Page 4 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
I unfold it, scanning the message:
Harper,
On patrol until midday. Help yourself to coffee and breakfast supplies. Water is limited—5 minute showers max. Don't touch the radio equipment. Stay within sight of the cabin if you go outside.
- C
No "good morning." No, "hope you slept well." Just rules and boundaries as stark as the cabin itself.
"Charming," I mutter to the empty room.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that my last meal was an energy bar somewhere around noon yesterday. I explore the kitchenette, finding a canister of coffee, oatmeal packets, and a loaf of bread that looks homemade. The refrigerator contains eggs, butter, and a surprising array of fresh vegetables.
I brew coffee and toast a slice of bread, savoring the rich aroma that fills the small space. With food in my stomach and caffeine entering my bloodstream, my natural curiosity takes over.
The cabin invites exploration, not because it's large, but because it feels like a puzzle missing pieces. Who is this man who lives surrounded by wilderness with minimal possessions and apparently no personal life?
The main room contains forest service maps, wildlife identification charts, and bookshelves filled with volumes on ecology, wilderness survival, and land management. I scan the titles, building a picture of Caleb through his reading habits. A man of science and practical knowledge. No fiction. No poetry. Nothing to suggest he sees the forest as anything but a system to be monitored and maintained.
My gaze falls on a wooden chest tucked beneath the desk. Unlike the rest of the furniture, this piece seemspersonal—the wood darkened with age and handling, brass fittings tarnished in a way that speaks of years rather than months. I hesitate, my conscience warring with curiosity.
Curiosity wins. Was there any doubt?
I glance toward the door before kneeling beside the chest, wincing as my injured knee protests. The lid opens silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing contents that tell more about Caleb than anything else in the cabin.
A medal, its ribbon slightly frayed, bears the insignia of the Wildland Firefighter Foundation. Several newspaper clippings, yellowed with age, show a younger Caleb in firefighting gear, his face less weathered but his eyes holding the same green of wild places. The headline reads: "Hotshot Crew Saves Twelve in Mountain Blaze."
Beneath these, wrapped in soft cloth, I find a framed photograph. A group of men and women in firefighting uniforms stand arm-in-arm, faces smudged with soot but smiling. Caleb stands at the center, his arm around a woman with curly red hair and a brilliant smile. They look happy. Connected. Nothing like the isolated man who reluctantly sheltered me.
The sound of boots on the porch sends me scrambling, barely managing to close the chest and return to the table before the door swings open.
Caleb fills the doorway, daylight silhouetting his tall frame. His eyes find me immediately, narrowing slightly as if assessing whether I've disturbed his carefully ordered world.
"Morning." I raise my coffee cup in greeting, hoping my face doesn't betray my snooping.
He nods, hanging his jacket on a hook by the door. "Sleep okay?"
"Fine, thanks." I watch as he moves to the kitchenette, his movements efficient andcontained. "Any updates on the roads?"
"Still out." He pours himself coffee, keeping his back to me.
The man has a mighty fine ass. Tight and powerful, like he was carved for sin and punishment. Broad back tapering into that perfect V, shoulders wide enough to block the sun. Tree-trunk thighs strain against worn denim, each step a study in raw strength and control. His shirt pulls across muscle, clings in all the right places, and I swear the fabric is working overtime just to hold on.
My gaze drags lower, then back up, heat coiling low in my belly. I lift my hand to swipe at my mouth, only half-jokingly—because I may actually be drooling.
No drool.
I’m cool.
"Another storm system is moving in tonight." He speaks robotically to me. Nothing but the barest bones of conversation. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how to carry on an actual conversation. It might explain why he’s stationed out here, away from the hiking trails, away from civilization.
"Great." I drum my fingers against the mug, searching for neutral conversation. "So, how long have you been stationed here?"
"Three years." He turns, leaning against the counter rather than joining me at the table.
"You like it? Being alone up here?"
"Yes." His gaze is steady, unreadable.
