Page 12 of Easy, Tiger

"How long have you lived here?" she asks as we climb toward a ridge that overlooks the valley.

"Born here and never found a good enough reason to leave."

"That's rare. Most people our age can't wait to escape small towns."

"Most people our age haven't found their place yet."

She considers this, treading gingerly over loose shale. "And you have? Found your place?"

Deeply unsettling, the inquiry strikes closer to the truth than she realizes. My place is protecting this land and the shifters who call it home, maintaining the precarious balance that keeps both worlds safe. It's a responsibility I inherited along with my father's amber eyes and the ability to shift into something that shouldn't exist.

"I think so," I answer finally. "What about you?"

"Still looking." Her smile turns rueful. "Though Red Pine feels closer to right than anywhere I've been in years."

We summit the high ridge right as the sun crests the eastern peaks, burning away the last of the morning mist. The valley spreads below us in shades of crimson and gold, Red Pine tucked small and hidden into the trees far below.

Something prickles at the back of my neck, faint and out of place, the same instinct that used to warn me of a cougar upwind or a hunter's blind downslope. Scanning the far ridgeline out of habit yields nothing but wind through the treetops. Multiple days of blood loss and healing herbs are apparently enough to make me jump at shadows.

"Jesus," Halsey breathes, already reaching for her sketchbook. "This is incredible."

I hunch against a boulder while she works, content to soak in her face as she tries to capture what lies before us. The concentration furrows her brow, and she unconsciously bites her lower lip when she's working on difficult details. Everything about her radiates the same patient passion I recognize in the best craftsmen—the willingness to wait for perfection rather than compromise on good enough.

A sharp cry echoes from the forest below us, high and distressed. Halsey's head snaps up immediately.

"What was that?"

Another cry, closer this time. Definitely an animal in pain.

"Sounds like a hawk," I say, though my enhanced hearing catches nuances she can't. "Might be injured."

"We have to help."

"Halsey, wild animals⁠—"

"Are perfectly capable of accepting help when they need it." She bolts down the slope, following the sound with single-minded determination. "You coming, or do I go alone?"

Following feels mandatory—partly because she shouldn't wander the forest unprotected and partly because her immediate compassion reminds me exactly why fate chose her.

We find the red-tailed hawk tangled in old fishing line near a fallen log, one wing twisted at an unnatural angle. The bird's eyes fix on us with panic, beak open in silent distress.

"Easy, we're not going to hurt you," Halsey murmurs, approaching slowly.

From her pack, she produces a small pair of wire cutters—apparently standard hiking equipment for an optimist expecting wildlife emergencies. My bad shoulder protests the awkward angle as I immobilize the hawk in place while she gently snips away the fishing line around delicate feathers and hollow bones.

"There." Retreating back, she watches the hawk test its wings and flex its talons. "Much better."

The bird holds our gaze for a second before launching into flight, vanishing into the canopy with a triumphant cry.

"Show-off," she says, grinning.

We finish the hike in comfortable silence, the morning sun warming our backs as we descend toward the truck. By the time I unload her at the cabin, the day has taken on that golden quality that makes everything seem more significant than it actually is.

Resting one hand on the door handle, she lingers beside the truck. "I really enjoyed today. Thank you for sharing your secret spots."

"I did too. Would love to do it again."

"I'd like that."