Page 72 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
I lean against the tent pole and look at the sky.
“I remembered who I am.”
"Well, National Geographic agrees."My editor practically screams.“They confirmed the feature. You’ve outdone yourself.”
I should be ecstatic. And I am—part of me. But there’s this empty place inside me, and it pulses with one name.
“I’ve got another offer,"my editor says."Intimate series. Local angles. Interviews, photojournalism. They want you.”
“I’m not staying in Australia,” I say flatly.
“It’s not in Australia.”
I still. The silence between us stretches.
“It’s in Colorado,”he continues.“Angel’s Peak. It’s about conservation. Rangers. Poaching prevention. Threatened species. Real heart stuff. Your kind of story.”
"Angel’s Peak?" My pulse trips. My breath leaves me. He keeps talking, but I barely hear him. My heartbeat is in my throat. “Did you say Angel’s Peak?”
“Yeah. Real earthy, intimate stuff. I thought of you immediately. You’re already familiar with the area.”
I close my eyes and remember the heat of Caleb’s body, the grip of his hands, the sound of his voice whispering,Come back to me.
Angel’s Peak. The mountains. The forest.
Caleb
I look down at my hands—callused, sun-darkened, strong.
He was right all along. If I stayed… I never would have accomplished this: a feature article in National Geographic. I never would’ve known what I was capable of. I would’ve regretted not taking the challenge.
And it’s time.
I’m ready to go home.
Chapter 20
The plane landswith a jolt that rattles my bones, sending a cascade of shivers up my spine. My fingers grip the armrests until my knuckles turn white. The seatbelt sign dings off, and every passenger leaps for their overhead compartments like the last chopper out of a war zone.
I move slower. My limbs are lead, but my pulse is a wildfire raging beneath my skin, threatening to consume me from the inside out.
Six months. It’s been six months since I left this place. Left him. The thought sends another tremor through me. What if things are different? What if he’s changed? What if I’ve changed?
Can we rekindle the spark?
The customs officer's voice barely registers. His questions float past me like debris in a current. My answers are automatic, rehearsed. My mind is elsewhere—already racing through the terminal, already in his arms. One thought pounds in rhythm with my heart—he's here.
When I step through the sliding doors into baggage claim, the wall of noise hits me first. Reunions are in full swing,voices calling out, squeals of delight, the metallic whine of the carousel. I scan the crowd, eyes darting frantically between faces. For a second, my heart stalls completely.
Strangers.
So many unfamiliar faces blur together under harsh fluorescent lights, making my eyes water.
And then—I see him.
Flannel shirt, the color of forest shadows. Faded jeans worn thin at the knees. That steel-cut jaw I've traced a thousand times with my fingertips in my dreams. Green eyes—the exact shade of the mountain pines in sunlight—locked on mine like he's been staring at this spot for hours, willing me to materialize from thin air.
He drops the cardboard sign he's holding. My name in his handwriting crumples to the floor. He doesn't even wait for the crowd to part.
