Page 36 of Easy, Tiger

"I believe this booth is taken," Nolan's voice rumbles, dangerously low and dripping with an undeniable edge of menace.

"I'm only asking a few questions—" Trent starts, but Nolan hauls him to his feet with terrifying, effortless strength.

"And I'm telling you it's time to leave Red Pine. Permanently." Nolan keeps his voice monotone, but the predatory intensity radiating off him is enough to send the color draining from the reporter's face.

Nolan silently but forcefully escorts the man out of the café, emerging onto the sidewalk to ensure he gets into his car and drives away. When Nolan returns to the booth, his chest is heaving slightly.

"I thought you had a lumber delivery," I manage to say, my voice shaking a little.

"I did," Nolan says, his eyes inspecting the street outside one last time. "Forgot some paperwork at the workshop and was heading back when I saw him corner you through the window."

Before I can speak again, he draws me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. Letting out a long, heavy breath, I melt into his solid warmth.

With the morning already eventful enough, I decide to make good on my plan for the trails after all, unwilling to let one unwelcome visitor spoil a day that started so well.

The afternoon hike leaves my legs pleasantly tired and my sketchbook filled with preliminary studies of mid-season wildflowers clinging to rocky outcrops. October's chill bites through my flannel—Nolan's flannel, actually, the one I've claimed as my own since last night in his workshop. Having his shirt wraps me in comfort, making me acutely aware of his absence.

Clearing the cabin door, my mind already cataloging which sketches need refinement, something stops me cold. An unnatural placidness hangs in the air, heavy and disturbed.

My leather portfolio sits open on the kitchen table instead of closed beside my easel, where I left it this morning. The pages fan slightly, as though someone rifled through them recently. My posture stiffens.

Setting my pack down, I scan the small space. Nothing appears missing—my laptop remains on the counter, and the ceramic mug Nolan carved for me sits undisturbed beside the coffee maker. But the wrongness prickles along my spine, sharp and electric, stubborn to shake.

The portfolio draws me forward despite every instinct screaming to run. My newest illustrations lie exposed: detailed anatomical renderings of local deer, a red-tailed hawk in flight, and there—the tiger sketch that has haunted my dreams since that day by the creek.

Someone studied these. The pages display subtle creases where unfamiliar fingers skimmed the pencil lines, and my tiger drawing bears a coffee ring stain that wasn't there this morning. Whoever entered my sanctuary spent considerable time examining my work.

Panic spikes, and I rush to the desk, yanking open the drawer. I let out a shaky breath only when I pry up the false bottom and see the copper-jacketed bullet from the tiger's shoulder safely hidden away. They didn't find it.

"Shit."

My phone feels heavy in my pocket as I scroll to Nolan's contact. The familiar panic from my career's collapse threatens to resurface, bringing back the terrifying prospect of someone photographing my private work and preparing to tear apart my reputation all over again, though this current threat feels altogether different and far more dangerous.

The number rings once before heavy footsteps crunch through fallen leaves outside. Stopping, my finger hovers over the call button.

"Halsey?" Nolan's voice travels through the door, followed by three measured knocks. "You in there?"

Relief hits me with such force that my knees nearly buckle. Crossing the room in three quick strides, I yank the door open.

He fills the doorway, his attention snapping to my face with an intensity that suggests he already knows something's wrong. Sawdust clings to his dark flannel, and his work boots bear fresh mud from the forest floor.

"What's wrong?"

"Someone was inside while I was hiking." Creating room for him to enter, I gesture toward the disturbed portfolio. "They went through my sketches."

Nolan moves with surprising lightness for such a large man, mindful not to touch anything as he examines the table. "You sure you didn't leave it open?"

"I'm meticulous about my workspace. Always have been." The defensive edge in my voice surprises me. "Someone spent time studying these drawings, Nolan. Check out the coffee stain on the tiger sketch."

His entire body goes rigid at the mention of the tiger. When he straightens, a dark, lethal shadow eclipses his features, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it.

"Did they take anything?"

"I’m unsure. But why break into someone's cabin solely to review my wildlife illustrations?" Wrapping my arms around myself, a swift chill bites through the flannel. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"What if someone from my past tracked me down? What if they're hunting for evidence that I really did falsify my work? The scandal destroyed my career, but what if they want to destroy me completely?"