Echoes Of The Heart (The Alphabet Sweethearts #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ben

T he familiar scent of fresh coffee and books fills Novel Sips as chairs scrape across hardwood floors, eager voices bouncing off exposed brick walls. I lean against the back counter, arms crossed, watching the usual crowd filter in for what's supposed to be a routine community meeting. Maggie catches my eye as she wipes down the espresso machine, her concerned expression telling me she already knows what's coming.

"They're saying it'll bring in tourism dollars." Henry Caldwell settles into the chair next to me, his insurance agent badge catching the afternoon light. "But I figured you'd have thoughts on that."

‘Thoughts’ doesn't begin to cover it. I adjust my ranger hat, buying time before I respond. The preserve has survived decades without turning into some kind of tourist attraction, and I'm not about to let that change on my watch.

"Ben." Hazel Elliott's voice carries that gentle warning tone she's perfected over years of teaching. She gestures to an empty seat near the front. "Why don't you join us? The meeting's about to start."

I shake my head. "I'm fine back here."

Then I see her. The woman from yesterday, the one I caught photographing in a restricted area of the preserve. She's traded her hiking shoes for leather ankle boots, but her dark braid still hangs over one shoulder, a camera strap crossing her body like some kind of shield. When she turns, searching for a seat, I catch the determination in her hazel eyes.

"Before we discuss the upcoming Spring Blossom Festival," Mayor Roberts begins, shuffling his papers, "we have a proposal from Natalie Quinn regarding the mountain preserve."

My jaw tightens. Of course she has a name. Of course she's here with a proposal.

Natalie stands, and I notice she's shorter than I remembered, but she carries herself like someone used to commanding attention. "Thank you, Mayor Roberts." Her voice is clear, confident. "As some of you know, I'm a wildlife photographer focusing on conservation education. I've spent the last month documenting the incredible ecosystem of your mountain preserve, and I believe there's an opportunity here we shouldn't ignore."

She gestures to a series of photographs spread across the table—sunrise over the ridge, a young fox kit peering from its den, a golden eagle soaring against storm clouds. I hate that they're good. Hate that she's managed to capture the soul of the preserve in a way that makes my chest ache.

"A small, carefully planned visitor center," she continues, "could serve as both an educational hub and a way to control foot traffic. Instead of people wandering off trails or entering restricted areas—" her gaze finds mine for a pointed moment "—they could learn about the preserve's ecosystem and how to interact with it responsibly."

"The preserve doesn't need interaction," I cut in, pushing off from the counter. Every head turns, but I focus on Natalie. "It needs protection. The ecosystem you're so concerned about has thrived for generations without guided tours and gift shops."

A flush creeps up her neck, but her eyes flash. "With all due respect, Ranger Holloway, that's exactly the kind of thinking that keeps people from developing the connection with nature that leads to conservation. We can't protect what we don't understand."

"Understanding doesn't require infrastructure." I step forward, heat rising in my chest. "Those photos? That's as close as most people need to get. The preserve isn't a theme park."

"No one's suggesting?—"

"You're suggesting we commercialize it. Develop it. Draw crowds who'll leave trash on the trails and disturb nesting sites because they want the perfect selfie."

Natalie sets her palms on the table, leaning forward. "I'm suggesting we educate them so they don't do those things. Or would you rather maintain this fortress mentality until there's no public support left for preservation?"

The room has gone quiet, tension crackling like static before a storm. I'm aware of Hazel watching us with that knowing look she gets, of Maggie pretending to be very interested in cleaning already-spotless mugs.

"The preserve," I say slowly, deliberately, "has existed long before any of us, and it'll exist long after. It doesn't need our improvements."

"No." Natalie straightens, something sad flickering across her features. "But maybe we need its lessons. Maybe that's worth the risk of letting people in." Her gaze holds mine for a moment longer before she turns back to the mayor. "I've prepared a detailed proposal, including environmental impact studies and success stories from similar projects. I hope you'll all take time to review it before making any decisions."

She sits, and I remain standing, the space between us charged with something that feels dangerous. Because beneath my anger, beneath my certainty that she's wrong, there's a pull I don't want to acknowledge. A recognition of the passion in her voice, the way she sees the preserve's beauty even if she's wrong about how to share it.

I grab my hat off the counter. "If you'll excuse me, I have actual preservation work to do."

The bell above the door chimes as I step into the afternoon sun, but it doesn't quite mask Hazel's quiet comment behind me: "Well, that was interesting."

I head for my truck, the proposal already gathering dust on the table behind me. Let them talk about visitor centers and educational opportunities. I know what the preserve needs. Silence, space, and someone willing to stand between it and those who'd change it.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the trail as I make my final rounds. Most days, this is my favorite time—when the day-hikers have gone home and the preserve settles into itself, wildlife emerging from hidden places to reclaim their territory.

But today, my jaw still aches from clenching it through that meeting, and every crunch of gravel under my boots feels like an accusation. I should have stayed calmer, should have presented logical arguments instead of letting her get under my skin.

Movement catches my eye. I see a flash of dark hair and olive green jacket near the restricted area I'd warned her about yesterday. Of course. I lengthen my stride, the familiar weight of my ranger's badge pressing against my chest.

She's crouched near a fallen log, camera raised, completely absorbed in whatever she's photographing. I'm about to call out when I notice what's caught her attention. A pair of fox kits are tumbling over each other in the late sunlight, their mother watching from the shadow of a juniper.

The scene steals my voice for a moment. In fifteen years of working this land, I've never seen the kits this playful, this close. Natalie stays perfectly still, her breathing slow and measured, camera clicking softly. There's something about her focus, the gentle way she documents the moment without disturbing it, that makes my prepared lecture waver.

Then one of the kits spots us. Both babies dart for cover, their mother melting into the underbrush like smoke.

"Are you following me?" Natalie doesn't lower her camera, just shifts to capture the last rays of sun painting the mountains. Her voice carries none of the heat from our earlier confrontation. If anything, she sounds tired.

"This is my job." I step closer, noting how the light catches copper strands in her braid. "You're in a restricted area. Again."

Now she does look at me, one eyebrow lifted. "Actually, I checked the trail markers. This section isn't marked as restricted."

"Because the signs keep disappearing." I gesture to a post where weathered screw holes mark where the last three signs have been torn down. "Doesn't change the fact that this area is a designated wildlife corridor."

"Which is exactly why it needs documentation." She rises in one fluid motion, and I catch a whiff of something woodsy and floral—not perfume, maybe shampoo. "Those fox kits? They're evidence of successful breeding populations. Proof that preservation works." Her eyes meet mine, challenging. "Proof that could help secure additional funding and protection."

"Or proof that will draw every amateur photographer looking for their own perfect shot." I step closer, noticing how she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Until the foxes abandon their den site and find somewhere deeper in the wilderness, somewhere harder to monitor and protect."

"You really think everyone's out to destroy what you're protecting, don't you?" There's something raw in her voice, something that feels less about the preserve and more about...

"I think good intentions can do as much damage as bad ones."

A muscle flexes in her jaw. "And I think fear of damage can do more harm than carefully managed change." She gestures to her camera. "Want to see what I caught? Maybe then you'll understand what I'm trying to preserve."

She's standing close enough that I can see flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that the air between us feels charged with something that has nothing to do with our argument. I should step back. Should write her a citation, or at least another warning.

Instead, I find myself nodding.

She turns the camera so I can see the display, and my breath catches. She's captured the exact moment one kit pounced on the other, their fur backlit by the setting sun, every detail sharp and alive. But it's more than just technical skill. Somehow she's caught their spirit, the wild joy of their play, the ancient dance of predator and prey wrapped in innocence.

"This is what people need to see," she says softly. "Not just the danger of losing it, but the miracle of what we still have. What's worth fighting for."

Her shoulder brushes mine as she shows me the next shot, and I fight the urge to lean into that contact. "It's worth fighting for exactly as it is."

"Nothing stays exactly as it is." She lowers the camera, but doesn't step away. "You of all people should know that. Nature is constant change, constant adaptation."

"Nature changes on its own terms." I'm not sure when this became about more than the preserve, but something in her words burrows under my skin. "It doesn't need our improvements."

"No." The ghost of a smile touches her lips. "But maybe we need its wisdom. Maybe that's what I'm trying to show."

The sun dips behind the ridge, and the evening chill sweeps down from the heights. Natalie shivers slightly, and I crush the instinct to offer her my jacket.

"You should head back," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "It's not safe on the trails after dark."

She begins packing her camera, movements precise and practiced. "Don't worry, Ranger Holloway. I know how to find my way in the dark." She shoulders her bag, that challenging look returning. "Both literally and metaphorically."

I watch her start down the trail, her braid swinging with each step. Just before she rounds the bend, she turns back. "Those fox kits? They're not just evidence of preservation. They're proof that sometimes, letting someone in doesn't destroy what you're protecting. Sometimes it makes it stronger."

Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the deepening shadows and the unsettling feeling that we weren't just talking about wildlife.