Page 3 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
"I did check. It said afternoon thunderstorms were possible. It's afternoon. There's a thunderstorm.Forecast accurate."
"Possible means prepare for it, not ignore it until you're caught in it."
I take a sip of tea to avoid responding immediately. He's right, which irritates me. I detest looking like an idiot. I did check the weather, and I may, or may not, have been a bit too eager to get in my shot. I don’t like that he’s pointing out my foolishness. "I needed that eagle shot. It's part of a collection I'm finishing for my father."
Something in my tone must communicate the deeper meaning, because his expression shifts slightly. Not softening, exactly, but less judgmental.
"Where's your campsite?" he asks after a moment.
"Blue Spruce Campground. About six miles southwest."
He glances out the window at the intensifying storm, then at the radio on his desk. As if on cue, it crackles to life.
"Sierra Station, this is Dispatch. Do you copy?" A woman's voice, distorted by static.
Caleb crosses to the radio. "This is Sierra Station. Go ahead, Dispatch."
"Flash flood warning issued for your area. Palmer Creek has overflowed. Roads to Blue Spruce Campground are washed out. We're evacuating campers via the northern route."
My stomach drops. My rental car, my tent, my supplies—all at Blue Spruce.
"Any timeline on road clearing?" Caleb asks, eyes flicking briefly to me.
"Not yet. Assessment team can't get in until the storm passes. Expecting at least three days before the southern routes are passable. Check in at 0800 tomorrow for updates."
"Copy that. Sierra Station out."
Silence falls as Caleb replaces the radio handset. He turns to face me, expression unreadable.
"Looks like you'll be staying here tonight." His tone suggests this developmentranks somewhere between finding a dead mouse in his boot and discovering his coffee supply has run out.
"I can try to hike back another way?—"
"No." The word is sharp, brooking no argument. "Night hiking in a flood zone during an electrical storm is suicide."
Lightning flashes again, followed immediately by a thunderous boom that rattles the windows in their frames. We both glance toward the sound.
"Three days," I say softly, the reality sinking in. "They said at least three days."
Caleb's jaw tightens as he looks back at me. "The station has basic supplies. You can take the bed in the back room."
"Where will you sleep?"
"I'll manage." His tone ends the discussion.
Three days trapped with a man who clearly wishes I were anywhere but here. So why can't I stop staring at his hands? Or his ass. Damn those jeans.
Chapter 2
Sunlight streams through unfamiliar windows,painting golden rectangles across rough-hewn floorboards. For a moment, disorientation grips me—this isn't my tent. Then yesterday's events flood back: the ranger station and the man with storm-swept eyes. A man whose reluctant hospitality saved me from being washed down the mountainside.
I sit on the narrow bed, wincing as my knee protests the movement. The small back room is spartan—a bed, a simple wooden chest, and a hook on the wall holding a single towel. No personal touches. No indication that a human being sleeps here. Caleb is a particularly tidy ghost.
The cabin beyond the door is silent. I pull on yesterday's still-damp jeans, grimacing at the clammy fabric against my skin, and limp into the main room.
Empty.
The woodstove holds glowing embers, evidence that Caleb has been up for some time. The room is meticulously tidy, no sign of where he might have slept. A folded piece of paper sitson the small dining table with my name scrawled across the top in surprisingly elegant handwriting.
