Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Natalie
S leep eludes me, chased away by unfamiliar creaks and shadows, the dull throb in my ankle, and thoughts I can't quite settle. Outside my window, moonlight paints silver paths across Ben's tiny front lawn, and somewhere in the distance, an owl calls.
2:47 a.m., my phone tells me. With a sigh, I reach for my crutches. Maybe some tea will help. Assuming Ben owns anything other than black coffee. I've learned a little about the man yesterday, watching him move through his space with precise routine, everything in its place except, well, me.
I'm halfway to the kitchen when I notice the front door standing open, the screen letting in the night breeze. Ben sits on the top porch step, his ranger's jacket thrown over sleep pants and a faded t-shirt. The moonlight turns his profile to sculpture, all clean lines and quiet tension.
"Couldn't sleep either?" My voice barely disturbs the night air, but his shoulders tense slightly.
"Ankle bothering you?"
"Among other things." I maneuver through the door, fighting a brief battle with my crutches. Without a word, he shifts to make room on the step, and I ease down beside him. "I always struggle in new places. Too many thoughts, you know?"
He makes a noncommittal sound, but I notice he doesn't move away when our shoulders brush. Above us, the stars pierce the darkness like scattered diamonds, so much clearer here than in the city.
"Full moon soon," he says after a while. "Good for night photography, if you're into that."
The olive branch surprises me. "I've done some. Though mostly in more urban settings. Light pollution creates interesting effects." I steal a glance at him. "But out here? I bet the preserve is magical at night."
"It's different." Something shifts in his voice. "Mom used to take me camping during full moons when I was kid. Said the mountains tell different stories at night."
The personal detail feels as rare and precious as a fox sighting. I hold still, afraid to startle him back into silence. "She sounds wonderful."
"She is." The past tense lands softly in the dark. "Taught me everything I know about this place. About trust, too, I guess. After my father left..."
When he doesn't continue, I risk filling the silence. "She taught you the land doesn't leave?"
His sharp look catches the moonlight. "Something like that." He runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Your turn. What's keeping you up?"
"Besides the twenty messages from my gallery about postponing next month's show?" I try to laugh, but it comes out shakier than I intended. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm tilting at windmills, you know? Trying to make people care about things they'd rather ignore."
"The visitor center?"
"Everything." The night air feels safer somehow, like confessions weigh less in the dark. "My family thinks wildlife photography is a hobby I'll grow out of. The conservation community often sees me as an outsider with a camera. And sometimes..." I swallow hard. "Sometimes I wonder if they're right. If anything I do actually makes a difference."
"It made a difference to that eagle."
The words are quiet but firm, and something warm unfurls in my chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifts slightly, and his arm presses against mine. "I saw how you documented everything. Not just the dramatic rescue shots, but the details that could help preserve the species. That's not nothing."
Coming from him, it feels like everything.
"I had a fiancée once," he says suddenly, still looking at the stars. "Wildlife biologist. She loved the preserve almost as much as I did. Almost." His jaw tightens. "She got a grant to study wolf populations in Alaska. Asked me to go with her."
"But you couldn't leave the preserve."
"Wouldn't." The correction is gentle. "This was... is... my home. My responsibility. She said I was choosing rocks and trees over our future." A hollow laugh escapes him. "Maybe I was."
"Or maybe you were choosing your truth over someone else's adventure." I think of my own family's disapproval, their careful suggestions about 'real' careers. "Sometimes being true to yourself looks like stubbornness to others."
He turns to look at me then, really look at me, and in the moonlight his eyes are deeper than the night sky. "Is that what you're doing with your photography? Being true to yourself?"
"I'm trying. Even when it means sleeping in a stranger's guest room with a sprained ankle."
"We're not exactly strangers anymore."
The words hang in the air between us, full of possibility. A cool breeze carries the scent of pine and late spring flowers, and I shiver slightly.
Without comment, Ben shrugs off his jacket and drops it around my shoulders. The material is warm from his body, smelling of coffee and mountains and him. I pull it closer, watching as he studiously pretends not to notice.
"The owl's a great horned," he says instead, as another call echoes through the night. "Probably hunting near the creek."
"Tell me about it?" I surprise myself by asking. "About the preserve at night?"
And he does. His voice drops into a softer register as he talks about nocturnal hunters, about moonlight on the ridge trails, about the way darkness changes familiar landscapes into new worlds. I listen, curled in his jacket, learning the preserve through his eyes.
When the eastern sky begins to lighten, neither of us mentions going back inside. Instead, we sit in comfortable silence, watching night fade into dawn, both pretending this isn't changing everything.
The wildlife shelter smells of hay and antiseptic, sunlight streaming through high windows.
"Good morning, you two." Hazel emerges from a side room with an empty feeding tray. "Here for another visit?"
"Hazel?" I shift on my crutches, surprised. "I didn't know you?—"
"Three mornings a week." She winks, setting the tray aside. "Someone has to make sure these little ones get their breakfast."
I balance on my crutches beside Ben as Maren, the head rehabilitator, leads us to the eagle's enclosure. Despite my lack of sleep, every nerve feels alive, aware of Ben's steady presence at my elbow, ready to catch me if I stumble.
"The wing wasn't broken, thankfully." Maren's voice echoes slightly in the corridor. "Severe sprain and some soft tissue damage. Similar to your ankle, actually." She throws me a knowing smile.
"Just as stubborn about resting, too, I bet," Ben mutters, and I shoot him a look.
"You're one to talk about stubborn—" I start, but my words catch as we reach the enclosure. The eagle stands alert on a low perch, fierce eyes tracking our movement. Even injured, it radiates wild dignity.
"She's responding well to treatment," Maren continues. "Though she's not exactly a model patient."
Ben steps closer to the enclosure. "She?"
"Definitely female. Close to a year old." Maren checks something on her clipboard. "The injury likely happened during a hunting dive. There's a new housing development pushing predators into unfamiliar territory."
I feel Ben tense beside me, but his voice stays neutral. "How long until release?"
"Two to three weeks, depending on how rehabilitation goes." Maren's eyes move between us, and I catch a hint of amusement in her expression. "Speaking of rehabilitation, how's the ankle?"
"Fine," I say, just as Ben says, "She's pushing it."
Heat creeps up my neck as Maren laughs. "Well, you're welcome to visit during recovery. Sometimes having familiar faces around helps reduce stress levels."
"The eagle's or mine?" I joke, but I'm already raising my camera. "Do you mind if I document her progress?"
"That would be helpful, actually." Maren's expression brightens. "We can use the photos for educational materials, show the rehabilitation process..."
"Or show why we need stronger preservation measures," Ben adds quietly. When I look at him in surprise, he shrugs. "What? I can appreciate practical documentation."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Does this mean you're considering the visitor center proposal?"
"I'm considering that some education might be valuable." His eyes meet mine, and there's something new there, something that makes my pulse skip. "With the right approach."
Maren excuses herself to check on other patients, leaving us with the eagle. I adjust my camera settings, trying to ignore how aware I am of Ben's proximity, of the way last night's conversation seems to hover between us like morning mist.
"Here." Ben moves behind me as I struggle to balance the camera with my crutches. "Let me..."
His hands steady my elbows, chest warm against my back. I tell myself to breathe normally, to focus on the shot, but all I can think about is the gentle strength in his touch, the way he supports without controlling.
Through my viewfinder, the eagle watches us with golden eyes. I capture her proud stance, the way she maintains her dignity despite her injury. Each click of the shutter feels like gathering pieces of a story—not just about wildlife rehabilitation, but about resilience, about learning to trust.
"Got what you need?" Ben's breath stirs my hair, and I realize we're still standing close, too close for people who supposedly oppose everything the other stands for.
"Almost." I lower the camera slowly, but don't step away. "Though I'm starting to think there's a lot more to this story than I first thought."
"The eagle's story?"
"That too." I turn carefully, mindful of my ankle, and find myself looking up into eyes that remind me of pine forests in summer. "Thank you for bringing me here."
"Yeah, well." He steps back, running a hand through his hair, but I catch the slight flush on his neck. "Someone had to make sure you didn't try to drive yourself."
"Right. Liability concerns."
His lips twitch. "Among other things."
The eagle shifts on her perch, drawing our attention. In the morning light, her feathers gleam with hints of gold, like a promise waiting to take flight. Ben moves to stand beside me, our shoulders brushing, and together we watch her test her healing wing.
"She's beautiful," I whisper.
"Yeah." But when I glance up, he's looking at me, not the eagle. The moment stretches, charged with possibilities neither of us is ready to name.
Then he clears his throat. "We should get you home. You need to rest that ankle."
Home. He means his house, of course, but something about the way he says it makes my heart flutter. "The eagle needs rest too," I point out. "But I don't see her taking it easy."
"Difference is, I can't make her follow doctor's orders." He helps me adjust my crutches, his touch lingering longer than necessary. "You, on the other hand..."
"Going to pull rank, Ranger Holloway?"
His smile, rare and surprising as a mountain sunrise, makes my breath catch. "If that's what it takes to keep you from further injury on my watch."
As we head back to his truck, I sneak one last photo—not of the eagle this time, but of Ben's profile against the morning light, his expression softer than I've ever seen it as he looks back at our patient. Another piece of the story I'm slowly discovering, one frame at a time.