Page 1 of Emergency with the Mountain Man
one
Norma
Thecallcomesinat seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning, just as I'm finishing my second cup of coffee and reviewing the day's appointments at my new veterinary practice.
"Dr. McKenzie? This is Jake Webster. We've got an injured black bear cub at our worksite. Looks like she got too close to our equipment and took a hit. She's breathing but not moving much."
My stomach drops. A bear cub means a mother bear somewhere nearby, which means extreme danger for everyone involved. But an injured baby animal triggers every instinct I have as a wildlife veterinarian.
"How far from the mother?" I ask, already grabbing my emergency kit.
"That's the thing—we haven't seen an adult bear in the area for days. Think this little one might be orphaned. She's maybe four months old, not much bigger than a large dog."
Relief and concern war in my chest. No immediate threat from a protective mother, but an orphaned cub has its own complications.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Do NOT let anyone approach her, even if she looks unconscious. And keep the worksite completely quiet."
"Already done. We've shut down all equipment and moved the crew back. I'll meet you at the access road."
The voice is calm, competent, with a slight rasp that suggests someone who works outdoors. Jake Webster. I've heard the name around town in my three weeks since arriving in Silver Ridge. Apparently, he’s quite the eligible bachelor.
I load my truck with supplies, mind already running through possible treatments. Head trauma, internal bleeding, broken bones, any or all could be fatal for a young bear. If she survives, I'll need to contact wildlife rehabilitation services, which means a trip to Vancouver at minimum.
The logging site is fifteen minutes outside town, up a winding mountain road that tests my truck's suspension. I've been dreading this kind of call since opening my practice here. Wildlife emergencies are exactly why I became a veterinarian, but they're also inherently dangerous in ways that treating domestic animals never is.
The access road is marked by orange cones and a man leaning against a pickup truck that's seen better days. Even from a distance, he's impressive, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing work clothes that emphasize rather than hide his powerful build. Dark hair under a baseball cap, stubble that suggests he started work before dawn.
When he straightens as I approach, I catch my breath. Jake is gorgeous in a completely unpretentious way. Strong jaw, warm brown eyes, and hands that look like they could build anything or hold anything precious with equal skill.
Not that I'm noticing. I swore off men after my disaster of a relationship with Sebastian in Calgary. Especially charming, outdoorsy men who probably have a different woman every weekend.
"Dr. McKenzie?" He steps forward with an easy smile that makes my pulse skip. "Thanks for coming so quickly."
"Just Norma, please." I shake his offered hand, trying to ignore the callused warmth of his palm. "Where's our patient?"
"About a quarter mile up the logging road. I've got an ATV to get you there, or we can walk if you prefer."
"ATV's fine. The sooner I can assess her condition, the better."
He loads my equipment onto the back of a four-wheeler, then gestures for me to climb on behind him. The seat forces me to sit closer than I'd like.
"Hold on," he says, and I reluctantly wrap my arms around his waist as he starts the engine.
The ride up the mountain would be beautiful under other circumstances. Dense forest, glimpses of snow-capped peaks, the kind of pristine wilderness that drew me to Silver Ridge in the first place. But right now, all I can focus on is the solid warmth of Jake's back against my chest and the way his muscles shift as he navigates the rough terrain.
Stop it, Norma. You're here to treat an injured animal, not ogle the local lumber crew.
The logging site appears around a bend, a clearing dotted with massive equipment, all silent and still. Men in hard hats and high-vis vests cluster near the tree line, speaking in hushed voices. The respect they're showing for the injured animal says good things about this crew.
"There," Jake says, pointing to a fallen log about fifty yards away. "She's been there for about two hours. Hasn't moved except for breathing."
I can see her now—a small, dark form that looks heartbreakingly still. My training kicks in, pushing aside everything except the need to help.
"I'll need absolute quiet," I tell Jake as we approach. "Even sedated, a frightened bear can do serious damage."
"You got it."
He signals to his crew, and the silence that follows is complete except for bird calls and wind in the trees. These men understand the seriousness of the situation, which makes my job infinitely easier.
