Page 29 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Epilogue: One Year Later

"Hold still, you ridiculous bird." I adjust my telephoto lens, tracking the northern goshawk perched regally on a dead pine. The morning light bathes its sleek feathers in golden warmth, transforming ordinary gray to luminous silver. "Just one more second..."

The bird, predictably, ignores my whispered plea, launching into flight just as I press the shutter. I capture its departure anyway—wings extended, powerful and graceful against the backdrop of endless Colorado sky.

"Got it?" Caleb's voice carries from inside the cabin, followed by the scent of fresh coffee wafting through the open door.

"Got something." I lower my camera, rolling stiff shoulders as I turn toward the sound. "Maybe not the portrait I wanted, but possibly better."

The deck where I stand—a new addition to the once-modest cabin—offers a panoramic view of the valley, morning mist still clinging to distant ridges.

Bird feeders hang from the eaves, attracting a colorful array of mountain chickadees and nuthatches that have become regular subjects of my more casual photography.

I gather my equipment, moving carefully to accommodate the pronounced curve of my seven-month pregnant belly.

The nursery addition to the cabin is nearly complete, its fresh pine walls visible around the corner of the main structure.

Caleb has spent every free weekend for months crafting built-in furniture, installing windows positioned to capture morning light, creating a perfect space for the child we hadn't planned but now can't imagine our lives without.

Inside, the cabin has transformed as much as our lives have.

The spartan bachelor quarters I first encountered have evolved into a true home—still neat but lived-in, with my photography equipment sharing space with Caleb's research materials, colorful throws softening practical furniture, walls adorned with framed prints of my work alongside maps of the wilderness we both cherish.

Caleb stands at the stove, spatula in hand, the domesticity of the scene still occasionally surprising me after years of solitary hotel rooms and temporary accommodations.

"Perfect timing." He slides a vegetable omelet onto a plate. "Breakfast is ready."

"Smells amazing." I set my camera on its designated shelf—organization being one of our earliest and most necessary compromises—before joining him at the table.

He places a hand on my rounded belly, wonder still evident in his expression whenever he feels the life growing within me. "How's Junior this morning?"

"Active. Very active." I cover his hand with mine. "Apparently planning to be a soccer player or possibly a kickboxer."

His smile—still capable of accelerating my heartbeat after a year together—warms his entire face. "Takes after his mother. Never stops moving. "

"His? What if he’s a she?"

"I’d love that." Caleb can’t contain his excitement. "Boy or girl, I couldn’t be happier."

"Speaking of which." I take a bite of the omelet, humming appreciation. "The conservation board called yesterday while you were in town. They've approved funding for the expanded survey."

Pride flashes in his eyes. "They'd be fools not to. Your first year's documentation has already led to three new protected areas."

The Achievement in Conservation Photography award sitting on our mantle validates his assessment.

The series of images I captured over the past year—from golden eagles to nearly invisible lynx, from spring wildflower explosions to winter's pristine stillness—has resonated beyond our expectations, bringing national attention to Angel's Peak's ecological significance.

"It's not just the photographs." I reach for his hand across the table. "Your ecological context makes them meaningful. The conservation workshops you've developed have turned awareness into action."

He shrugs, still uncomfortable with praise despite the remarkable evolution of the past year.

The reclusive ranger has become a respected educator, splitting his time between fieldwork and teaching local students about forest stewardship.

The walls he maintained for so long have gradually lowered, allowing his natural passion for this wilderness to inspire others.

"The school group yesterday asked when you'd be coming back." He changes the subject, but the pleased flush coloring his cheeks betrays his satisfaction. "Apparently, my explanations of wildlife photography techniques don't compare to the real thing."

"Next week, after the doctor's appointment." I rest a hand on my belly. "While I can still move without waddling too obviously."

"You don't waddle." His straight-faced delivery makes me laugh.

"Liar. Very sweet liar." I rise to clear our plates, dropping a kiss on his head as I pass. "But I appreciate the effort."

"Almost forgot." He catches my hand, keeping me close. "Happy anniversary."

The simple words send warmth cascading through me. One year since I officially moved into the cabin. One year of building this life that neither of us had imagined possible when a storm first threw us together.

"I have something planned." His eyes hold mischief rarely seen by others. "If you're up for a short hike."

"To our spot?" Anticipation quickens my pulse.

The trail to "our spot"—the overlook where I captured the perfect eagle shot and where, later, we made our first tentative commitment to a shared future—has become a familiar path.

We travel it in all seasons now: summer's vibrant greenery, autumn's spectacular color transformation, winter's pristine snowscape, and now spring's renewed awakening.

Today, wildflowers carpet the forest floor, trillium and columbine creating patches of color amid unfurling ferns. Caleb walks beside me, pace adjusted to my slower, pregnancy-altered gait, one hand resting protectively at the small of my back on steeper sections.

"Remember how you basically sprinted up this trail the first time?" His teasing carries affection rather than mockery. "Desperate to get your eagle shot before the storm hit."

"And you, grumpy mountain man, kept sighing loudly every time I stopped to photograph something." I nudge his ribs playfully.

"I wasn't grumpy." His protest carries no conviction. "I was... focused."

"Focused on being grumpy." I capture his mock outrage with a quick camera snap, adding to my extensive collection of "Caleb expressions" that has grown throughout our year together.

The overlook, when we reach it, remains as breathtaking as ever—the vast panorama of mountains stretching to impossible horizons, valleys lush with spring growth, the distant silver thread of rivers catching sunlight.

Caleb spreads a blanket on our usual boulder, helping me settle before retrieving something from his backpack.

"I have something for you." He hands me a wrapped package, uncharacteristic nervousness flickering across his features.

The simple brown paper falls away to reveal a handcrafted wooden box. Its surface is inlaid with a delicate pattern of mountain ridges and soaring birds. The craftsmanship showcases his woodworking craft.

"Caleb, it's beautiful." My fingers trace the intricate design, recognizing the distinctive silhouette of a golden eagle among the inlaid birds.

"Open it." He sits beside me, anticipation evident in his posture.

Inside, nestled on velvet lining, lies a leather-bound book. My breath catches as I lift it, recognizing the title embossed in simple gold lettering: "Convergence: A Year in Angel's Peak."

"You made this?" I open the cover with reverent fingers, discovering page after page of my photographs arranged in unexpected pairings—wildlife portraits alongside human moments, macro details of forest flora beside sweeping landscapes, all telling the story of the past year.

"I selected the images." His arm slides around my waist, anchoring me against him. "A professional did the binding. But the concept... I wanted to show how our separate paths became one. How this place brought us together."

I turn pages slowly; each spread revealing thoughtful juxtapositions—the golden eagle soaring above the ridge paired with a candid shot of Caleb teaching students beside a similar overlook.

A close-up of fox kits playing near their den alongside a stolen shot of Caleb asleep on the couch, peaceful vulnerability evident in both images.

"These are from my personal collection." I recognize photographs never intended for publication—intimate moments captured for my eyes only. "How did you get them?"

"Your backup drive isn't as securely password-protected as you might think." The admission carries no apology, only quiet satisfaction. "And you're not the only one who can be sneaky with a camera."

Indeed, several images show me unaware of being photographed—focused on adjusting equipment, watching wildlife with unguarded wonder, even one particularly enormous shot of me sleeping, hair wild across the pillow, that makes me laugh out loud.

"Revenge photography?" I raise an eyebrow, unable to summon genuine indignation.

"Documentation." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering against my cheek. "Important scientific record."

As I near the end of the book, one page steals my breath entirely—our ultrasound image, the grainy profile of our child in utero, placed beside a photograph of the golden eagle's nest with barely visible eaglets huddled within. New life, sheltered and precious, in perfect parallel.

The final page holds text rather than images, handwritten in Caleb's precise script:

Some journeys bring us to destinations we never knew we were seeking. Some storms lead to shelters that become homes. Some chance encounters become the photographs we frame our lives around. Thank you for staying when you could have gone. For turning my sanctuary into our home.

All my love, always, C.

Tears blur my vision, pregnancy hormones amplifying already powerful emotions. "This is the most beautiful gift I've ever received."