Page 6 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Sunlight pierces the small window, falling across my face. Into my eyes. No rest for the weary, not that I’ve been excessively active. For a moment, I lie still, orienting myself once again to this unfamiliar space. The ranger station. Angel's Peak.

Caleb.

The events of yesterday filter through my consciousness—the tree fall, the rain, the awkward dinner that somehow bridged a fraction of the distance between us. I stretch, wincing at the stiffness in my muscles, before padding to the door and peering into the main room.

Caleb stands at the kitchenette with his back to me, the sleeping bag already rolled and stowed. His hair is damp from a shower, the dark strands curling slightly at his nape. Something about this unguarded moment makes my chest tighten inexplicably.

"Morning." My voice sounds too loud in the quiet cabin.

He turns, coffee mug in hand. "Storm's passed. Temporarily."

I move to the window, greedy for the view after being confined by yesterday's rain.

Sunlight bathes the mountainside, transforming raindrops into diamonds on pine needles and turning puddles into mirrors reflecting the impossibly blue sky.

The forest looks newborn, vibrant greens intensified by their recent washing.

"Beautiful." The word escapes on a breath, more to myself than to Caleb.

"Best time in the mountains. Right after a storm." He joins me at the window, maintaining a careful distance. "Everything washed clean."

I glance at him, surprised by the almost poetic observation from this taciturn man. "Exactly."

He clears his throat, retreating from this brief moment of shared appreciation. "Need to check the wildlife shelters. Make sure they weathered the storm."

"Wildlife shelters?"

"Rehabilitation enclosures. For injured animals." He hesitates, then adds, "You can come. If you want."

The invitation catches me off guard. "I'd like that."

"We leave in twenty minutes."

While he prepares supplies, I rush through getting ready, excitement building at the prospect of finally getting outside. My clothes have dried overnight, hanging near the woodstove. My boots, still damp but wearable, wait by the door.

I retrieve my backup camera from my bag—a smaller model than my professional one, but it survived in its waterproof case. Better than nothing if we encounter anything worth capturing.

Caleb hands me a protein bar and a travel mug of coffee like we’re a married couple heading out for a hike instead of two strangers barely on speaking terms. “Breakfast on the move.”

Be still, my ovaries.

His fingers brush mine, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to suck in a breath like some virginal schoolgirl. Not that there’s anything virginal about the thoughts currently occupying 98% of my brain.

The morning air is crisp enough to bite, rich with the scent of pine needles crushed underfoot, damp earth, and moss still soaked from last night’s storm.

But under all that—threaded through like some sinful secret—is him.

That maddening mix of sweat, cedar, and clean skin, like he just stepped out of a cold shower and straight into my last coherent thought.

It’s infuriating, really. He lives like a damn hermit, chops wood with a glare, probably thinks body wash is a luxury for the weak—and still manages to smell like every forbidden craving I’ve ever had.

Water drips from the branches overhead, a slow patter of sound that blends with the crunch of our boots on the trail.

One rogue drop slips down the collar of my jacket, trailing along my spine like a cold finger.

I shiver and pull the zipper higher, though it does nothing to shield me from the other kind of chill creeping through me—the kind born of watching him move.

Caleb walks ahead, every step a lesson in wilderness poetry.

Graceful. Grounded. Like the forest shifts around him instead of the other way around.

Muscles flex beneath his cargo pants, each stride tugging my gaze lower no matter how many times I remind myself to be an adult.

A professional. Not some drooling cavewoman with a tree fetish.

But God, that ass. Carved by divine spite and covered in tactical fabric that should be illegal. Every flex, every roll of muscle makes my thighs clench in protest, like they’re auditioning for a role I didn’t sign them up for.

Focus, I command myself. Eyes up. Mind out of the gutter.

But the gutter is warm, and it smells like him .

My knee throbs, still tender from twisting it yesterday, but I push through.

Not because I’m brave. Hell no. Because I refuse to be the whining city girl who can’t keep up with the mountain god who probably bench-presses grizzlies for fun and whose voice I just mentally used in a very vivid tree-bondage fantasy.

“How far are these shelters?” I ask, more to break the fever dream than for actual information. My voice comes out too breathy, too high. Like I’ve been running. Or fantasizing about him dragging me off-trail and saying get on your knees and beg me.

He glances back. Eyes flick from my face to my feet, lingering long enough to catch the flush creeping up my throat. And then higher. Straight into my eyes.

There’s a flicker there—something unreadable. Knowing. Disapproving. Maybe amused.

“Half a mile further.”

That’s it. No reaction. No smirk. Just that sharp, steady gaze like he’s already guessed exactly what I’ve been thinking and filed it under unacceptable behavior from forest guests.

I clear my throat, look away, and try to think about anything other than bark texture, rope tension, or the way his voice would sound murmuring good girl against my neck.

God help me. This hike is going to kill me. And if it doesn’t, the tension will.

I school my features into something that—if you squint—might pass for composed, even though my brain is still in full-blown erotica narrator mode.

Somewhere between nature documentary and filthy rope-play fantasy, I’m mentally scripting a scene where that calloused hand wraps around my throat while he pins me to a tree and makes me beg.

“Need to rest?” he asks, his tone maddeningly neutral .

Bastard.

“No.” I straighten like pride alone can brace my knee, even as pain pulses down my leg like a warning flare. “I’m fine.”

One eyebrow lifts, a flick of dry skepticism that says Sure you are , but he doesn’t argue.

Because he’s decent.

Respectful.

And clearly unaware that I’ve mentally ridden him in at least six positions since breakfast—including one that involved rope, a rock wall, and me saying thank you with tears in my eyes.

And I haven’t even finished my protein bar.

The trail breaks open into a sun-drenched clearing, all filtered gold light and pine shadows, where several structures sit spaced like tiny cabins.

Each one’s enclosed in wire mesh and roofed with weatherproof paneling.

Wildlife shelters. Or maybe thirst traps, since Caleb is already stalking toward the first one with quiet, devastating purpose.

I hang back under the guise of giving him room, but really? I need a minute. Or twelve. To reset. Breathe. Maybe dunk my head in a creek.

Because watching him move is a violation of every decency law I pretend to follow.

The flannel strains across his shoulders as he crouches beside the first feeding station, his spine curving with perfect, dangerous intent.

His jeans—soaked in places from trail spray—cling to every muscle they have no business showcasing.

And when he bends low enough for the fabric to tighten across his thighs?

I swear my uterus makes a sound.

How does he not know what he looks like?

What that body is doing to me?

What it’s capable of doing?

I sip lukewarm coffee, pretending to focus on the enclosures, while my mind invents ways to trap us both in a conveniently collapsing shelter where I’m forced to wrap my legs around his waist for “stability.”

Or mouth-to-mouth.

Or mutual survival-induced orgasms.

I’m flexible.

“What kind of animals do you rehabilitate here?” My voice barely works, breathy and uneven. I need the distraction. Anything to stop picturing him naked in that same position, jaw tight, hands busy, fixing something I very much broke on purpose.

“Depends.” He checks a metal tray filled with seed, his broad back to me. “Mostly injured birds. Small mammals. Orphans. Things that wouldn’t make it on their own.”

A deep breath rattles through my lungs. Focus on the animals. Not the man. The innocent creatures. The wholesome mission. Not his arms or the way his voice does that thing where it drops half an octave and makes me want to cry.

“You do all the care yourself?”

He moves to the next structure, doesn’t look back.

“Part of the job.”

Of course it is. Of course, he’s not just sexy. He’s an off-grid, animal-rescuing, gear-hauling, wilderness-cooking, emotionally repressed Greek tragedy in plaid. I bet he bathes baby deer with biodegradable soap and reads bedtime stories to injured raccoons.

If he tells me he once bottle-fed an orphaned possum while simultaneously performing CPR on a kestrel, I’ll strip right here in the pine needles.

I follow him through the clearing, taking photos of the shelters with unsteady hands. Most are empty, their trays full, latches secured. But one enclosure isn’t vacant. Inside, perched on a smooth branch, a red-tailed hawk stares back at me— majestic, proud, still.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, lifting my camera to frame the bird’s profile.

Caleb crouches beside the mesh. “Wing fracture,” he murmurs, voice gentling in a way that gut-punches something tender inside me. “She’s healing well. Maybe another week, then release.”

That softness. That reverence. It wraps around my ribs and tightens, aching in a place I didn’t know could ache for anything but lust.

I don’t know whether I want to kiss him or sob.

Maybe both.

He moves to the final shelter, and I follow, watching the slight crease between his brows deepen as he inspects a warped latch. Focused. Quiet. Diligent.

He works like I imagine he fucks—steady hands, full attention, unhurried confidence. Not just doing the job.

Mastering it.

And suddenly, the phrase wildlife rehabilitation takes on an entirely different meaning.

Mmmmm…those hands.

I trail behind him like a lovesick idiot with a camera, pretending I’m here for the wildlife and not the walking wilderness fantasy currently five steps ahead of me.

I capture everything—the way sunlight slants through the trees like golden blades, how the wire mesh catches the light in sharp angles, how leaves rustle like secrets overhead.

But it’s Caleb who keeps ending up in the center of every frame.

Always Caleb.

Bent forward, crouched low, stretching tall. Each movement is an accidental masterpiece I want to study with my mouth.

When he finishes checking the last enclosure, he straightens slowly.

There’s a moment—a pause so still it hums—where he scans the clearing like he’s reading it.

Not with logic, but instinct. That quiet, animal sense that says he doesn’t just exist here—he belongs here.

Shadow and sunlight stripe his face like war paint, and something inside me goes molten.

He hesitates. I see it in the subtle tick of his jaw, the flick of his gaze toward me. Then away. Like he’s debating something.

Please let it be whether or not to kiss me.

Or ruin me.

Or both.

Anything that ends with that mouth on mine, on skin, on the soft places I pretend aren’t already aching for him.

I keep my expression casual, like my brain isn’t melting into erotica about tree bark and flannel. But if he could read my thoughts? He’d never look at another bird feeder the same way again.

“There’s another spot,” he says finally, voice low. “If you’re interested.”

I nod, way too fast. “Always.”

“Fox den. Quarter mile east. Cubs were born last month.”

My heart does a stupid, eager flutter. And… yeah. So does everything else.

“Lead the way.”