Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Natalie
I adjust my camera settings, trying to capture the exact way morning light catches in the dewdrops clinging to spider webs. Behind me, my crutches lean against a boulder. They are a silent reminder of why I shouldn't be out here alone.
But after last night, after Mrs. Holloway's words and Ben's silence, I needed space. Needed to remind myself why I'm here, what I'm fighting for.
The spider web sparkles, each drop holding a tiny rainbow. Click. Nature's own visitor center, showing off its masterpieces to anyone patient enough to notice.
"You're supposed to be resting."
I don't turn at Ben's voice, though something in my chest tightens. "Technically, I am. Sitting right here, not moving."
"On a dew-soaked rock, half a mile from the house." His footsteps crunch closer. "With no cell service."
Now I do look at him, catching the worry beneath his gruff tone. He's rumpled, like he dressed in a hurry, his ranger jacket thrown over what might be sleep clothes. "How did you find me?"
"You mentioned wanting to photograph the spider webs at dawn." He settles beside me on the boulder, careful to leave space between us. "Said something about how they prove nature's best art gallery is free."
The fact that he remembered, that he actually listens to my random observations, does something dangerous to my heart. I focus on my camera screen instead. "Your mother thinks I'm using the preserve. Using you."
"My mother..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "She's protective. After my dad left?—"
"She thinks I'll leave too." The words come out smaller than I intend. "That I'm just passing through, taking pretty pictures."
"Natalie." Something in his voice makes me look up. The rising sun catches gold in his eyes, turning them from forest green to something warmer. "I'm sorry. About last night, about not defending you?—"
"It's fine." I start packing up my camera, suddenly needing to move. "She's not entirely wrong, is she? I mean, I do travel for work. I don't have roots anywhere, really."
"Hey." His hand catches mine, stilling my nervous movements. "Show me what you were working on?"
The request surprises me enough that I fumble with the camera strap. He steadies it, his fingers brushing mine, and that simple touch sends warmth spreading up my arm.
"Here." I pull up the morning's shots. "I'm trying to show how the preserve is already perfect, already teaching us. The spider webs, the way light plays on rock formations, the patterns in tree bark..." I scroll through images, gaining confidence. "Every detail tells a story. The visitor center wouldn't change that. It would help people learn to read those stories."
Ben leans closer, his shoulder pressing against mine as he studies each photo. "These are incredible, Nat."
The nickname slips out soft and natural, like he's been using it forever. Like maybe he's been thinking it, waiting to try it out.
"You see it exactly as it is," he continues. "Wild and perfect and..."
"Worth protecting?" I turn to face him, and suddenly we're inches apart. "Worth sharing?"
His eyes search mine, and I see the moment something shifts, like sunrise breaking over the ridge. "Yeah," he breathes. "Worth everything."
I'm not sure who moves first. Maybe we both do, like compass needles finding true north. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw with impossible gentleness. And then he's kissing me, soft and careful, like I'm something wild he's afraid to startle.
I lean into him, my free hand finding the collar of his jacket, drawing him closer. He tastes like coffee and morning air, and something inside me settles even as my pulse races. The kiss deepens, becoming less careful, more certain. His other hand tangles in my braid, and I make a sound that has nothing to do with photography or visitor centers or anything except this moment, this connection.
When we finally part, the sun has fully crested the ridge. Ben rests his forehead against mine, his breath uneven. "I don't want you to leave," he whispers, like a confession.
"I don't want to be just passing through." I stroke his jaw, feeling the morning stubble under my fingers. "I want my pictures to matter. I want to build something here, something real."
He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, and the vulnerability I see there steals my breath. "You already are." His thumb traces my lower lip. "Building something real, I mean."
A hawk cries overhead, reminding us where we are. Ben glances at my crutches, then back at me, his smile turning wry. "We should get you back before your ankle protests."
"Worth it though." I catch his hand as he helps me up. "The light was perfect this morning."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "The light. Right."
We make our way back slowly, Ben carrying my camera bag, his other hand steady at my elbow. The morning unfolds around us—bird songs, warming air, dew burning off the grass. Everything familiar, but somehow new.
"The article would focus on sustainable tourism." I cradle my phone against my shoulder as I sort through photos on my laptop. "Yes, exactly. How smaller preserves can balance conservation with education. The eagle's story would be perfect. Wait until you see the latest photographs."
The afternoon sun streams through Ben's guest room window, warming my shoulders. It's been hours since our kiss, since that perfect sunrise moment, but my lips still tingle at the memory.
"National Geographic? That would be incredible." I click through shots of the injured eagle, selecting the ones that tell the clearest story. "But I want to make sure we focus on the preservation angle, not just?—"
A floorboard creaks behind me. I turn to see Ben in the doorway, his expression stormy.
"I'll call you back," I tell my editor quickly. But as I lower the phone, I know it's too late. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
"National Geographic?" His voice is carefully neutral. Too neutral. "That's quite a platform."
"Ben—"
"You know what?" He steps back, jaw tight. "You don't need to explain. This is exactly what you do, right? Find the perfect story, the perfect angle?"
The bitterness in his voice hits like a physical blow. "That's not fair."
"No?" He gestures at my laptop screen. "Using an injured eagle to promote tourism? Seems pretty fair to me."
I struggle to stand, forgetting my crutches in my frustration. "I'm trying to promote conservation. The article would focus on responsible interaction with?—"
"Responsible interaction?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Like sneaking around restricted areas for the perfect shot? Like turning every natural moment into a photo op?"
"That's not what I'm doing and you know it." My voice shakes, but I force myself to continue. "This morning, what you said about my photos showing the preserve as it is?—"
"This morning was clearly a mistake." The words fall between us like stones. "My mother was right. This is just another story to you, another stepping stone."
Hot tears prick my eyes. "You don't really believe that."
Doubt and regret flicker across his face. But then his expression hardens. "I believe you're good at what you do. At making people see what you want them to see." He steps back into the hallway. "I just forgot to look past the pretty pictures."
"Ben, please." I reach for my crutches, but he's already turning away. "Let me explain?—"
"I need to check on the eagle." His voice carries back to me, distant and formal. "Don't worry about dinner. I'll be late."
The front door closes with a quiet click that somehow hurts worse than a slam would have. I sink back onto the bed, surrounded by photos that suddenly seem to mock me.
My phone buzzes—the editor, probably wondering about our disconnected call. But all I can think about is the way Ben looked at me, like I'd confirmed every fear, every insecurity about outsiders and their intentions.
Looking down at my laptop, I see the photo I'd been about to show him—the eagle in her enclosure, yes, but focused on her eyes, on the wild dignity there. The caption I'd drafted reads: "Some things must remain untamed to retain their power. The challenge lies not in changing them, but in learning to protect their essential wildness."
A tear splashes onto the keyboard. Because he's right about one thing. I am good at making people see what I want them to see.
I just wish he could see me.