Page 28 of Easy, Tiger

The afternoon light filters through the canopy in golden shafts, ideal for capturing shadows playing across the bark texture. I've hiked deeper than usual today, chasing a family of woodpeckers that keep leading me farther up the mountain trail. My sketchbook feels heavier with each new drawing—a good problem to have.

But something's wrong.

For the past few days, a subtle prickle between my shoulder blades has made me peek over my shoulder more times than I'd like to admit. I've knowingly kept it from Nolan—he already slips into a fierce, hyper-protective mode at the slightest provocation, and I've been trying to convince myself it’s my city-honed paranoia acting up in the isolated woods. I didn't want to give him a reason to worry over nothing.

Crouching beside my favorite boulder, the one with the perfect even surface for spreading out my supplies, my muscles lock up. Boot prints circle the rock in a tight pattern, fresh enough that the edges haven't crumbled yet. The tread pattern screams tactical gear, all sharp angles and aggressive grip.

They aren't hiking boots or work boots either.

My fingers sweep across the empty air directly over a single clear impression, wary not to brush the surface. Size eleven or maybe twelve, but definitely male. The prints form a complete circuit around my usual sketching spot, as if someone had mapped every angle of approach.

"Okay, that's officially creepy."

Standing slowly, I survey the surrounding forest with new eyes. For the past week, I've felt spied on during these solo hikes. Nothing concrete, merely that prickling sensation between my shoulder blades that happens more often than usual. I'd written it off as adjusting to wilderness living after years in the city.

Now I'm not so sure.

Twenty yards uphill, miles away from the safety of my cabin, I spot disturbed ground near a cluster of pine trees. Fresh boot prints again, these ones deeper, like someone crouched there for an extended period. Cigarette ash scattered in the pine needles, though no butts remain visible. This is a completely different vantage point than whatever gave me the creeps back home; it proves he's actively charting my hiking routes deep into the mountains.

"Someone's been camping here."

But the makeshift campsite stands hastily abandoned. A depression in the fallen leaves marks where someone sat or slept, but no gear remains. Even the ash appears swept, as if someone tried to clean up but missed a few flakes.

Fishing out my sketchbook, I flip to a blank page, quickly sketching the bootprint pattern and noting the estimated size. My illustration training kicks in automatically: document everything and capture details that might matter later.

The sound of approaching footsteps makes me slam the sketchbook shut.

"Find anything interesting up there?"

Nolan's voice travels through the trees before I spot him emerging from a stand of birches, a canvas tool bag slung over one shoulder. Relief floods through me so fast it leaves me dizzy.

"Only the usual birds and squirrels." Slipping the sketchbook into my jacket, I try to appear casual. "What brings you this far up the mountain?"

"Scouting lumber for a commissioned piece." He gestures toward the birch grove behind him. "Client wants a dining table made from trees that grew on her grandfather's old property. Turns out he logged this section back in the fifties."

The explanation sounds perfectly reasonable, but something in his posture suggests tension. His eyes scrutinize the forest around us with the same systematic attention I'd been giving the boot prints.

"Find what you were looking for?"

"Getting close." His gaze fastens on me, and that familiar warmth spreads through my chest. "Mind if I walk back with you or stick around? These trails can get tricky in the afternoon shadows."

"I'm not exactly helpless in the woods."

"Never said you were." The corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Maybe I'm the one who could use the company."

Something about his tone makes me bore into his face more thoroughly. The easy humor is a thin veil for his stress, and his shoulders exhibit a stiffness I associate with people expecting trouble.

"Everything okay, Nolan?"

"Of course. It's been a long day already." He adjusts the tool bag strap, muscles bunching beneath his flannel shirt. "You seem a little jumpy yourself."

"Do I?"

"Like you're expecting something to jump out from behind a tree."

The observation hits closer to the truth than I care to admit. "Maybe I've been reading too many thriller novels before bed."

"Those'll do it." But his attention keeps slipping to the forest, assessing shadows and sight lines with unyielding intensity. "What kind of sketching were you planning today?"