Page 10 of Easy, Tiger

"That's..." Movements controlled and stately, he sets the paper down. "That's concerning. Did you report it to Fish and Wildlife?"

"Should I have?" Letting the question sit there, I gauge how he handles it. "I mean, tigers aren't exactly native to Pennsylvania. Seemed like something that might cause a panic if it got out."

"Probably wise to keep it to yourself. People around here don't react well to predators they don't understand."

The way he says 'people' makes my skin prickle. There's something else there, some layer of meaning I'm missing entirely.

"What happened to your shoulder?"

While glancing down at the bandage, his composure falters for a moment. "Hunting accident. Yesterday, actually."

I don't say anything right away. The bandage sits high on his shoulder, exactly where I'd laid my palms flush against fur, and the coincidence lodges itself somewhere behind my ribs, too specific to be nothing.

"That sounds painful," I say instead, keeping my tone light even as my mind runs the angles. "Around here, or somewhere out on the trails?"

"Up near Copper Ridge." The lie is smooth, almost convincing, though I catch the slight hesitation before he speaks. "Buddy's rifle misfired while we were tracking elk."

I know exactly where Copper Ridge sits on the trail map Ben gave me my first day in town, and it isn't anywhere close to Willow Creek. Burying the realization instead of challenging his story, it joins the puzzle of his injured shoulder and the timing, as well as his guarded gaze whenever I mention the tiger.

Neither of us fills the silence that follows. His eyes never leave mine, and I realize he's appraising me as intently as I'm probing him.

"Well," I finally say, forcing a brightness I don't quite feel. "I hope your shoulder heals quickly. And I hope that tiger found somewhere safe to recover."

"I'm sure it did. Animals are remarkably resilient when they need to be."

"Speaking of resilient animals," I say, steering us toward safer ground, "your work reminds me of them, actually. The way you've shaped that table—it follows the natural grain instead of fighting it."

His posture relaxes slightly. "Wood tells you what it wants to become. My job is merely listening."

"That's exactly how I approach illustration." Running my fingers along the table's edge, I admire the seamless joinery. "It's unnatural to force an animal to pose or a landscape to cooperate. You have to wait for the right moment, the authentic gesture."

"Must require incredible patience."

"Says the man who probably spends weeks on a single piece." I turn my shoulder slightly, letting my gaze drop toward a rocking chair styled as if it grew straight from the forest floor to redirect the conversation. "How long did this take?"

"Three months." His smile turns genuine this time, and it warms his whole face. "Cherry wood from a tree that came down in last spring's storm. Seemed wrong to let it become firewood when it had this chair hiding inside."

His hand rests on the armrest while he talks, his thumb smoothing the same curve he must have carved weeks ago, like the wood has something to tell him. My attention gravitates to his fingers more than his words, recording the same small details I'd normally save for a hawk's talon or the flex of a deer's foreleg. It's unsettling how quickly my artist's eye has decided he's worth rendering.

"You see potential where others see problems."

"Don't we all, in our own fields?" He moves closer, highlighting the subtle curve he carved into the armrests. "What drew you to wildlife illustration?"

"The honesty, I suppose. Animals never have to pretend to be something they're not. They purely exist, perfectly themselves. Plus, they're far better company than most humans."

"Present company excluded, I hope."

Heat creeps up my neck. "The jury's still out."

I hadn't expected him to tease. In our two brief exchanges this week, he'd offered maybe ten words total, none of them playful. This version of Nolan, with easy smiles and quick wit, unsteadies me more than the quiet one ever did.

His laugh rumbles low and warm. "Fair enough. Though if you're searching for subjects that won't judge your artistic integrity, I know some trails the tourists never find. Places where the wildlife hasn't learned to be afraid of cameras and sketch pads."

"You're offering to be my guide?"

"If you don't mind hiking with someone who talks to trees and apologizes to rocks when he trips over them."

"Sounds perfectly reasonable to me." I curse my lack of a filter as soon as I open my mouth. "When?"