Page 38 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“Tell Maria she’s welcome to join us if she wants. More eyes make for better mushroom hunting.” I tried to sound casual, like I wasn’t wondering whether Talia would show up at all. “I’ll text you the details once I confirm the final headcount.”
“Copy that. Martinez out.”
I clipped the radio back to my belt and stared at my phone again. Still no message. Still no explanation for why she’d vanished from her usual routines right after we’d had what I thought was a really good cooking lesson.
Maybe I’d misread her signals. Maybe the ease I’d felt between us was one-sided, my own nostalgia creating connection where she’d just been being polite. Maybe inviting her on a foraging hike was too much too soon, pushing for intimacy she wasn’t ready to give.
Or maybe something else was going on entirely.
The thing about being a ranger is you develop instincts for patterns that don’t fit. Animals behaving oddly before storms. Unusual plant die-offs that signal water contamination. Tourist traffic that suggests illegal camping in restricted areas. After three years of this work, I’d learned to pay attention when something felt off, even if I couldn’t immediately explain why.
And something felt off about Talia’s absence.
Not just the duration, though three days of complete withdrawal was concerning for someone who’d been establishing regular routines around town. It was the timing, coinciding with our plans for Thursday. Like maybe she’d realized what she’d agreed to and decided retreat was safer than following through.
I’d seen her at Pine & Pages last week when I’d stopped by to pick up a field guide Hollis had ordered for me. She’d been curled up in one of the reading chairs with a cup of tea, looking more relaxed than I’d seen her since she’d arrived in Hollow Haven. Hollis had been nearby, reshelfing books and making quiet conversation with her between customers. The scene had been so peaceful, so right, that I’d felt something settle in my chest.
Good. She was making friends, finding safe spaces, building the kind of community connections that would help her heal.
I hadn’t interrupted, just collected my book and left. But I’d thought about that scene a lot over the past week. Thought about how Hollis had that gift for making people feel seen withoutbeing overwhelming. Thought about how Talia needed exactly that kind of steady, patient presence in her life.
Thought about how I’d like to tell her it was okay to want that, to have that, even while she was also spending time with me.
But that was a complicated conversation, and one I wasn’t sure I had the right to initiate. We’d had one cooking lesson. We’d made plans for a foraging hike. That didn’t give me any claim to her attention or any authority to discuss her other relationships.
Even if everything in me wanted to tell her that Hollis was good people, that she could trust him, that there was nothing wrong with building multiple connections that met different needs.
I finished my morning reports and checked the time. Still early enough for a secondary patrol if I found legitimate reasons to extend my route. And honestly, there were always legitimate reasons. The Whisper Creek Trail saw enough foot traffic that I should verify those erosion conditions firsthand. Document any changes since last week’s weather. Check the condition of the footbridge that crossed the creek at its narrowest point.
Professional due diligence that happened to take me through terrain where a certain chef might go if she needed solitude and thinking space.
The decision to extend my patrol felt justified until I spotted her car at the old trailhead, parked in the shade of a massive ponderosa pine like she was trying to make it invisible. Then it felt like the universe confirming what my instincts already knew.
She’d gone to the place we’d shared twenty years ago. The hidden meadow where we’d spent countless hours exploring, learning the names of wildflowers and watching for wildlife. Our secret sanctuary that existed in the space between wilderness and civilization, protected and peaceful and perfect for working through whatever complex emotions drove an eleven-year-old to seek solitude.
Relief and concern warred in my chest. Relief that she was okay, physically safe in a place I knew well. Concern about what had driven her here instead of reaching out, instead of showing up for the morning coffee run and farmers market visits that had become her pattern.
I parked beside her Chevy and checked my gear automatically. Radio functioning, first aid kit accessible, water and emergency supplies secured. Protocol for any backcountry response, even one that was probably more personal than professional.
The trailhead looked exactly as I remembered, except for the new signs I’d helped install last spring. Information about Leave No Trace principles, wildlife safety, and seasonal trail conditions. My own photographs illustrating proper food storage and minimum impact camping techniques.
The Whisper Creek Trail gained elevation gradually through mixed stands of ponderosa pine and Douglas fir, with occasional aspen groves that provided bright autumn contrast to the evergreen canopy. I’d maintained this specific route for two seasons now, knew every switchback and stream crossing, every place where tree roots created natural steps and where loose scree required careful footing.
But I also knew it through the eyes of that eight-year-old boy who’d followed Talia along these same paths, learning to identify animal tracks and plants, discovering that patience and attention could reveal secrets the forest didn’t share with casual visitors.
Both perspectives guided my feet as I climbed toward the meadow, moving quietly out of habit but not trying to mask my approach entirely. The last thing I wanted was to startle her when she’d clearly chosen isolation for good reasons.
A jay scolded something ahead of me on the trail, its harsh call carrying the usual territorial irritation these birds directedat anything they perceived as competition for resources. Then I heard the response, soft and amused and achingly familiar.
“I know, I know. I’m in your space. Sorry about that.”
She was talking to the bird. Of course she was. That was so perfectly Talia, apologizing to wildlife for temporary intrusion instead of viewing the forest as something that existed for her convenience.
I found her exactly where instinct had suggested she’d be. The fallen log that spanned Whisper Creek at its narrowest point, now gray with age but still solid enough to serve as both bridge and bench. She sat with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around her legs, staring at the water flowing past her feet like it might contain answers to questions she couldn’t voice.
She looked smaller than I remembered from our cooking lesson, curved in on herself in a way that spoke of someone trying to take up minimal space. Her auburn curls caught morning light that filtered through the canopy in shifting patterns, but there were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Figured I might find you up here,” I said when I was close enough for normal conversation, keeping my voice gentle and non-threatening. “This was always your thinking spot.”
