Page 14 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

I scramble to obey, fingers trembling as I find the tool and snap out the tiny scissors. Together, we work—him holding the animal, me cutting the line, both of us moving as one. The fawn trembles, but doesn’t fight, trusting us somehow.

When the last strand falls away, Caleb checks the wound, hands gentle as he applies antiseptic. The deer’s breathing slows, eyes wide and dark.

“Will it be okay?” My voice is barely a whisper as I stroke the fawn’s neck.

“Should heal clean.” He eases his grip, slow and patient, letting the animal decide when to go. “Young enough to recover.”

The deer hesitates, then bounds away, white tail flashing. We stay kneeling, close enough to touch, the air between us charged with something raw and bright.

“That was amazing.” I turn to him, grinning, unable to hide my awe. “How did you know what to do?”

“Wildlife rescue training.” He stands, offering his hand again, pulling me up with effortless strength. “Part of the job.”

But there’s something different in his eyes—a softness, a pride, a deep, unguarded satisfaction.

In this moment, I see the man beneath the armor: fierce, protective, quietly aching for connection.

I see how he cares, not just for wounded animals, but for every fragile thing that crosses his path—including me.

And somehow, that gentleness is just as intoxicating as his hunger. Maybe even more.

We continue our climb, the air between us humming with the afterglow of rescue and the promise of something more.

Conversation flows easily, with each step and shared discovery. Caleb points out wildflowers, lichen, the faint claw marks of a bear on a tree trunk—his knowledge is deep, but it’s the way he speaks about this place that surprises me.

There’s reverence in his voice, a quiet devotion that turns every fact into something intimate. He’s not just reciting information; he’s sharing a part of himself, letting me see the fierce tenderness that lives beneath his rough exterior.

The trail opens onto a rocky shelf, and the view punches the breath from my lungs. Peaks serrate the horizon, valleys spill out in endless green, and a river threads silver far below. The Colorado sky stretches blue and bottomless overhead, so vast it feels like it could swallow us whole.

“This is incredible.” I reach for my camera, framing the scene, but nothing in my lens can touch the wild immensity before us.

“The eagle’s nest is there.” Caleb points, his arm brushing mine as he leans in. I follow his gesture to a nearly invisible tangle of sticks tucked into a distant cliff face. “Too far for a good shot without a telephoto. But if you’re patient, you might catch them returning.”

“I don’t see any eagles.” I lower the camera, searching the sky.

“They hunt midday. Should be back by afternoon.” He settles on a flat boulder, unpacking sandwiches and water with the same careful hands that soothed a wild animal, that steadied me on the trail. “If you’re willing to wait.”

I sit beside him, our shoulders almost touching.

We eat in companionable silence, clouds drifting across the sun, shadows chasing over the valley.

The world feels impossibly big, our worries suddenly small—yet the space between us is charged, every brush of his hand, every shared glance, a silent promise.

After a while, I find the courage to ask, “What happened that day? On Carson Ridge?”

He goes still, the question hanging in the air. For a long moment, I think he’ll shut me out. But then he speaks, voice stripped bare. “Routine evac. Lightning fire moving fast. My crew was getting hikers out before the flames cut off the trail. We’d done it a hundred times.”

I wait, sensing the weight pressing down on him.

“There was a family—tourists. Their boy got separated during the evacuation.” Caleb’s voice is tight, flat. Too controlled. “I doubled back to find him. Kim came, even though I told her not to.”

His grip tightens around the water bottle, plastic crackling under his fingers. His knuckles go stark white.

“What happened?” Something icy slithers down my spine.

“We split up.” His jaw flexes. “I should’ve stopped her. She said we had time, but fires don’t give a damn about your confidence.”

The silence stretches, brittle and sharp.

“I found the kid,” he finally says. “Got him back to the rendezvous point. But the wind had shifted. The fire jumped ahead. Cut her off.”

He doesn’t look at me. His stare is fixed somewhere past the walls, lost in smoke and memory.

“She was behind the line.” His voice breaks—just a fracture. A single fault line beneath all that granite. “She didn’t make it.”

The trail stretches ahead, open and endless, but it feels like the world just shrank around us. Like the trees are listening. Like the mountain itself is holding its breath.

The wind shifts, carrying the scent of pine and wet earth—but underneath it, something colder. Grief, maybe. Regret. The weight of everything he’s not saying coils in the silence between us, thick as smoke.

It wraps around his shoulders like a second skin, heavy and worn. The guilt. The what-ifs. The split-second decisions that splinter into a thousand sleepless nights.

And I swear—for a moment—it’s not the fire he’s remembering.

It’s her scream he never heard.

Her hand he never grabbed.

The part of himself he left behind in the flames.

“She trusted me to keep her safe. And I let her walk into a death trap.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, but every word hits like an ember. Controlled. Precise. Devastating. “She died because I wasn’t enough.”

I reach for his hand, covering it with mine. He doesn’t pull away. His skin is warm, the pulse beneath my palm steady but fragile.

“You couldn’t have known,” I say softly.

“I should have.” His voice is a raw scrape.

“Caleb.” I squeeze his hand, grounding him. “That’s not on you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, trying for lightness. “Two years of therapy says you’re right. Doesn’t change the way it feels.”

“So you came here.”

He finally looks at me, eyes dark and open. “Seemed fitting.” A beat, then he asks, “What about you? Always the wandering photographer?”

I let him change the subject, sensing he’s given all he can for now. “Always loved photography. My dad’s fault. The wandering came later—after my mom broke down when he left.”

He listens, really listens, as I tell him about the divorce, about the ache of loving someone who always leaves, about my habit of running before anyone can run from me.

He studies me, gaze softening with understanding. “So you keep moving.”

“Harder to lose what you never really claimed.” I try to laugh, but it sounds hollow.

“Does it work?” he asks quietly.

I think of my empty apartment, my half-lived life. “Not really. But it’s a hard habit to break.”

A shadow passes overhead—a hawk, wings wide, riding the thermals. We watch it together, silent, both of us craving a freedom we’ve never found.

Caleb’s voice is gentle, full of insight. “We make choices to protect ourselves, then forget they were choices at all.”

His words settle inside me, true and sharp. Before I can answer, dark clouds gather over the peaks, storm rolling in faster than forecast.

“Storm’s coming.” He stands, already packing up. “We should head back.”

We move quickly down the trail, the wind whipping around us, as the first fat drops of rain splatter against the rocks. By the time the cabin comes into view, thunder is echoing through the valley, the sky a bruised, boiling gray.

We make it inside just as the downpour hits, rain hammering the roof. The temperature drops, the world outside turning wild and cold. Caleb moves through the cabin, checking the windows and feeding the woodstove, his presence filling the space—protective, solid, utterly necessary.

The lights flicker, then die as thunder shakes the walls. Darkness falls, broken only by the orange glow of the fire. Caleb lights candles, their golden light pooling in the shadows, turning the cabin into a secret world.

I settle on the rug in front of the stove, stretching my hands toward the heat. Caleb hesitates, then sits beside me, close but not quite touching. The air between us is thick with everything we haven’t said.

“Thank you for today.” I turn to him, firelight painting his face in gold and shadow. “For the overlook. For trusting me.”

He nods, eyes reflecting the flames. “Thank you for listening. Not many people would understand.”

“I think we understand each other better than we expected.”

A log shifts, sparks swirling up the chimney. The flare lights his face—so strong, so guarded, yet tonight I see the man underneath: vulnerable, yearning, afraid to want.

“Today was the first time I’ve spoken about Kim without feeling like I’m drowning.” His voice is low. “First time I brought anyone else to that overlook.”

Something in me softens, aches for him. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He looks at me, eyes dark and hungry, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “That’s the problem. I want to share things with you. Things I haven’t let myself want in years.”

My breath catches. The distance between us shrinks to nothing.

“Is that a problem?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Yes.” His gaze pins me. “Because you’re leaving. Because I built a life around not needing anyone. Because every instinct says I should keep my distance.”

“And yet…” I let the words hang, an invitation, a dare.

“And yet.” He exhales, surrendering. His hand lifts, hesitant, then his calloused fingers trace my cheek, gentle and reverent in the firelight. “ I’ve spent three years keeping everyone away,” he murmurs. “But I can’t seem to keep myself away from you.”

The storm rages outside, but in here, it’s just us—heat, longing, the slow, inexorable unraveling of everything we thought we could control.