Page 2 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Sunlight streams through unfamiliar windows, painting golden rectangles across rough-hewn floorboards.

For a moment, disorientation grips me—this isn't my tent.

Then yesterday's events flood back: the ranger station and the man with storm-swept eyes.

A man whose reluctant hospitality saved me from being washed down the mountainside.

I sit on the narrow bed, wincing as my knee protests the movement. The small back room is spartan—a bed, a simple wooden chest, and a hook on the wall holding a single towel. No personal touches. No indication that a human being sleeps here. Caleb is a particularly tidy ghost.

The cabin beyond the door is silent. I pull on yesterday's still-damp jeans, grimacing at the clammy fabric against my skin, and limp into the main room.

Empty.

The woodstove holds glowing embers, evidence that Caleb has been up for some time. The room is meticulously tidy, no sign of where he might have slept. A folded piece of paper sits on the small dining table with my name scrawled across the top in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

I unfold it, scanning the message:

Harper,

On patrol until midday. Help yourself to coffee and breakfast supplies. Water is limited—5 minute showers max. Don't touch the radio equipment. Stay within sight of the cabin if you go outside.

- C

No "good morning." No, "hope you slept well." Just rules and boundaries as stark as the cabin itself.

"Charming," I mutter to the empty room.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that my last meal was an energy bar somewhere around noon yesterday.

I explore the kitchenette, finding a canister of coffee, oatmeal packets, and a loaf of bread that looks homemade.

The refrigerator contains eggs, butter, and a surprising array of fresh vegetables.

I brew coffee and toast a slice of bread, savoring the rich aroma that fills the small space. With food in my stomach and caffeine entering my bloodstream, my natural curiosity takes over.

The cabin invites exploration, not because it's large, but because it feels like a puzzle missing pieces. Who is this man who lives surrounded by wilderness with minimal possessions and apparently no personal life?

The main room contains forest service maps, wildlife identification charts, and bookshelves filled with volumes on ecology, wilderness survival, and land management.

I scan the titles, building a picture of Caleb through his reading habits.

A man of science and practical knowledge.

No fiction. No poetry. Nothing to suggest he sees the forest as anything but a system to be monitored and maintained.

My gaze falls on a wooden chest tucked beneath the desk. Unlike the rest of the furniture, this piece seems personal—the wood darkened with age and handling, brass fittings tarnished in a way that speaks of years rather than months. I hesitate, my conscience warring with curiosity.

Curiosity wins. Was there any doubt?

I glance toward the door before kneeling beside the chest, wincing as my injured knee protests. The lid opens silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing contents that tell more about Caleb than anything else in the cabin.

A medal, its ribbon slightly frayed, bears the insignia of the Wildland Firefighter Foundation.

Several newspaper clippings, yellowed with age, show a younger Caleb in firefighting gear, his face less weathered but his eyes holding the same green of wild places.

The headline reads: "Hotshot Crew Saves Twelve in Mountain Blaze. "

Beneath these, wrapped in soft cloth, I find a framed photograph.

A group of men and women in firefighting uniforms stand arm-in-arm, faces smudged with soot but smiling.

Caleb stands at the center, his arm around a woman with curly red hair and a brilliant smile.

They look happy. Connected. Nothing like the isolated man who reluctantly sheltered me.

The sound of boots on the porch sends me scrambling, barely managing to close the chest and return to the table before the door swings open.

Caleb fills the doorway, daylight silhouetting his tall frame. His eyes find me immediately, narrowing slightly as if assessing whether I've disturbed his carefully ordered world.

"Morning." I raise my coffee cup in greeting, hoping my face doesn't betray my snooping.

He nods, hanging his jacket on a hook by the door. "Sleep okay?"

"Fine, thanks." I watch as he moves to the kitchenette, his movements efficient and contained. "Any updates on the roads?"

"Still out." He pours himself coffee, keeping his back to me.

The man has a mighty fine ass. Tight and powerful, like he was carved for sin and punishment.

Broad back tapering into that perfect V, shoulders wide enough to block the sun.

Tree-trunk thighs strain against worn denim, each step a study in raw strength and control.

His shirt pulls across muscle, clings in all the right places, and I swear the fabric is working overtime just to hold on.

My gaze drags lower, then back up, heat coiling low in my belly. I lift my hand to swipe at my mouth, only half-jokingly—because I may actually be drooling.

No drool.

I’m cool.

"Another storm system is moving in tonight." He speaks robotically to me. Nothing but the barest bones of conversation. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how to carry on an actual conversation. It might explain why he’s stationed out here, away from the hiking trails, away from civilization.

"Great." I drum my fingers against the mug, searching for neutral conversation. "So, how long have you been stationed here?"

"Three years." He turns, leaning against the counter rather than joining me at the table.

"You like it? Being alone up here?"

"Yes." His gaze is steady, unreadable.

"Man of many words."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Did you need something specific?"

"Just making conversation. It's what normal humans do when sharing space."

"I'm working." He moves to the desk, effectively dismissing me as he opens a logbook.

I bite back a retort, reminding myself that I’m an uninvited guest in his fortress of solitude. Instead, I retrieve my camera from its waterproof case, half-expecting water damage or tech tragedy, but the display blinks to life like a loyal dog. Miraculously intact.

I scroll through the shots from yesterday, thumbing past blurred feathers and hopeful failures until I find them—eagles mid-flight, wings stretched, sunlight streaking across the curve of their spines.

Not the shot. Not the holy grail. But enough to justify being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a man who communicates mostly in monosyllables and meaningful grunts.

Behind me, the scrape of a chair and the scratch of Caleb’s pen mark the beginning of a long, quiet morning. He’s settled at the small desk near the window, filling out some report by hand—of course, he writes by hand—and radiating silent intensity like it’s a form of heat.

The hours drift.

Outside, the storm has moved on, but the wind lingers—angry and aimless, rushing through the trees like it’s still hunting for something to tear apart.

The cabin groans beneath the pressure, wooden beams shifting with age and memory, each creak a reminder of just how alone we are out here. Just how exposed.

Inside, it’s warm. Oppressively warm. Or maybe that’s just me.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that stretch across the room, but my focus isn’t on the flames. It’s on him.

I try not to notice the way the sleeves of his thermal hug his biceps, how the fabric strains just enough to hint at the strength beneath.

Try not to get caught staring when he leans forward, forearms flexing, veins standing out in stark relief against sun-browned skin.

His brows draw together in concentration, and his jaw ticks every time he’s thinking hard, like even his face refuses to relax until the problem is solved.

Spoiler alert: I fail. Spectacularly.

I pretend to scroll through photos, flipping through them far too fast to process anything. I jot down a note or two that mean nothing, just to give my hands something to do. But mostly, I watch him.

Out of the corner of my eye.

Through my lashes.

Sometimes, when he’s turned away.

I drink him in fully, openly, hungrily.

There’s a quiet control to the way he moves. Like his body has learned to conserve energy, to never waste a single breath or motion unless it serves a purpose. When he does move—God help me—it’s with the kind of deliberate power that makes my stomach dip and my thighs press tight.

Every flex, every shift, is a reminder of the kind of strength he’s holding in check.

And I can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the reason he loses that control.

I’ve got a full-blown mental highlight reel playing on loop—Caleb’s Greatest Hits before noon. Bending to pick up a pen, I’m 99% sure I dropped just to watch him do it again: good God, that back. Broad and muscled, shifting beneath flannel like some kind of wilderness sin.

Stretching one arm overhead, completely unaware—or worse, entirely aware—of the way his shirt rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of taut, sun-warmed skin and the sharp lines of his hip. A crime against fabric, honestly. Should be illegal.

Pushing back from the table with a low, absent sigh, chest rising slow and deep like he’s drawing breath straight from the earth itself. Reverent. Dangerous. Enough to make my thighs clench with the ache of uninvited thoughts I can’t unthink .

I make two rounds of coffee just to give myself something else to focus on—burn my tongue both times. Then dig into my emergency protein bar stash, not because I’m hungry, but because I need something—anything—to keep my mouth occupied that isn’t him.

Still, the silence isn’t as tense as it was yesterday. It’s changed. Warmer around the edges. Like the air between us is charged with something low and humming, waiting to strike.

Not quite comfortable. But not cold, either. It feels stretched. Pulled taut by something unspoken. Like anticipation.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Probably just me.

But then he glances up.

Catches me watching.

And his gaze holds—just half a second too long, but long enough to wreck me. Long enough for heat to flare in my chest and pool low in my belly, a molten rush that makes it hard to swallow, harder to breathe.

Because maybe it’s not just me at all.

I’m a hopeless dreamer, always have been.

But this? This is new. These fantasies spinning behind my eyes are not fit for daylight or polite company.

They’re filthy and vivid and so very specific.

I’m not just daydreaming about kissing him under the stars—I’m working on chapter three of Fifty Shades of Mount Me.

Because clearly, my brain has decided this cabin needs less solitude and more sin.

Every time he moves, I imagine what those hands would feel like on me.

What that gravel voice would sound like ordering me to my knees.

And my imagination? She’s not interested in sweet, tentative kisses.

She’s conjuring a dominant ranger with a filthy mouth and zero patience, using my throat like he owns it.

Rough. Possessive. Like he’s been holding back so long he doesn’t know how not to break me a little.

I shift on the bench, thighs pressing tight, heat slick and undeniable. It’s getting hot in here. Or maybe just in my head.

As for Caleb? From the way he’s ignored me all morning, I’m starting to think he’s forgotten I exist. Forgotten he brought a woman into his sacred, brooding wilderness temple.

He moves through the cabin like a shadow—focused, efficient, unaffected—while I sit here cataloging every inch of him like I’m preparing for a final exam on his body.

Scratch that.

I’m devouring him.

Every flex of his forearms, every stretch of flannel across his chest, every controlled inhale and slow exhale. I can practically feel him pressed against me, pinning me down with nothing but the weight of his body and a dark promise in his eyes.

The clock ticks toward late afternoon.

The kettle clicks off.

He doesn’t offer tea. I don’t ask. We’ve slipped into this strange rhythm—him pretending I’m not here, me pretending I’m not fantasizing about his cock halfway down my throat while he groans and fists my hair like he can’t help himself.

It’s not romantic. It’s raw. Carnal. Dirty in all the right ways.

Outside, the wind crescendos—wild and unrestrained, as if it’s echoing the chaos inside my head.

And then?—

CRACK.

A sound like the universe splitting down the middle. A tree limb. A power line. Or maybe just the sky breaking open.

My heart lurches. Caleb’s already on his feet.