Page 1 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

The golden eagle soars above the ridge, majestic wings spread against the backdrop of Angel's Peak.

My breath catches in my throat as I raise my camera, adjusting the telephoto lens with trembling fingers.

After three days of hiking, countless mosquito bites, and one terrifying encounter with a mother bear and her cubs, this moment makes every hardship worth it.

"Just a little closer," I whisper.

The magnificent bird banks left, sunlight gleaming off its distinctive plumage. I track its movement, heart pounding with the thrill of the chase. The perfect shot waits, suspended in the moment between breath and release.

Click . Not quite right. Click . Too distant. Click . Almost...

Dark clouds gather on the horizon, rolling over the mountaintops like a tide of smoke.

I've been watching them approach for the past hour, calculating how much time I have before the storm hits.

Not enough, according to the sensible part of my brain.

Plenty, insists the photographer in me who's been chasing this eagle for my father's unfinished collection.

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and ozone-never good. The eagle circles higher, moving farther from my position.

"Don't you dare leave." I edge closer to the outcropping, ignoring the first heavy drops that spatter against my jacket sleeve.

A low rumble of thunder echoes through the valley, vibrating in my chest. The rational voice grows louder, urging me to pack up and seek shelter.

I've been in mountain storms before.

They move fast and hit hard, especially in this part of Colorado.

But Dad never gave up on the perfect shot.

The eagle makes one more sweeping arc, golden feathers catching a final ray of sunlight before the clouds swallow the sky. My finger hovers over the shutter?—

Lightning splits the darkened sky, followed instantly by a crack of thunder that nearly sends me stumbling backward. The eagle vanishes, a speck disappearing into the tumultuous clouds.

"Dammit!"

Rain comes suddenly, not in drops but sheets. Within seconds, my equipment is drenched. I scramble to pack my camera into its waterproof case, but my rain cover flaps uselessly in the wind, torn from my backpack by the force of the gale.

Water streams down my face, into my eyes, soaking through layers meant to protect against light showers, not biblical floods. I abandon the tripod, cradling my camera bag against my chest as I scan the ridge for shelter.

The storm transforms familiar terrain into an alien landscape. Trails become muddy rivulets. Visibility drops to mere feet. Another lightning strike illuminates a dense copse of trees to my right. Not ideal for lightning, but better than standing exposed on the ridge.

My boots slip on rain-slicked stone as I half-run, half-slide down the slope toward the tree line. One misstep sends me sprawling, my knee colliding with a jagged rock. Pain lances through my leg, but adrenaline keeps me moving.

The relative cover of pine boughs offers little respite. Water finds its way through the canopy, soaking me further. Lightning illuminates the valley again, closer this time, followed immediately by a thunderclap that drowns out my curse.

Through the curtain of rain, I spot something—a structure nestled among the trees further down the slope. A cabin? A shed? At this point, even a damn outhouse would be welcome.

I clutch my camera bag tighter and push forward, ignoring the throbbing in my knee. Each step becomes a negotiation with mud and gravity. The wind whips my face with wet strands of hair that have rebelliously escaped from my once-secure ponytail.

As I draw closer, the building's shape solidifies. A ranger station, judging by the forest service logo visible even through the downpour. Relief floods through me stronger than the storm. Civilization. Shelter. Maybe even a first aid kit for my bleeding knee.

The wooden steps creak beneath my weight as I climb to the covered porch. Rain drums against the roof, a deafening percussion that almost drowns out my pounding on the door. Lightning flares again, illuminating the station's windows—warm light glows from within. Someone's home.

I bang harder, desperation lending strength to my fist.

The door swings open with such sudden force that I stumble inward and straight into the arms of a man.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his expression is as thunderous as the sky.

Dark hair falls across his forehead, nearly touching eyebrows drawn together in annoyance and surprise.

His jaw—covered with at least three days of stubble—clenches as he takes in my bedraggled appearance.

"Station's closed to visitors." His voice is low, graveled, like he doesn't use it often.

"I'm not a visitor." Water streams from my hair, pooling at my feet. "I'm a half-drowned photographer who's about to lose ten thousand dollars worth of equipment if I don't get out of this storm."

Another lightning strike punctuates my statement, close enough that the subsequent thunder rattles the windows. The man's gaze flicks from my face to my camera bag, then to the storm raging behind me.

That's when our eyes truly meet, and something unexpected jolts through me. His eyes are the color of forest moss after rain, deep green with flecks of amber. They widen slightly, an almost imperceptible reaction that sends a strange heat through my chilled body.

"Please." The word escapes without permission, embarrassingly close to begging.

He steps back from the doorway, a reluctant invitation. "You're tracking mud."

Not "come in" or "let me help you." Just an observation about the trail of muck following me into his pristine domain. Charming.

"Stellar observation skills. Must be why they made you a ranger." I clutch my camera bag closer, water dripping from my elbows onto his wooden floor.

The door closes behind me with a decisive click, sealing out the chaos of the storm. The cabin's warmth wraps around me, highlighting just how thoroughly soaked and frozen I've become. My teeth chatter as I stand awkwardly in the entryway, uncertain of my welcome despite being inside.

"Stay there." He points to a small mat by the door. " I'll get towels."

Left alone, I take in my surroundings. The station is smaller than it appeared from outside—a single room with a kitchenette in one corner, a desk covered in maps and logbooks in another, and a small sitting area centered around a currently dormant woodstove.

A door presumably leads to sleeping quarters.

Every surface gleams with meticulous care.

No personal touches adorn the walls, just official forest service maps and wildlife identification charts.

The ranger returns with a stack of towels, thrusting them toward me with minimal eye contact.

"Thank you..." I trail off, realizing I don't know his name.

"Caleb." He offers nothing more, watching as I set my camera bag carefully on the bench by the door before taking the towels.

"Harper Wells." I wrap one towel around my shoulders and use another to blot my dripping hair. "Wildlife photographer. I was tracking a golden eagle when the storm hit."

His only response is a noncommittal grunt as he moves to the kitchenette, filling a kettle with water. The silence stretches uncomfortably as I dry myself as best I can, hyperaware of the puddle forming beneath me despite my efforts.

"Your knee is bleeding."

I glance down at the torn fabric of my hiking pants, the smear of blood visible through the rip. "Fell on the way down." I shrug, trying to project nonchalance rather than the pain throbbing with each heartbeat.

Caleb disappears again, returning with a small first aid kit. He points to a chair at the small table. "Sit."

"I can handle it."

"Sit." The single word holds no room for argument.

I lower myself gingerly onto the wooden chair, wincing as I extend my injured leg.

Caleb kneels before me, his movements economical as he opens the kit.

His proximity sends an inexplicable wave of awareness through me—the scent of pine and woodsmoke clinging to his flannel shirt, the careful precision of his large hands.

"This will sting." His warning comes a second before alcohol meets raw flesh.

I hiss through clenched teeth, fingers gripping the edge of the chair. "Thanks for the heads-up."

The ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. He works in silence, cleaning the wound. His fingers are calloused but gentle, a contradiction that draws my attention more than it should.

"Not too deep." He applies antiseptic ointment and covers the cut with a bandage. "No stitches needed."

"Good. I left my suture kit in my other pants."

This time, the slight twitch of his lips is definitely real. Victory.

The kettle whistles, saving him from having to respond.

He rises in one fluid motion, returning to the kitchenette.

I watch as he prepares two mugs of tea, his broad back turned to me.

The storm continues its assault, rain lashing against windows, wind howling through the surrounding forest while I check out how amazing those pants make his ass look.

"Sugar?" He doesn't turn around.

"No, thanks. Plain is fine."

He returns with the tea, placing one mug before me before retreating to lean against the counter, maintaining distance between us. The warm ceramic feels heavenly against my cold fingers.

"So, Ranger Caleb, do you always welcome storm-stranded photographers with such enthusiasm, or am I special?"

His eyes narrow slightly. "Most people check the weather forecast before heading into the backcountry."

"I did check. It said afternoon thunderstorms were possible. It's afternoon. There's a thunderstorm. Forecast accurate."

"Possible means prepare for it, not ignore it until you're caught in it."

I take a sip of tea to avoid responding immediately.

He's right, which irritates me. I detest looking like an idiot. I did check the weather, and I may, or may not, have been a bit too eager to get in my shot. I don’t like that he’s pointing out my foolishness.

"I needed that eagle shot. It's part of a collection I'm finishing for my father. "

Something in my tone must communicate the deeper meaning, because his expression shifts slightly. Not softening, exactly, but less judgmental.

"Where's your campsite?" he asks after a moment.

"Blue Spruce Campground. About six miles southwest."

He glances out the window at the intensifying storm, then at the radio on his desk. As if on cue, it crackles to life.

"Sierra Station, this is Dispatch. Do you copy?" A woman's voice, distorted by static.

Caleb crosses to the radio. "This is Sierra Station. Go ahead, Dispatch."

"Flash flood warning issued for your area. Palmer Creek has overflowed. Roads to Blue Spruce Campground are washed out. We're evacuating campers via the northern route."

My stomach drops. My rental car, my tent, my supplies—all at Blue Spruce.

"Any timeline on road clearing?" Caleb asks, eyes flicking briefly to me.

"Not yet. Assessment team can't get in until the storm passes. Expecting at least three days before the southern routes are passable. Check in at 0800 tomorrow for updates."

"Copy that. Sierra Station out."

Silence falls as Caleb replaces the radio handset. He turns to face me, expression unreadable.

"Looks like you'll be staying here tonight." His tone suggests this development ranks somewhere between finding a dead mouse in his boot and discovering his coffee supply has run out.

"I can try to hike back another way?—"

"No." The word is sharp, brooking no argument. "Night hiking in a flood zone during an electrical storm is suicide."

Lightning flashes again, followed immediately by a thunderous boom that rattles the windows in their frames. We both glance toward the sound.

"Three days," I say softly, the reality sinking in. "They said at least three days."

Caleb's jaw tightens as he looks back at me. "The station has basic supplies. You can take the bed in the back room."

"Where will you sleep?"

"I'll manage." His tone ends the discussion.

Three days trapped with a man who clearly wishes I were anywhere but here. So why can't I stop staring at his hands? Or his ass. Damn those jeans.