Page 10 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Sleep is a joke.

I spend most of the night tangled in damp sheets and worse thoughts—replaying that kiss on an endless loop. The heat of his mouth. The bite of his fingers digging into my waist. The way he kissed me like he was starving, and I was the only thing left to feed on.

I analyze every breath, every flick of his tongue, every sound that escaped me. And reach exactly zero conclusions.

Except that I want it again.

Desperately.

Dangerously.

By the time I crawl out of the cot, it’s late morning and the fire’s burned low. Caleb stands at the stove, back rigid, broad shoulders tense beneath clean flannel. Not the same one from yesterday. That one was soaked through, clinging to every sculpted inch of him like sin

This one hides more, and somehow, that only makes it worse.

He doesn’t turn as I cross the room. Doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks when I approach. And his grip on the handle of the pan tightens.

“Morning,” I say, aiming for breezy. It lands somewhere around breathless and achy.

“Coffee’s ready.”

Flat.

Neutral.

Like we didn’t nearly combust last night.

I pour myself a mug, deliberately avoiding the memory of how he tasted—rain, pine, heat.

SIN!

The silence stretches between us like a live wire. Yesterday we found something easy. Quiet, yes—but companionable. Today, that silence feels barbed and threatening.

“Thanks for showing me the foxes.” I settle onto a stool across from him. “Got some great shots.”

“Good.” He nods, still not meeting my eyes.

One word. One syllable.

A fucking brick wall.

I can’t take it. “About what happened?—”

“Eggs are ready.” He slides a plate in front of me, cutting me off with more force than necessary. A thin crack echoes through the air as the ceramic plate meets wood.

Right.

Back to strictly nutritional exchanges.

Got it, Mountain Man.

We eat in silence, forks scraping across our plates, the rain ticking softly against the windows like it’s trying to fill the space between us.

His flannel is dry, his expression unreadable. I’m still damp somewhere under my skin, still burned from the inside out. He doesn’t look at me once.

Whatever that kiss meant to him, it’s been filed away. Locked up. Dismissed.

After breakfast, I escape to the window seat and pretend I’m deeply invested in reviewing my photos. In truth, I barely register the images. My skin still remembers the press of his hands. My mouth aches with phantom hunger. My thoughts are all static and heat.

Across the room, Caleb moves with the relentless focus of a man trying very hard not to think. He rifles through paperwork like it personally offends him. Tension pulses off him like a second storm system inside the cabin.

We’re both pretending nothing happened.

Neither of us is convincing.

And the worst part?

I miss the man who couldn’t keep his hands off me.

When I can’t stand the silence—or the thrum of memory still echoing on my lips—I abandon my camera and drift through the cabin like a ghost with nowhere to haunt. The space feels smaller today, like it’s pressing in, thick with everything we’re not saying.

I trail my fingers over the worn spines of books, mostly wilderness manuals and fire science texts, each neatly arranged. Maps cover one wall, edges curled with age and use, marked in red ink and tightly printed notes. His handwriting is clean, controlled, and repressed, just like him.

And then I see it.

A small wooden box tucked on a shelf near the fireplace. It’s too beautiful to belong here—carved with delicate patterns that don’t match the rest of the cabin’s rugged utility.

It looks… loved.

Kept.

I reach for it without thinking, fingertips grazing the polished lid.

It slips before I even know I’ve moved it wrong.

Crack !

The sound is too sharp, too final. Like a bone snapping. Or a promise breaking.

I freeze. The box is on the floor, the lid split clean off, a burst of tiny glass shards glittering like fallen stars across the rug.

Caleb’s across the room in the blink of an eye—no words, just motion, fast and sharp. He drops to his knees and gathers the broken pieces with trembling hands.

I take a step forward?—

“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, heat surging into my face. “I didn’t mean?—”

“Don’t touch it.” His voice lashes out like a whip. Cold. Controlled.

Meant to sting.

I freeze again. Hands up, stepping back like I’m the one who’s broken.

He cradles a shattered ornament in his palm—what looks like a bird, or maybe it used to be. The curve of a wing, a fragment of a beak. It’s beautiful, even in ruin.

“It was an accident,” I say, softer now. “Caleb… I didn’t know?—”

“You shouldn’t have been touching it.” His voice stays low, but the fury in it vibrates the air. “This isn’t a tourist attraction. These aren’t souvenirs.”

“I know that.” I swallow, guilt twisting sharply in my stomach. “I—I just—It stood out. I was curious. I’ll pay to fix it.”

“Some things can’t be fixed.” He stands abruptly, chest rising with ragged restraint, the broken box still clutched in one hand. His knuckles have gone bloodless.

It’s not about the ornament. That much is obvious.

The pain in his voice is the kind that’s settled deep in bone and refuses to heal. My apology stalls in my throat, useless in the face of whatever memory I just callously cracked open like the box on the floor.

“Who was she?” The question slips out—quiet, but sharp enough to cut.

His head jerks up. His eyes lock on mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

“What?”

“The redhead,” I say, gently. “In the photo by your desk. She’s the one who gave you the box, isn’t she?”

The silence that follows isn’t just tense. It’s suffocating.

I half-expect him to throw me out into the rain.

But he doesn’t. His face just… folds inward. Shutters down. It’s painful to watch.

Something fragile presses behind his eyes.

“Kim.” The name scrapes out of him like it costs something. “She was our team’s meteorologist. Weather specialist.”

Was .

The word thuds through the room like a dropped weight.

“She’s…she’s the one who died,” I murmur, the full picture clicking into place. “She was your?—”

“My fiancée.”

The word is final. Flat.

It lands in my chest with a jolt of pain so real it steals my breath.

Oh.

This is what he’s been holding back. Not just a tragedy. Not just the fire. But her. A future he lost in flame and ash.

“Caleb…” My voice breaks around the edges. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t.” He turns away, setting the broken box down with aching care. His hands linger there longer than necessary, knuckles still taut, breath shallow.

The silence after is unbearable. Not just awkward now—exposed .

And beneath the ache, something dangerous coils low in my belly. Not just because of the pain I saw on his face. But because I felt it. And I want to be the one who reaches past that barricade he’s so carefully constructed.

That’s the worst possible impulse, isn’t it?

I broke something that mattered, yet here I stand, terrified that I want to break more. I want to break through his walls. Watch them crumble. For me.

Not a ghost in his past.

"Sierra Station, this is Dispatch. Do you copy?"

He moves to the radio as it crackles to life, effectively ending the conversation.

"Sierra Station. Go ahead." His voice betrays none of the emotion I just witnessed.

"Update on road conditions. Landslide on the main access road. Estimate minimum five additional days before clearing crews can get through. Do you have adequate supplies?"

Five more days. The news should distress me—more time stranded away from civilization, away from my assignment. Instead, I feel a treacherous flutter of something like relief.

"Need to check inventory." Caleb glances my way. "Will report back within the hour."

"Copy that. Dispatch out."

He turns to me, professional mask firmly in place. "I need to count supplies."

"Do you want help?"

"Sure." From the way his shoulders droop, it’s clear I’m the last person he wants helping him. Me, the one who snooped. Me, the one who broke something precious to him.

We work in tense silence, cataloging food stores, water reserves, fuel for the generator, and other essentials. The mundane task keeps our hands busy while the unspoken hovers between us—his revelation, our kiss, the uncertain dynamic that shifts like quicksand beneath our feet.

"Enough food for two weeks, if we're careful." He makes notes in a small ledger. "Water filtration system is working, so that's not a concern."

"What about power?"

"Generator has enough fuel for emergencies. Solar panels handle basic needs when there's sun." He checks another cabinet. "Propane for cooking is sufficient."

The inventory takes us to a storage closet I hadn't noticed before, tucked beside the back bedroom.

Inside, shelves hold neatly organized supplies—everything from medical kits to spare blankets.

One corner contains what appears to be a small workshop, with carving tools arranged on a pegboard and several blocks of wood in various stages of completion.

I pick up a partially carved figure—a fox, its features emerging from the wood with remarkable detail. "You made this?"

Caleb hesitates before nodding. "Helps pass the time."

"It's beautiful." I examine another piece—an owl with intricately textured feathers. "You're talented."

"Just a hobby." He takes the carving from my hands, setting it back on the shelf.

"The box—the one I broke. You made that too?"

Pain flickers across his face. "Yes."

"I really am sorry." I meet his eyes, willing him to believe my sincerity.

"I know." Something in his expression softens fractionally. "I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry I snapped."

"I deserved it. It was my fault. I was bored and careless. I broke something precious to you, and I am really sorry about that."

This small concession eases the tension between us. As we finish the inventory, conversation flows more naturally, focusing on practical matters without the earlier strain.

When we return to the main room, Caleb crosses to the radio and checks in with Dispatch to confirm supplies and status. His voice is steady and professional—there is no trace of what happened just minutes ago, and there is no hint that anything inside him might be unraveling.

When the call ends, he turns to the broken box gently, like it might still feel pain.

His fingers trace the fracture, thumb brushing the splintered edge with reverence that punches straight through my ribs. Not for the wood. For what it represents.

“Can it be repaired?” I ask, hovering close enough to feel the tension radiating off him.

“The box, yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “The glass bird? No.”

“What kind of bird was it?”

“Golden eagle.” His eyes flick to mine, and in that moment, the air shifts. He doesn’t say it like he’s naming a species—he says it like he’s naming a ghost. "Kim studied their nesting patterns. Focused on fire zones.”

The breath catches in my throat.

That’s why he knew where to find the nesting sites. That’s why he moved through those woods like they whispered to him.

“You’ve been continuing her work,” I say quietly, but it lands between us like thunder. “Like I’m finishing my father’s.”

His nod is slow. Controlled. But his hands tighten around the damaged box like he can hold the past together with sheer force of will.

Something opens between us. Not just shared grief—purpose. The same hollow ache of wanting to give meaning to what was stolen.

“Why did you kiss me?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.