Page 1 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
Chapter 1
The golden eaglesoars above the ridge, majestic wings spread against the backdrop of Angel's Peak. My breath catches in my throat as I raise my camera, adjusting the telephoto lens with trembling fingers. After three days of hiking, countless mosquito bites, and one terrifying encounter with a mother bear and her cubs, this moment makes every hardship worth it.
"Just a little closer," I whisper.
The magnificent bird banks left, sunlight gleaming off its distinctive plumage. I track its movement, heart pounding with the thrill of the chase. The perfect shot waits, suspended in the moment between breath and release.
Click. Not quite right.Click. Too distant.Click. Almost...
Dark clouds gather on the horizon, rolling over the mountaintops like a tide of smoke. I've been watching them approach for the past hour, calculating how much time I have before the storm hits. Not enough, according to the sensible part of my brain. Plenty, insists the photographer in me who's been chasing this eagle for my father's unfinished collection.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and ozone-nevergood. The eagle circles higher, moving farther from my position.
"Don't you dare leave." I edge closer to the outcropping, ignoring the first heavy drops that spatter against my jacket sleeve.
A low rumble of thunder echoes through the valley, vibrating in my chest. The rational voice grows louder, urging me to pack up and seek shelter.
I've been in mountain storms before.
They move fast and hit hard, especially in this part of Colorado.
But Dad never gave up on the perfect shot.
The eagle makes one more sweeping arc, golden feathers catching a final ray of sunlight before the clouds swallow the sky. My finger hovers over the shutter?—
Lightning splits the darkened sky, followed instantly by a crack of thunder that nearly sends me stumbling backward. The eagle vanishes, a speck disappearing into the tumultuous clouds.
"Dammit!"
Rain comes suddenly, not in drops but sheets. Within seconds, my equipment is drenched. I scramble to pack my camera into its waterproof case, but my rain cover flaps uselessly in the wind, torn from my backpack by the force of the gale.
Water streams down my face, into my eyes, soaking through layers meant to protect against light showers, not biblical floods. I abandon the tripod, cradling my camera bag against my chest as I scan the ridge for shelter.
The storm transforms familiar terrain into an alien landscape. Trails become muddy rivulets. Visibility drops to mere feet. Another lightning strike illuminates a dense copse of trees to my right. Not ideal for lightning, but better than standingexposed on the ridge.
My boots slip on rain-slicked stone as I half-run, half-slide down the slope toward the tree line. One misstep sends me sprawling, my knee colliding with a jagged rock. Pain lances through my leg, but adrenaline keeps me moving.
The relative cover of pine boughs offers little respite. Water finds its way through the canopy, soaking me further. Lightning illuminates the valley again, closer this time, followed immediately by a thunderclap that drowns out my curse.
Through the curtain of rain, I spot something—a structure nestled among the trees further down the slope. A cabin? A shed? At this point, even a damn outhouse would be welcome.
I clutch my camera bag tighter and push forward, ignoring the throbbing in my knee. Each step becomes a negotiation with mud and gravity. The wind whips my face with wet strands of hair that have rebelliously escaped from my once-secure ponytail.
As I draw closer, the building's shape solidifies. A ranger station, judging by the forest service logo visible even through the downpour. Relief floods through me stronger than the storm. Civilization. Shelter. Maybe even a first aid kit for my bleeding knee.
The wooden steps creak beneath my weight as I climb to the covered porch. Rain drums against the roof, a deafening percussion that almost drowns out my pounding on the door. Lightning flares again, illuminating the station's windows—warm light glows from within. Someone's home.
I bang harder, desperation lending strength to my fist.
The door swings open with such sudden force that I stumble inward and straight into the arms of a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, his expression is as thunderous as the sky. Dark hair falls across his forehead, nearly touching eyebrows drawn together in annoyance and surprise. His jaw—coveredwith at least three days of stubble—clenches as he takes in my bedraggled appearance.
"Station's closed to visitors." His voice is low, graveled, like he doesn't use it often.
"I'm not a visitor." Water streams from my hair, pooling at my feet. "I'm a half-drowned photographer who's about to lose ten thousand dollars worth of equipment if I don't get out of this storm."
Another lightning strike punctuates my statement, close enough that the subsequent thunder rattles the windows. The man's gaze flicks from my face to my camera bag, then to the storm raging behind me.
That's when our eyes truly meet, and something unexpected jolts through me. His eyes are the color of forest moss after rain, deep green with flecks of amber. They widen slightly, an almost imperceptible reaction that sends a strange heat through my chilled body.
