Page 30 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
Was.
The word thuds through the room like a dropped weight.
“She’s…she’s the one who died,” I murmur, the full picture clicking into place. “She was your?—”
“My fiancée.”
The word is final. Flat.
It lands in my chest with a jolt of pain so real it steals my breath.
Oh.
This is what he’s been holding back. Not just a tragedy. Not just the fire. But her. A future he lost in flame and ash.
“Caleb…” My voice breaks around the edges. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t.” He turns away, setting the broken box down with aching care. His hands linger there longer than necessary, knuckles still taut, breath shallow.
The silence after is unbearable. Not just awkward now—exposed.
And beneath the ache, something dangerous coils low in my belly. Not just because of the pain I saw on his face. But because I felt it. And I want to be the one who reaches past that barricade he’s so carefully constructed.
That’s the worst possible impulse, isn’t it?
I broke something that mattered, yet here I stand, terrified that I want to break more. I want to break through his walls. Watch them crumble. For me.
Not a ghost in his past.
"Sierra Station, this is Dispatch. Do you copy?"
He moves to the radio as it crackles to life, effectively ending the conversation.
"Sierra Station. Go ahead." His voice betrays none of the emotion I just witnessed.
"Update on road conditions. Landslide on the main access road. Estimate minimum five additional days before clearing crews can get through. Do you have adequate supplies?"
Five more days. The news should distress me—more time stranded away from civilization, away from my assignment. Instead, I feel a treacherous flutter of something like relief.
"Need to check inventory." Caleb glances my way. "Will report back within the hour."
"Copy that. Dispatch out."
He turns to me, professional mask firmly in place. "I need to count supplies."
"Do you want help?"
"Sure." From the way his shoulders droop, it’s clear I’m the last person he wants helping him. Me, the one who snooped. Me, the one who broke something precious to him.
We work in tense silence, cataloging food stores, water reserves, fuel for the generator, and other essentials. The mundane task keeps our hands busy while the unspoken hovers between us—his revelation, our kiss, the uncertain dynamic that shifts like quicksandbeneath our feet.
"Enough food for two weeks, if we're careful." He makes notes in a small ledger. "Water filtration system is working, so that's not a concern."
"What about power?"
"Generator has enough fuel for emergencies. Solar panels handle basic needs when there's sun." He checks another cabinet. "Propane for cooking is sufficient."
The inventory takes us to a storage closet I hadn't noticed before, tucked beside the back bedroom. Inside, shelves hold neatly organized supplies—everything from medical kits to spare blankets. One corner contains what appears to be a small workshop, with carving tools arranged on a pegboard and several blocks of wood in various stages of completion.
