Page 63 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
Unable to remain confinedin the motel room with my circling thoughts, I grab my keys and head out.
The evening air carries the crisp scent of pine and approaching autumn. The streets are quiet as the small town prepares for the night. I find myself driving back toward the forest and the trailhead leading to Caleb's cabin.
I won't go all the way, I tell myself. Just need to clear my head in the forest air.
The parking area at the trailhead sits empty as darkness falls. I leave my car, taking only my camera out of habit, and step onto the now-familiar path. The forest welcomes me with rustling leaves and the occasional call of a night bird, the trail visible in the light of a nearly full moon.
I walk without purpose, letting my feet follow remembered routes while my mind grapples with the choice before me. The career I've built versus the connection I've found. The known path versus the uncertain one.
A sound stops me—mechanical, out of place in the natural setting. I freeze, listening. There it comes again—metal on metal, followed by lowvoices. Instinct sends me off the main trail, moving quietly through underbrush toward the source.
The moon provides just enough light to navigate by as I approach a small clearing. Through the trees, I make out two figures working by the light of their headlamps, setting something on the ground before moving a few yards away to repeat the process.
Traps. They're setting traps.
My photographer's instincts kick in, camera rising to capture evidence in the low light. The telephoto lens brings the scene into sharp focus—two men placing what appear to be large steel-jaw traps, illegal in most states and certainly in a protected forest.
The angle of their headlamps catches distinctive markings on the traps—custom modifications I recognize from a conservation piece I shot last year on wildlife trafficking. These aren't random poachers; they're part of an organized operation targeting specific animals.
The placement near the base of the ridge, where Caleb showed me the nesting sites, can’t be a coincidence.
They're after talons and feathers, which are valuable on the black market.
I document their activities silently, cold anger replacing my earlier emotional turmoil. When they move deeper into the forest, I retreat carefully, heading not for my car but for the cabin. Caleb needs to see this immediately.
The hike to the ranger station takes longer in the darkness, but determination drives me forward. When the cabin finally appears through the trees, windows glowing with warm light, relief washes through me. I rush the final yards, taking the porch steps two at a time before pounding on the door.
It swings open almost immediately, revealing Caleb in worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, hair damp as if from a recentshower. His expression transforms from confusion to shock as he registers my presence.
"Harper? What?—"
"Poachers." I push past him into the cabin, already retrieving my camera to show him the evidence. "Setting eagle traps on the north ridge. I caught them in the act."
His professional training takes over instantly, and personal complications are set aside in the face of a threat to his forest. He examines my photos, asking questions about locations and timing while gathering equipment.
"How many men?"
"Two that I saw. They had a vehicle parked off Forest Road 22, just past the creek crossing."
He nods, reaching for his radio to call it in. Within minutes, he's coordinated with other rangers, establishing a containment plan to catch the poachers before they can retrieve their traps or escape the area.
"I need to go before they finish setting their line." He shrugs into his jacket, checking his gear with efficient movements. "You should stay here. They could be dangerous."
"Not happening." I match his preparations, already heading for the door. "I can identify exactly where they were working. And we both know I move quietly in the forest."
"Stay behind me. Do exactly as I say."
His words cut through the space between us—low, firm, unyielding. That voice. That tone. It hits like a lightning strike straight to the center of me.
"Yes, sir!" I snap a salute for some stupid reason, trying to inject humor into the moment.
Instead, my body reacts before my brain can catch up—shoulders pulling back, breath hitching, heat blooming low and hot. It’s not fear thatcurls inside me. It’s memory.
Hunger.
The ghost of the man who owned every inch of my body with a single command.
That wasn’t how it was the last time. The last time, it was tender. Careful. Loving. But this side of Caleb is the part I ache for and haven’t dared ask to return.
