Page 7 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

The trail narrows immediately, crowded by dense underbrush and wet ferns, forcing us into single file. Caleb steps ahead, and I try—really try—not to stare at the hypnotic flex of his back under that damn flannel or the way his jeans hug his thighs with the kind of reverence I fully understand.

He walks like a man who doesn’t waste movement. Like he’s carved from the same granite that anchors this forest.

Each step is exact.

Controlled.

Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with predators and everything to do with what it would feel like to be trapped beneath him, pinned between that body and the earth, learning the weight of restraint undone.

And here I am.

Aroused.

By forestry.

Again.

Great.

The storm-wet trail tries to trip me with every step—mud grabbing at my boots, ferns dragging across my thighs. But I keep up. Not just because I want to. Because I need to. Caleb doesn’t speak, but every shift of his shoulders, every precise placement of his feet, feels like a command.

And I follow.

Because I’d follow that man into a wildfire with nothing but a camera and a bad idea.

He stops so suddenly that I nearly crash into him.

One hand lifts—a silent signal.

I freeze.

His body turns, just enough for his breath to brush my cheek, warm and woodsmoke-scented. “Fox.” The word grazes my ear like a sin I want to commit twice.

That one syllable shouldn’t make my thighs clench. It shouldn’t short-circuit my entire pelvic floor. But it does.

Because it’s him.

Because he says it like it matters. Like everything does. Every word. Every look. Every brush of skin that hasn’t happened yet but might.

And I want it to.

God, I want it to.

His gaze flicks toward the brush ahead, and I follow it, willing my heartbeat to slow down, willing my hormones to take a goddamn seat.

There are fox cubs ahead.

Baby animals.

Innocent, fragile nature.

Please, brain. For once. Don’t turn this into foreplay.

Too late.

Here we are.

I follow his gaze toward a fallen log. At first, I see nothing. Then—a flicker of russet against bark, so perfectly camouflaged it takes a trained eye to spot.

He has a trained eye. And I have dirty thoughts. It’s a partnership.

My camera comes up automatically, my fingers instinctively adjusting the settings. The lens locks onto a sleek copper form—mother fox, ears swiveling, alert but calm. Then three cubs spill out behind her like a ball of ginger chaos, tumbling over each other in the morning sun.

The shutter is nearly silent. But Caleb winces.

“Too loud.”

“They can’t hear it from this distance,” I murmur, not taking my eye from the viewfinder. “Silent shutter. I’m not a total amateur.”

His eyes narrow, skepticism flashing, but when the foxes don’t flinch, he relaxes again. Satisfied.

We fall into silence. Twenty whole minutes pass in reverent quiet—me documenting, him just…

watching. And not in that casual ‘look at the cute animals’ way either.

No, he watches like he’s memorizing them.

Like every detail matters. And damn it if that kind of quiet intensity doesn’t do something to me.

“The smallest one is struggling.” His voice is barely audible. “See how the others push him away from food?”

I shift the focus to the runt. He’s right—the little one keeps getting shouldered aside by its siblings. My heart tugs. Of course, he noticed. Mr. Taciturn Woodsman with the unexpected emotional radar.

“Nature can be cruel.”

“Not always.” He points again, this time to the mother repositioning herself to allow the smallest cub access to her belly. “They adapt. Find solutions.”

His tone’s different now. Softer. Invested. And oh great, now my uterus is writing sonnets about him.

I lower my camera, turning to study him instead. The way the sunlight filters through the trees and lights up the side of his face. The faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. The curve of his mouth—not smiling, not frowning, just quiet… content.

“You know a lot about them.”

“Been monitoring this family three seasons.” There’s unmistakable pride in his voice, and something warmer beneath it. “Mother was injured last winter. Treated her here. Released her in February.”

“Just in time to have her cubs.”

He nods. And then—there it is. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A ghost of a smile. Not sarcastic. Not guarded. Real. Soft. Like it snuck past his defenses before he could stop it.

“Success story,” he says, eyes fixed on the den like it means more than he’ll ever admit.

I should be taking pictures. That’s why I’m here. Capture the wildlife, document the moment, do my job. And I do—two quick shots of the foxes as they tumble near the log, a blur of russet and tiny paws. But my lens drifts.

Up.

To him.

To the way he’s kneeling, one forearm resting on his bent knee, the soft curve of that almost-smile still haunting his mouth. The peace on his face. The quiet reverence in the way he watches them—like he knows what it took for this moment to exist.

That’s the shot. Right there. That’s the story.

The man who saved a mother fox, alone in the woods, and watched her bring new life into the world like it’s no big deal. Like it’s just part of the job.

He doesn’t even notice me watching him.

And I don’t stop looking. Don’t stop thinking about what it would be like if he ever turned that same focus—calm, consuming, tenderness—on me .

Spoiler alert: it ends with me against a tree, my clothes somewhere in the underbrush, and a very smug fox cub as witness.

We stay until the mother slips back beneath the log, her cubs following in tumbling sequence. A last flicker of russet vanishes into the den, and the clearing empties, like a curtain falling on a performance.

Then silence. Stillness. The clearing empties out like the end of a show, and all that’s left is the sound of wind through the pines and the thrum in my chest I can’t seem to shut off.

As we turn away, Caleb surprises me. “Could check on them again tomorrow. If the weather holds.” Low. Casual. But there’s a hesitation in it—a flicker of something cracking through that controlled wilderness he wears like armor.

An invitation.

And not just to see the foxes.

A flicker of something cracking through all that controlled wilderness he wears like armor.

“I’d like that.”

We walk again, but the air’s changed. Less distance. Less silence. Something’s shifted between us, and I feel it with every step.

Caleb leads us along a different path, pointing out flora and rock formations I never would’ve noticed—if I weren’t already laser-focused on every damn thing he says.

His voice, low and gravel-edged, rolls over me like warm smoke.

He talks about watershed erosion and soil pH and lichen colonies, but all I hear is bedroom voice.

I mean, come on.

He says “phosphorus retention” like it’s foreplay. Describes the root system of a ponderosa pine like it’s the opening line to a smutty novella. I’m not okay.

I don’t even know what watershed density is, but I’d beg him to explain it again, slower, while unbuttoning his shirt.

I learn more about Angel’s Peak in an hour than any guidebook could’ve told me. I also learn that I want this man—this infuriating, enigmatic, maddeningly restrained man—to do unspeakable things to me against a moss-covered boulder.

Because that voice—warm smoke and midnight woodfire—makes my skin feel tight. Makes me think about beds made of pine needles and what it would feel like to have that voice right at my ear while those hands made me forget my name.

“The mountain creates its own weather system,” he says, pausing to gesture toward the peaks in the distance. “Cold air off the northern ridge meets the valley’s warm updrafts. Triggers instability.”

He stops to lift a fallen branch off the trail, forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. The kind of strength that doesn’t brag. Doesn’t pose. Just is.

I swear the air gets warmer. Or maybe that’s just me, burning from the inside out while pretending to care about lichen colonies.

I follow him.

God help me, I’d follow him anywhere.

The air shifts—brighter one moment, darker the next. Clouds bloom like bruises above the ridgeline. The wind carries a bite now, teasing through the trees, stirring the hem of my damp shirt.

“More rain coming?” I glance up, tracking the roiling sky.

“Probably.” He frowns. “Sooner than forecast.”

Spoiler alert: very soon.

The first raindrop lands with an icy kiss on my collarbone. Then another. Then?—

Downpour.

We don’t speak, just break into a run, boots slapping mud.

The wind howls as if it’s got something to prove, rain pelting down in a sudden onslaught that soaks us in seconds.

My clothes cling like a second skin, plastered to every inch of me, cold enough to raise goosebumps—and heat enough to burn right through them.

“This way.” Caleb grabs my elbow. Just his hand—rough, warm, anchoring.

He veers off the trail toward a low silhouette tucked against the ridge. A structure. I hadn’t even noticed it.

We reach the door in a sprint, half-blind from the rain. Caleb throws it open, practically shoves me inside before following, slamming it shut behind us.

The slam echoes.

Silence follows.

The shelter is barely bigger than a closet. Wooden walls, narrow bench, weather station gear in one corner, and a single battery-powered lantern on the shelf. No electricity. No distractions.

Just us. A one-room cabin, and one bed.

Just kill me now.