Page 51 of Rescuing Dr. Marian
Blue Team chuckled and fist-bumped one another.
“Diplomatic,” I said with a laugh.
Foster shrugged. “I’m a peacekeeper by nature.”
“You’re a competitive asshole by nature.”
“Says the man who diagnosed a sprained ankle from trash!”
And just like that, we were bickering again, our students laughing around us like this was the best entertainment they’d had all week.
Maybe it was.
The campfirethat night glowed like a beacon in the meadow behind the main building. Most of the students had drifted off early, exhausted from the day’s competitions and anticipating tomorrow’s early start, leaving just a handful of instructors scattered around the crackling flames.
I’d claimed a spot on one of the log benches, close enough to the fire to feel its warmth but far enough back to see the stars emerging overhead. The night air carried the scent of woodsmoke and pine, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called through the darkness.
Foster appeared at my elbow with a flask and two cups. “Bourbon, Dr. Marian?”
“God, yes.”
He settled beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his thigh against mine. The flask made its way around our small circle—Trace, Robyn, Monroe, Tevita, and a couple of others—but somehow, it kept coming back to rest between Foster and me.
“Alright,” Trace said, poking at the fire with a long stick. “Time for ridiculous rescue stories. It’s a SERA fireside tradition. I’ll start.”
He launched into a tale about a tourist who’d gotten “lost” just to meet the famous country singer who happened to be vacationing in the area, complete with staged ankle injury and a suspiciously well-stocked emergency kit.
I recognized the story since it was about my uncle, Jude, butI enjoyed hearing Trace tell it with all the embellishments that had been added over the years.
The stories got progressively more absurd as the bourbon flowed. Robyn told us about a search and rescue operation that turned into an impromptu engagement when the lost hiker’s boyfriend proposed at the rescue site. Another instructor shared the saga of a park ranger’s pet iguana with a talent for opening first aid kits.
“Your turn, Tommy,” Foster said, nudging my shoulder.
I took a sip of bourbon, feeling its warmth spread through my chest. “River rescue in North Carolina during my wilderness rotation. Got called out for a possible drowning, but when we got there, we found this guy with a broken arm, sitting on a rock in the middle of the river and raving about something at the top of his lungs. By the time we figured out he was upset about a fucking goat—which, by the way, sounds an awful lot likefucking boat—said goat had consumed half our medical supplies.”
“A goat ate your med kit?” Robyn asked, incredulous.
Foster chuckled beside me. “Please tell me you at least got the guy off the rock.”
I rolled my eyes. “Eventually. But not before the goat bit the laces off my boot, and I had to improvise with a vine just to get back to the trailhead.”
His laughter was big and warm like the man himself. Magnetic. Addictive.
Our eyes met, and something passed between us—easy and comfortable and charged with possibility. This feltright. Sittinghere, trading stories, the bourbon making everything hazy around the edges while the stars wheeled overhead.
Likekismet, Ella would have teased.
“Your turn, Sheriff,” I said. “And it better be good.”
Foster shifted, his shoulder brushing mine. “Search and rescue call last summer. Elderly tourist from Florida, supposedly lost on the Upper Maude switchback. We mobilized half the department, called in volunteers, spent six hours combing the wilderness…”
“Uh-oh,” Tevita groaned.
“And?” Trace prompted, already grinning.
“Found him at the Love Muffin—our local cafe—browbeating the owner, who happens to be my mother, and asking detailed questions about my relationship status.”
The laughter that erupted from our group was loud enough to echo off the surrounding trees. Even Robyn nearly fell off her log.
