Page 19 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
I lower my camera, turning to study him instead. The way the sunlight filtersthrough 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.”
