Page 31 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
I pick up a partially carved figure—a fox, its features emerging from the wood with remarkable detail. "You made this?"
Caleb hesitates before nodding. "Helps pass the time."
"It's beautiful." I examine another piece—an owl with intricately textured feathers. "You're talented."
"Just a hobby." He takes the carving from my hands, setting it back on the shelf.
"The box—the one I broke. You made that too?"
Pain flickers across his face. "Yes."
"I really am sorry." I meet his eyes, willing him to believe my sincerity.
"I know." Something in his expression softens fractionally. "I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry I snapped."
"I deserved it. It was my fault. I was bored and careless. I broke something precious to you, and I am really sorry about that."
This small concession eases the tension between us. As we finish the inventory, conversation flows more naturally, focusing on practical matters without the earlier strain.
When we return to the main room, Caleb crosses to theradio and checks in with Dispatch to confirm supplies and status. His voice is steady and professional—there is no trace of what happened just minutes ago, and there is no hint that anything inside him might be unraveling.
When the call ends, he turns to the broken box gently, like it might still feel pain.
His fingers trace the fracture, thumb brushing the splintered edge with reverence that punches straight through my ribs. Not for the wood. For what it represents.
“Can it be repaired?” I ask, hovering close enough to feel the tension radiating off him.
“The box, yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “The glass bird? No.”
“What kind of bird was it?”
“Golden eagle.” His eyes flick to mine, and in that moment, the air shifts. He doesn’t say it like he’s naming a species—he says it like he’s naming a ghost. "Kim studied their nesting patterns. Focused on fire zones.”
The breath catches in my throat.
That’s why he knew where to find the nesting sites. That’s why he moved through those woods like they whispered to him.
“You’ve been continuing her work,” I say quietly, but it lands between us like thunder. “Like I’m finishing my father’s.”
His nod is slow. Controlled. But his hands tighten around the damaged box like he can hold the past together with sheer force of will.
Something opens between us. Not just shared grief—purpose. The same hollow ache of wanting to give meaning to what was stolen.
“Why did you kiss me?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Chapter 9
Caleb’s hands go still.
The silence that follows could shatter glass. He sets the box down like it’s suddenly radioactive. Like touching it any longer might burn.
“I shouldn’t have.” His voice is low. Flat. A forced calm that doesn’t match the storm behind his eyes. “It won’t happen again.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His entire body goes rigid. And then, like it costs him, he takes a slow step back. One pace. Two. Like putting space between us might scrub away what we both felt.
“It’s the only answer that matters.”
