'm a trauma surgeon. I think I can handle mountain emergencies."

"Trauma surgeon." I whistle low. "Fancy. But can you handle yourself out here? Because mountain rescue isn't like some sterile hospital. It's messy. Physical."

"I can handle myself just fine," she snaps.

"Can you?"

I lean closer to the fence, and she doesn't back away.

"The mountains don't care about your medical degree. They don't care how smart you are or how many lives you've saved in your fancy Chicago hospital. Out here, it's different. It's about instinct. Survival. Things they don't teach in medical school."

I can see her temper flaring now, color rising in her cheeks, eyes flashing with the kind of fire that probably made her legendary in the Operating Room.

But I'm not flirting anymore.

This is a test.

I've seen her type before.

Brilliant city doctors who think three months in the mountains is some kind of wilderness spa retreat. A little break from their "real" careers before heading back to what they consider important work.

I studied her file thoroughly after my superiors slid it across my desk last week."We found your next temp,"they said, like it was good news. Like I haven't watched four temporary doctors come and go in the last two years, each one treating Stone River like a stepping stone rather than a community that deserves consistency and commitment.