Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ben
T he eagle weighs nothing and everything in my arms, its wild heart thundering against the emergency blanket. Each step requires the kind of focus I usually reserve for tracking injured predators. One wrong move could stress the bird or leave an opening for those talons.
"The service road's past these switchbacks," I say, more to fill the silence than because Natalie needs direction. The sun has fully crested the ridge now, turning the morning mist into sheets of gold. "My truck's about a quarter mile up."
"I can call ahead to the rescue center." She's a few paces behind me, and I hear the worry in her voice. "Once we get a signal, I mean. I know the head rehabilitator at—" Her words cut off in a sharp gasp, followed by the distinct sound of someone trying not to swear.
I turn, careful to keep the eagle stable. Natalie's on the ground, camera clutched protectively to her chest, face white with pain.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm fine." She tries to push herself up, but the moment her right foot takes weight, she crumples. "Just caught the edge of a root."
The eagle shifts restlessly in my arms, responding to the tension in my voice. "That's not nothing." I scan the trail ahead, calculating distances and options. The rescue center is half an hour's drive, and the eagle's wing needs immediate attention. But I can't exactly carry both bird and photographer.
Natalie must read something in my expression because she waves me off. "Go. The eagle's what matters right now."
"Can you walk at all?" I’m not about to leave her here on her own.
She tries again, using a nearby boulder for support. Her teeth catch her lower lip, but she manages to stand. "See? Fine."
One step forward and she nearly falls again. I catch the muffled sound of pain she tries to hide, and something in my chest twists.
"Right." I glance at the eagle, then back at her. "New plan. We get to my truck, get the eagle secured in the transport cage, then deal with your ankle."
"I don't need?—"
"That wasn't a suggestion."
The walk to my truck takes three times longer than it should. I maintain a careful pace, hyperaware of both the injured eagle and the sound of Natalie's uneven steps behind me. She hasn't complained once, but each time I glance back, her face is a shade paler.
Finally, the service road comes into view, my familiar green ranger truck parked in the pull-off. The eagle has gone eerily still, and I quicken my pace.
"There's a transport cage behind the seat," I tell Natalie as she limps to catch up. "Can you grab it while I keep this one stable?"
She nods, fumbling with the door handle. Her camera swings forward on its strap, catching the early light, and I notice fresh scratches on the expensive-looking lens. From her fall, probably. But she'd protected it instinctively, at the cost of catching herself.
The thought sits strangely in my chest as I help her secure the eagle. Her hands are steady despite her pain, her movements careful and precise. She whispers something soothing to the bird as we close the cage, and I catch myself watching the gentle way she touches the bars.
"Right," I say, too loudly. "Your turn."
"I can call a ride. Or walk to the main road?—"
"And risk further injury on my preserve? I don't think so." I open the passenger door. "Get in."
She looks like she might argue, but another wave of pain crosses her face. "Fine. But I'm only agreeing because I want to make sure the eagle gets proper care."
"Of course you are."
The drive down the mountain is tense with things unsaid. Natalie keeps sneaking glances at the cage in the back seat, and I keep sneaking glances at her ankle, which is visibly swelling.
"Urgent Care first. It’s on the way," I say as we approach town. "The rescue center's already been called, and they know what to expect."
"The eagle?—"
"Will be fine for an extra few minutes. Your ankle won't be if you don't get it treated."
She turns to face me fully, and I feel the weight of her study. "Why do you care?"
Because I've seen too many small injuries turn serious. Because leaving someone hurt goes against everything I believe about protection and responsibility. Because something about her determination to help that eagle, her willingness to risk herself for a creature in need, has gotten under my skin.
I say none of that.
"Liability," I answer instead. "You got hurt on preserve land."
"Right." She looks out the window, and I pretend not to notice the hurt that flashes across her face. "Liability."
The Urgent Care waiting room is mercifully empty this early. I help Natalie to a chair, ignoring how naturally she leans into my support, then get the paperwork while she protests that she can do it herself.
"Insurance card," I say, holding out my hand.
She sighs but digs through her wallet. "I could have driven myself, you know."
"With your right ankle twice its normal size? Not likely."
"I've managed worse."
Something about the way she says it makes me look at her sharply. There's history there, stories about proving herself, maybe. Before I can stop myself, I ask, "Do you ever actually accept help?"
"Do you ever actually offer it without acting like it's a burden?"
We stare at each other, the question hanging between us like smoke. Then the nurse calls her name, breaking the moment.
"I'll check on the eagle and drop it off," I say, standing. "Be back in thirty."
“No need. I can catch a ride to my car.” She waves me off. “I’m sure you have work to do.”
But at the rescue center, after making sure the eagle is in good hands, I find myself heading back to Urgent Care instead of up to the preserve. I tell myself it's just responsibility, just making sure she has a way home.
I arrive just as she's hobbling out on crutches, an air cast strapped around her right ankle.
"Grade two sprain," she says before I can ask. "Plus some lovely bruising." She manages a wry smile. "Don't worry, I signed all the liability waivers."
"Where are you staying?"
"The blue cottage on Oak Street. Though..." She winces. "The bedroom's up a flight of stairs."
Of course it is. I pinch the bridge of my nose, already knowing what I'm about to offer, already questioning my sanity.
"I have a guest room." The words come out gruff. "Ground floor. It's yours until you can handle stairs."
Her eyes widen. "That's not—I couldn't?—"
"It's not a big deal." I head for the truck before I can think better of it. "Besides, you'll want to check on the eagle's progress, right? I'm five minutes from the rescue center."
"Ben." Something in her voice makes me turn. She's balanced on her crutches, morning sun catching gold in her dark hair, looking at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Thank you."
I grunt something noncommittal and help her into the truck. As we drive towards my house, I realize I've just invited a woman who represents everything I oppose about preserve development to stay under my roof.
Mom would laugh herself silly if she could see me now.
But when I glance over and catch Natalie gently touching the scratches on her camera lens, see the worry in her eyes that has nothing to do with her own injury and everything to do with a wounded eagle, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Much.
The key sticks in the lock—it always does—and I'm suddenly aware of every cobweb, every scuff mark on the porch. I haven't had a visitor since... I can't even remember when. The realization sits uncomfortably as I shoulder open the door, propping it wide for Natalie and her crutches.
"Sorry about the mess." Though there isn't one, not really. My space is functional, orderly. Empty, some might say.
Natalie maneuvers inside, her camera bag bumping against her hip. She takes in the living room—bare walls, weathered leather couch, bookshelf filled with field guides and ecology texts. A ghost of a smile touches her lips.
"Let me guess. You're a minimalist?"
"I'm practical." I set her duffel bag—retrieved from her rental—by the guest room door. "Everything has a purpose."
"Mm." She hobbles to the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines. "No fiction? No art? No family photos?" Her voice softens on that last part, turning it almost into a question.
I think of the single photo tucked in my desk drawer. The one of me and Mom at my academy graduation, her smile brave despite the shadows under her eyes. "The guest room's through here."
But Natalie's already discovered my one concession to decoration. It’s a large topographic map of the preserve mounted above the fireplace, its surface dotted with colored pins marking wildlife corridors, den sites, problem areas.
"Now this," she says, "this is art."
"It's a working document." I move closer, caught by the way she studies it, her head tilted like she's framing a shot. "Red pins are sensitive areas, blue are water sources, yellow are?—"
"Trail access points." She points to a cluster of yellow near the eastern ridge. "I noticed the pattern while shooting there last week. You've created natural barriers with fallen logs and boulder arrangements, channeling foot traffic away from the fox dens."
Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest. "You noticed that?"
"I notice a lot of things, Ranger Holloway." She turns, and suddenly we're standing closer than I realized. "It's kind of my job."
A strand of hair has escaped her braid, curling against her neck. My fingers itch to tuck it back, and I step away quickly. "You should elevate that ankle."
She lets me help her to the couch—practical brown leather, selected for durability—and I prop her injured foot on a pillow. The domesticity of the moment feels foreign, like watching someone else's life.
"Ice pack?" she asks, and I realize I've been standing there too long, watching her settle into my space.
"Right." I escape to the kitchen, grateful for the moment to breathe. But even here, I'm aware of her presence. The soft rustle of movement, the way the afternoon light seems different with someone else in it.
When I return with ice and water, she's pulled out her camera, scrolling through photos with a small frown.
"Worried about the scratches?" I hand her the ice pack, careful not to let our fingers brush.
"A little. But mostly..." She turns the display so I can see. It’s a shot of the eagle. The moment of rescue captured in morning light. Despite everything, it's a stunning shot. "I'm hoping these might help track down its nesting site. There are details in the background—rock formations, tree patterns..."
"You got all that while helping with an injured bird?"
Her eyes meet mine, challenging. "Everything has a purpose, right?"
I sink into my reading chair, suddenly unsure of my footing in my own home. Because she's right. Everything does have a purpose. But her presence here feels purposefully disruptive, like a stone tossed into still water, ripples reaching places I'd rather leave undisturbed.
"The bathroom's down the hall," I say, desperate to return to practical matters. "Extra towels in the closet. Kitchen's obviously through there. I'm usually up at dawn?—"
"Because of the morning light," she finishes. When I look at her sharply, she shrugs. "Wildlife photographers and rangers keep similar hours. We're both chasing the same thing, in our own ways."
"We're really not." But even as I say it, I remember her stillness with the fox kits, her gentle hands helping with the eagle.
She doesn't argue, just shifts the ice pack and keeps scrolling through photos. After a moment, she says quietly, "You know, for someone so opposed to letting people in, you're pretty good at it."
The words hit like summer lightning—unexpected, illuminating things I'd rather keep in shadow. I stand abruptly. "I should check in at the preserve. You'll be okay here?"
"I think I can manage. Though I might add some color to the place, just to watch you twitch." Her smile takes the sting from the words.
"Don't." But there's no heat in it, and worse, she seems to know that.
I grab my keys, needing to escape the suddenly too-small space. At the door, I glance back. She's curled into the corner of my couch like she's claimed it, afternoon sun turning her skin gold, that loose strand of hair still taunting me.
"Ben?" She doesn't look up from her camera. "Thank you. Really."
I grunt something noncommittal and flee, trying not to think about how right my name sounds in her voice, or how the house already feels different knowing she's in it.