Page 71 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
The first time he calls, I’m crouched in the shadow of a bluff, camera balanced on my knee, waiting for a flock of galahs to burst into flight. My phone buzzes, the screen lights up with his name, and I forget how to breathe.
"Hey," I whisper, throat raw with longing.
"Hi, sweetheart." His voice is low and warm, a velvet rasp that slides over every frayed edge inside me. "You all right?"
The question is simple. The answer is not.
I swallow. "I don’t know. Everything smells like salt and sunshine, and I hate how much I wish it smelled like smoke and pine."
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, "What do you see?"
I glance through the lens. "A hundred pink birds about to take flight. The sky’s gold. And I’m aching for you."
His inhale is sharp. "I knew you'd make something beautiful out there. But fuck, I miss you."
"Say it again."
He doesn't ask what I mean. "I miss you. I think about you every damn night. About that look in your eyes when you kneel for me and how you gasp when I make you come."
My thighs clench. I press my lips together to keep quiet. There are people nearby.
He chuckles. Low. Dirty. "You wet for me already?"
"Always."
"Good. Stay wet. Remember exactly how it felt when I told you what to do. When I bent you over and?—"
The call drops. Static. Then silence.
I stare at the blank screen. My heart clenches.
But I’m smiling. Because even that—especiallythat—is more than I ever thought I’d have.
Sometimes the calls are brief. Just a few seconds of his voice and a shitty connection before it drops. Sometimes they’re long, filled with stories, longing, and heat.
Once, he says, “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
And I do.
Another time, I ask what he sees out the cabin window.
He says, “That boulder.”
I press my thighs together and close my eyes.
?
Weeks pass, then months. The land imprints itself on me slowly, like a lover with rough hands. Dust settles into my boots. The sun peels my shoulders raw. The wind carries stories I don’t understand, but I hear its rhythm.
I wake before dawn, hike until my calves scream, crouch behind boulders, orcling to tree limbs, all to get the perfect shot. The camera becomes my voice, and in the still moments between clicks, I think about Caleb. About the weight of his hand. The gravity of his voice.
And the love I didn’t know I could have.
The ache in my chest doesn’t fade, but it becomes something I carry like my camera—ever-present, always ready.
I send in a portfolio. My editor calls the next day.
“Harper, these are... Jesus. These are national feature-level. What the hell happened to you out there?”
