Page 25 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Unable to remain confined in the motel room with my circling thoughts, I grab my keys and head out.

The evening air carries the crisp scent of pine and approaching autumn. The streets are quiet as the small town prepares for the night. I find myself driving back toward the forest and the trailhead leading to Caleb's cabin.

I won't go all the way, I tell myself. Just need to clear my head in the forest air.

The parking area at the trailhead sits empty as darkness falls. I leave my car, taking only my camera out of habit, and step onto the now-familiar path. The forest welcomes me with rustling leaves and the occasional call of a night bird, the trail visible in the light of a nearly full moon.

I walk without purpose, letting my feet follow remembered routes while my mind grapples with the choice before me. The career I've built versus the connection I've found. The known path versus the uncertain one.

A sound stops me—mechanical, out of place in the natural setting. I freeze, listening. There it comes again—metal on metal, followed by low voices. Instinct sends me off the main trail, moving quietly through underbrush toward the source.

The moon provides just enough light to navigate by as I approach a small clearing. Through the trees, I make out two figures working by the light of their headlamps, setting something on the ground before moving a few yards away to repeat the process.

Traps. They're setting traps.

My photographer's instincts kick in, camera rising to capture evidence in the low light. The telephoto lens brings the scene into sharp focus—two men placing what appear to be large steel-jaw traps, illegal in most states and certainly in a protected forest.

The angle of their headlamps catches distinctive markings on the traps—custom modifications I recognize from a conservation piece I shot last year on wildlife trafficking. These aren't random poachers; they're part of an organized operation targeting specific animals.

The placement near the base of the ridge, where Caleb showed me the nesting sites, can’t be a coincidence.

They're after talons and feathers, which are valuable on the black market.

I document their activities silently, cold anger replacing my earlier emotional turmoil. When they move deeper into the forest, I retreat carefully, heading not for my car but for the cabin. Caleb needs to see this immediately.

The hike to the ranger station takes longer in the darkness, but determination drives me forward. When the cabin finally appears through the trees, windows glowing with warm light, relief washes through me. I rush the final yards, taking the porch steps two at a time before pounding on the door.

It swings open almost immediately, revealing Caleb in worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, hair damp as if from a recent shower. His expression transforms from confusion to shock as he registers my presence.

"Harper? What?—"

"Poachers." I push past him into the cabin, already retrieving my camera to show him the evidence. "Setting eagle traps on the north ridge. I caught them in the act."

His professional training takes over instantly, and personal complications are set aside in the face of a threat to his forest. He examines my photos, asking questions about locations and timing while gathering equipment.

"How many men?"

"Two that I saw. They had a vehicle parked off Forest Road 22, just past the creek crossing."

He nods, reaching for his radio to call it in. Within minutes, he's coordinated with other rangers, establishing a containment plan to catch the poachers before they can retrieve their traps or escape the area.

"I need to go before they finish setting their line." He shrugs into his jacket, checking his gear with efficient movements. "You should stay here. They could be dangerous."

"Not happening." I match his preparations, already heading for the door. "I can identify exactly where they were working. And we both know I move quietly in the forest."

"Stay behind me. Do exactly as I say."

His words cut through the space between us—low, firm, unyielding. That voice. That tone. It hits like a lightning strike straight to the center of me.

"Yes, sir!" I snap a salute for some stupid reason, trying to inject humor into the moment.

Instead, my body reacts before my brain can catch up—shoulders pulling back, breath hitching, heat blooming low and hot. It’s not fear that curls inside me. It’s memory.

Hunger.

The ghost of the man who owned every inch of my body with a single command.

That wasn’t how it was the last time. The last time, it was tender. Careful. Loving. But this side of Caleb is the part I ache for and haven’t dared ask to return.

If I were staying, things would be different.

Our eyes lock. A breath. A tremble.

And something shifts in him.

His gaze dips—subtle, fast. The flicker of his eyes over my face, the way his jaw tics. He feels it. Registers it. The pulse of heat he just summoned without meaning to.

He swallows hard, breath tight as he nods, tone clipped, professional, but his voice cracks around the edges of restraint.

"Don’t do that, Harper."

"Do what?" I give a half-smile—weak, brittle. A reflex against the ache twisting inside me.

"You know exactly what I mean." He doesn’t smile back. Not really. Just a flicker in his eyes before he shuts it all down, the moment locked away behind the rigid lines of control.

He turns. Takes the lead. Not in the way I crave—not as the man who took control with a growl and made me come undone with nothing but his dominance and a well-placed command—but as a Ranger on a mission to catch poachers.

And I follow, pulse pounding, still chasing the ghost of the command that lit me up from the inside.

We move through the moonlit forest, communication reduced to hand signals and occasional whispered directions. Despite the circumstances, I'm struck by our seamless coordination, the way we anticipate each other's movements without needing to discuss them.

We locate the first trap exactly where I saw the men place it.

Caleb disarms it, explaining in whispers that they'll rearm it later with tracking devices after documenting its location.

We continue along the poachers' route, finding and disarming another six traps strategically placed to catch eagles coming down to hunt at dawn.

"They know the patterns." Anger edges Caleb's whisper as he examines a particularly vicious mechanism. "These are professionals."

"Targeting golden eagles specifically." I photograph each trap in place before he disarms it. "The market for ceremonial feathers is booming overseas. A single tail feather can bring hundreds of dollars."

His eyebrow raises slightly. "You know a lot about wildlife trafficking."

"Did a series on it last year. These trap modifications—" I point to distinctive markings, "—match ones used by a ring operating out of Denver."

The respect in his eyes warms me, as if his praise is the only thing that matters.

We continue our careful documentation, working in tandem until all the traps we can find are neutralized.

By the time we finish, other rangers have radioed confirmation that they've located the poachers' vehicle and established surveillance.

"They'll catch them when they return to check the traps." Caleb secures the last piece of evidence in his pack. "Your photographs will be crucial for prosecution."

We hike back toward the cabin in the predawn darkness, adrenaline gradually ebbing to leave exhaustion in its wake. Reality returns as the structure comes into view—I should be miles away by now, heading toward the airport and Australia.

"I missed my checkout at the motel." The realization comes abruptly as moonlight silvers the cabin roof. "And I'm supposed to call my agent with my decision about Australia in..." I check my watch, "...three hours."

Caleb stops at the edge of the clearing, turning to face me. In the pale moonlight, his expression holds none of yesterday's careful guardedness, replaced by something raw and honest .

"What are you going to tell him?"

The question hangs between us, fraught with possibilities. I take a deep breath, finally giving voice to the truth I've been circling for days.

"I don't want to go." The admission feels simultaneously terrifying and liberating. "I should want to. It's everything I've worked for. But..."

"But?" His voice holds careful neutrality, giving me space to find my answer.

"But I'm not sure if I want to keep moving, or if I've just been afraid to stay still.

" The insight emerges fully formed, surprising even me with its clarity.

"After watching my mom fall apart when Dad left, I swore I'd never be that vulnerable.

Never need anyone or any place enough to break if I lost it. "

"So you keep moving. Never putting down roots." Understanding dawns in his eyes.

"Tonight, working with you to protect these eagles, this place…" I gesture toward the forest around us. "It felt right in a way my work hasn't for a long time. Not just capturing beauty, but protecting it. Being part of something lasting."

"You could do that anywhere." Though his words suggest distance, his tone holds something like hope. "Including Australia."

"I could." I step closer, heart pounding with what I'm considering. "But I'm not sure I want to."

"What do you want, Harper?"

The question emerges rough, like it scrapes up from somewhere deep, ragged with emotion barely contained.

"I don't know," I say, breath hitching. "But I do know I don't want to run away from this. Not from you. Not from whatever this is between us."

He inhales sharply, like the air's suddenly too thick. His control frays at the edges.

"And Australia?"

"It can wait." The words come out without hesitation, surprising even me with their clarity. "There will still be assignments in six months. A year. But this feels like something I’d regret not exploring."

His eyes search mine. A storm gathering.

"Why would you give up your dreams?"

My voice softens, honesty trembling beneath it. "Because I keep hoping you’ll tell me to stay."

"Harper... I won’t do that." He stiffens. Shakes his head.

"What if I said I wanted you to make me stay?"

"That’s not my place." His mouth parts, shocked stillness stretching between us. "What little time we’ve spent together doesn’t give me that right."

"What if I want it to?" The words spill out, raw and quiet. "What if what we started—what we touched —is more than one night? What if I want to stay and explore more of what we started? The control. The surrender. The way you make me feel like the world narrowed to just you."

He blinks, chest rising and falling like he’s fighting a battle within himself.

"Harper..."

"I just want to know if that side of you was real." My throat tightens. "And if you’d take me there again."

He’s silent, but the heat in his gaze says everything his words refuse to.

I hold my breath, waiting for his next move.