The Park Ranger's Preserve
"Ranger Wilma has protected these mountains for thirty years. When a photographer keeps returning to capture the wilderness, she discovers some landscapes include the heart."
Great Smoky Mountains belong to everyone.
But I've claimed them for thirty years—Ranger Wilma, fifty-nine, guardian of trails and wildlife. This is my church.
"I need a permit."
The photographer is professional—expensive equipment, proper gear. Marcus Webb, wildlife specialist.
"Duration?"
"As long as it takes." His eyes scan the mountains. "I'm documenting everything."
He returns weekly.
Always proper permits, always respectful. But his camera finds me almost as often as the wildlife.
"You're in my shots," he says one day.
"I'll move—"
"Don't." He shows me the image. "The ranger framed by the mountain she protects. It's beautiful."
Months pass.
His project expands, and somehow I'm part of it. Interviews about conservation, photos in my element.
"Why include me?" I ask.
"Because you're part of this landscape." He sets down his camera. "The human element that makes it matter."
"I'm just doing my job—"
"You're living your purpose." His eyes hold mine. "That's rare."
"Marcus—"
"I know." He moves closer. "Photographer and subject. Professional distance."
"Is that what this is?"
"That's what it started as." He touches my face. "That's not what it is anymore."
The first kiss is on the trail.
Surrounded by mountains, witnessed by wilderness. His mouth on mine feels like coming home.
"This is where you belong," he whispers.
"In the park?"
"Everywhere I can find you."
His cabin outside the park is rustic, perfect.
He photographs my clothes coming off—not exploitative, artistic.
"These are just for us," he says.
"Everything with you is just for us."
His hands frame me like landscapes.
Finding angles, appreciating light. When his mouth finally travels my body, I feel seen.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I spend my days in uniform—"
"You spend your days being magnificent." He settles between my thighs. "Let me capture this too."
When he enters me, we're both in the wilderness.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. We're nowhere near the summit."
"I never want to descend."
Afterward, in his cabin, he holds me.
"Stay with me."
"I have shifts—"
"I mean forever." He pulls me closer. "Retire to this. To us. Let me spend my remaining years photographing everything you love."
"Including you?"
"Especially me. Especially us."
I retire the following spring.
Thirty years served, honorably released. Marcus's cabin becomes ours.
"Regrets?" he asks.
"Only that I didn't find you sooner."
"We found each other when we were supposed to." He kisses me. "The mountains knew."
The wedding is on the trail.
Where we first walked, where the kiss happened. Rangers and photographers together.
"To the woman who protected these mountains," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who captured them," I counter.
We kiss while the wilderness witnesses.
Some landscapes are photographed.
Some are lived.
And some park rangers find that the best views include someone standing beside you.
Summit reached.
Love preserved.
Forever wild.