Lori Wilde - The Right Stuff

“You riding with us, Doc?” one of the medics asked.

Daniel’s head came up then, his eyes meeting Taylor’s and she realized he’d completely forgotten about her until that moment. She stood there barefooted, holding her five-hundred-dollar sandals, as a gaggle of airmen ogled her. She felt distinctly out of place.

“We’ll meet you there.”

We. He was taking her with him.

The ambulance raced off and Daniel commandeered a Jeep that was parked outside the hangar. “Get in,” he said.

She climbed in beside him, slipping on her shoes as he drove. Her pulse pounded in her temples, her head spun, overwhelmed by what she’d just witnessed.

“I thought you were a flight surgeon to the astronauts,” she said.

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respond to emergencies.”

“I didn’t mean that,” she corrected. “Of course you’d respond to any emergency. I did some research before coming here and I was surprised to learn a flight surgeon isn’t really a surgeon. It’s just what they call the doctors who take care of the flight team.”

“I’m an actual surgeon as well. Trained in a field hospital in Iraq.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?”

“So you won’t be following this airman’s case?”

“No, I’m just going along to make sure everyone is okay and to brief the physician who’ll be taking over his care.”

“I see. How severe are the man’s injuries?”

“When the jack collapsed, the Jeep fell on his chest.”

Taylor hissed in a breath.

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