Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ben
" I swear if I have to stare at your blank walls for one more day, I'm going to start hanging my photos just to give them personality." Natalie's voice carries from the guest room as I pour my morning coffee. "Come on, Ben. I'm going stir-crazy here."
"Doctor said rest." I hide my smile in my mug, knowing without looking that she's giving me that exasperated look I'm becoming far too fond of.
She appears in the doorway, already dressed in hiking pants and a sage green button-down, her dark hair braided neatly. Only the air cast betrays that she's not ready for the trails. "The doctor said to keep weight off it, not become a hermit. Besides..." She hops closer, moving too smoothly on those crutches for my peace of mind. "I could help with paperwork, or organize your filing system, or?—"
"My filing system is perfect."
"I’m pretty sure your filing system is prehistoric." She reaches for the coffee pot, and I automatically steady it for her. Our fingers brush, and I try to ignore the now-familiar jolt of awareness. "Please? I promise to behave."
I make the mistake of looking at her. Morning sun catches gold in her eyes, and there's a softness about her that I've started noticing more—the way her guard drops before she's fully awake.
"Fine." I step back quickly, needing distance. "But you stay off that ankle."
Her smile could power the whole town. "Yes, sir, Ranger Holloway."
An hour later, I'm seriously questioning my judgment. Not because Natalie's causing trouble. She's actually being surprisingly helpful, sorting through incident reports with professional efficiency. No, the problem is how right she looks here, perched on the corner of my desk, afternoon light streaming through the station's windows.
"Your handwriting is terrible," she announces, squinting at a report. "What's this word? Amalgamation?"
I lean over her shoulder to look. "Altercation. Tourist tried to feed a bear."
"Seriously?" She turns her head to look at me, and suddenly we're inches apart. I catch a whiff of her shampoo and forget what we were discussing.
"Uh, yeah." I straighten quickly. "Happens more than you'd think."
She sets the report aside and looks around the station's main room, taking in the topographic maps, the wildlife photos, the tracking charts. "This is amazing, you know. The way you document everything, how it all connects." She gestures to a series of photos tracking mountain lion movements. "It's like a living history of the preserve."
"That's the point." I move to the largest map, unable to resist sharing this, at least. "Every marker tells a story. Like here—" I point to a series of blue pins. "Traditional calving grounds for the elk herd. But three years ago, they shifted two miles south."
She crutches over to look closer. "Why?"
"Changes in the undergrowth affecting their food supply. We had to adjust the trail system to give them space." I trace the route with my finger. "Everything's connected up here. Change one thing..."
"And it ripples through the whole ecosystem." She's watching my face now, not the map. "That's why you're so against the visitor center."
"Partly." I meet her gaze. "But mostly I'm against losing what makes this place special. The wildness of it."
She bites her lip, and I try not to stare. "What if we could do both? Protect the wildness while helping people understand why it matters?"
"We?"
A flush creeps up her neck. "Figure of speech."
But something shifts in the air between us, like the pressure change before a storm. She's still looking up at me, her expression open and challenging and somehow vulnerable all at once.
"Your photos," I hear myself say. "They do that already. Help people understand."
"Yeah?" She shifts closer, and I catch her when she wobbles slightly. My hands find her waist automatically, steadying her.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "The way you caught the fox kits, the eagle... you show the soul of things, not just their surface."
Her breath catches. We're standing too close now, my hands still at her waist, her fingers gripping my shoulders. The afternoon sun paints gold across her cheekbones, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to lean down, to close this last bit of distance...
A door slams somewhere in the building, and we jump apart like startled deer. Natalie smooths her shirt, cheeks flushed, while I suddenly find the incident reports fascinating.
"I should..." She gestures vaguely at the desk.
"Right. Yes. Good idea."
We work in charged silence for a while, hyperaware of each other's movements. But later, when she hands me a report with "terrible handwriting" scrawled in the margins, complete with a tiny doodles of a grumpy ranger, I can't help but laugh.
Her answering smile makes something in my chest ache.
The screen door creaks announcing Mom's arrival before I spot her red Subaru in the driveway. My stomach drops. After fifteen years of her impromptu visits, you'd think I'd be used to them.
"Benjamin." She breezes in, already scanning the living room with the sharp eye that missed nothing during my teenage years. Her gaze catches on Natalie's camera bag by the couch, the wildflower field guide open on the coffee table. "Breaking your 'no visitors' rule, I see."
"Mom." I accept her quick hug, catching a whiff of her familiar lavender perfume. "I didn't know you were coming by."
"Clearly." She sets her purse down with precise movements. "Though apparently I'm not the only surprise guest."
Before I can respond, Natalie emerges from the hallway, balancing a stack of books and printouts. She freezes when she sees Mom, her smile faltering slightly.
"You must be Mrs. Holloway." Natalie shifts her materials to one arm, extending her hand. "I'm Natalie Quinn. Ben's been kind enough to let me stay while my ankle heals."
Mom's handshake is brief, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Quinn... the photographer? The one pushing for that visitor center?"
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Natalie straightens, and I recognize the determined set of her jaw.
"Would you excuse us?" Mom turns to me. "I need to discuss something with my son. Privately."
Natalie nods, too quickly. "Of course. I should organize these reports anyway." She disappears into the guest room, but not before I catch the hurt in her eyes.
"Reports?" Mom's eyebrows lift as soon as the door closes. "Ben, what are you thinking?"
"She sprained her ankle helping with an injured eagle. Her rental has stairs. It's temporary."
"Temporary." She tests the word like she's tasting something bitter. "Like your father's business trips were temporary? Like that grant in Alaska was temporary?"
"This isn't—" I lower my voice, aware of thin walls. "This isn't about Dad, or Michelle, or anything else. It's just practical."
"Practical?" Mom sinks onto the couch, looking suddenly tired. "Honey, I've watched you build walls around your heart since you were twelve years old. Now this woman shows up, opposing everything you believe in about the preserve, and suddenly she's living in your house? Looking at your reports?"
"She's not opposing—" I stop, run a hand through my hair. "It's more complicated than that."
"No, it's not." Mom's voice softens with genuine concern. "People like her don't stick around, Ben. They come through places like Juniper Falls, take what they need—pretty pictures, good stories—and move on to the next adventure. They're not built for staying."
"You don't know her."
"I know her type. Passionate and ambitious. She has bigger dreams than this small town, than your precious preserve." She stands, touching my arm. "I just don't want to see you hurt again."
A floorboard creaks in the hallway, and my heart sinks. How much did Natalie hear?
"I should go." Mom gathers her purse. "Be careful, honey. Some things are better left wild and free. People included."
After she leaves, I stand in the silent living room, her words echoing in my head. Through the guest room door, I hear the soft click of a camera lens being cleaned—Natalie's nervous habit, I've learned.
I should go talk to her. Should explain that Mom's wrong, that she doesn't understand.
Instead, I grab my jacket and head for the porch, taking my coward's way out. Because maybe Mom's right. Maybe I've forgotten that some things are meant to be temporary.
Maybe I've forgotten why I built those walls in the first place.
Behind me, in the too-quiet house, a door closes softly. And I pretend not to hear it, just like I pretend not to hear the quiet sniff that follows, or the way my heart protests every word my mother said.