Page 52 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
“That’s good, right?” He tries for encouragement, but I hear the strain in his voice. “Your father’s project, finally getting the recognition it deserves.”
“It’s incredible.” My hands shake as I read the details. “But they need more shots. Different nesting sites, different subspecies. I’d have to be in Arizona. Immediately.”
His face shutters, the warmth of moments ago replaced by a carefulblankness. “You should call them back.”
“Caleb—”
“It’s fine.” He stands, jaw tight, putting distance between us. “It’s what you’ve been working for. You should take it.”
Before I can find the words, my phone chimes again. Then again. The world outside this cabin clamors louder, demanding my attention, reminding me of everything I’m supposed to want.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” He grabs his jacket, his voice rough. “Need to check the perimeter before dark anyway.”
The door closes behind him, and just like that, the spell breaks. I’m left alone, staring at the screen, the weight of my choices pressing down.
My life is out there, deadlines, assignments, and a career I’ve built from nothing. I love all of that. Worked hard for it. But all I can think about is the man who just walked out, the heat of his hands still burning on my skin, the ache of wanting more time, more of him.
The longing is unbearable, and with every second that ticks by, the end rushes closer, threatening to tear away this fragile, impossible thing we’ve built.
Chapter 14
Sleep eludesme long after Caleb returns from his "perimeter check"—an obvious excuse to escape the cabin and the conversation we're both avoiding. He slips into bed beside me, maintaining a careful inch of space between our bodies, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching.
The distance feels vast after days of gradually closing the gap.
Morning arrives with weak sunlight filtering through fog-shrouded windows. Caleb is already gone; his side of the bed is cold, with a note on the kitchen counter informing me that he’s checking trail conditions and will be back by midday.
The terse message reads like something from our first days together, formal and impersonal.
I make coffee and toast, moving through the now-familiar kitchen with an ache of premature nostalgia. My phone, which was charged overnight, now shows no signal again. The brief connection last evening was apparently a temporary fluke rather than restored service.
The emails about the National Geographic opportunity remain partially downloaded, crucial details missing. I needmore information before making any decisions. After a moment's hesitation, I turn to Caleb's desk where his satellite connection equipment sits.
"Sorry for the invasion of privacy," I mutter, powering up the system.
The connection is slow but functional, allowing my emails to fully download. The National Geographic offer unfolds in my inbox, even more impressive than the partial details suggested. They want my golden eagle photographs as the centerpiece of their endangered apex predators issue, alongside commissioned work documenting threatened eagles in Australia.
Six months on the remote western coast of Australia, capturing nesting behaviors of the endangered white-bellied sea eagle and wedge-tailed eagle. Literally, the otherside of the world from Caleb.
It’s a dream assignment. The kind photographers build entire careers hoping to receive.
The deadline to accept stares back at me from the screen—48 hours from now. If I agree, they expect me in Sydney by next week for preliminary meetings before heading to the field sites.
I sit back, my mind racing. Six months in Australia.
Half a world away from Colorado.
From Angel's Peak.
From Caleb.
The satellite connection blinks out before I can send a response, the system automatically powering down on its timer. Perhaps it's for the best—I need time to think and decide what I truly want, rather than reacting to a professional opportunity out of habit.
I busy myself cleaning the already tidy cabin, my restless energy finding an outlet in unnecessary organization. When Caleb's boots sound on the porchsteps, I've swept, dusted, and rearranged his spice shelf into alphabetical order—a service he'll likely find more annoying than helpful.
The door swings open, bringing a gust of pine-scented air and Caleb's tall frame. His expression remains carefully neutral, but his eyes seek mine immediately. A flash of something unguarded crosses his features before the mask returns.
"Hey." He hangs his jacket by the door. "Roads should be clear by late afternoon. You'll be able to head out tomorrow morning."
