Page 42 of Easy, Tiger

Twenty minutes later, I'm following the trail that leads toward Copper Ridge—the same area Nolan mentioned yesterday, though I don't plan to venture that far. The morning air bites at my cheeks, sharp and clean, warning of approaching precipitation.

My phone buzzes as I reach the first switchback. Nolan's name appears on the screen.

"Morning, early bird. You're up before the sun."

"Storm's coming. Want to get some work done before I'm trapped indoors for two days." I pause beside a massive ponderosa pine, its bark scarred by decades of mountain weather. "Are you checking up on me again?"

"Maybe. Can you blame me after yesterday?"

His voice takes on that protective edge I've sensed more frequently, like he's constantly calculating threats I can't register. It should irritate me—I've been taking care of myself in wilderness areas since college—but instead it makes my chest warm.

"I'm sticking to established trails today. Nothing adventurous."

"Which trails?"

Describing my planned route, I note how he asks specific questions about elevation and timeline. Most people would offer generic warnings about weather safety. Nolan wants specific details, like he's memorizing my exact path.

"Text me when you're heading back," he says. "Storm's supposed to hit harder than forecast."

"I will. And Nolan? Thank you for caring."

"Always."

Pocketing the phone, I continue climbing, but his concern trails me up the mountain, impossible to shake. Nolan's protectiveness goes beyond normal worry—it feels personal, urgent, like he knows something about the dangers out here that I don't.

The trail dips toward a rocky gorge where a suspension bridge spans the channel cut by spring snowmelt. My boots keep a consistent, unbroken pace across planks I’ve walked a dozen times before while the old cables overhead creak with their familiar rhythm. On the far side, the trail climbs again before leveling out after another mile, opening onto a meadow where deer often graze in early morning. Today the space sits empty except for wind moving through dried grass. Dropping onto a fallen log, I extract my sketchbook, capturing how storm light transforms familiar landscapes into something more dramatic.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, miles away but growing closer. I have maybe three hours before the weather turns serious. Time enough to document the pre-storm behaviors that make wildlife illustrations authentic rather than merely decorative.

By the time I finish my last sketch—a red-tailed hawk perched against storm clouds—the wind brings the heavy metallic hint of approaching rain. Thunder rolls closer now, echoing off canyon walls with increasing frequency. Time to head back.

Packing my supplies meticulously, I protect the fresh drawings from moisture and retrace my steps down the familiar trail. The suspension bridge comes into view after twenty minutes of constant hiking—the same weathered wooden structure I crossed earlier without a hint of worry. It spans a rocky gorge where spring snowmelt carved a channel eight feet deep.

The old cables creak in the wind as I approach, but they've been making that sound for years according to the locals. Treading onto the first plank, I test my weight automatically. The wood feels solid beneath my boots.

Halfway across, something shifts wrongly.

The supporting cable on my left snaps with a sound like a gunshot. The bridge tilts violently sideways, planks splintering as the structure begins tearing itself apart. Grabbing for the remaining cable proves useless as my gloves slip against wet metal.

The world tilts and falls away.

Plummeting toward jagged rocks, my sketchbook spins through the air like a broken bird. This is how it ends, through the unseen forces of gravity and poor timing, and at least it'll be quick.

Then arms catch me mid-fall, fierce and lightning-fast.

Nolan cradles me against his chest as we slam into the rocky streambed, the impact bone-crushing. Bracing for the impact that should shatter ribs and split skulls, I find Nolan absorbing the collision like he's made of steel and springs. We roll once, twice, coming to rest against a boulder with him curved protectively around me.

"How—" I gasp, but he's already lifting me, checking for injuries with hands that shake despite their gentleness.

"Are you hurt? Halsey, talk to me."

"I'm fine, but you—" I stare at him in disbelief. Blood streams from a gash across his forehead where we hit the rocks. His left shoulder peeps through torn flannel, scraped raw from the impact. Even though Amelia cleared him, the violent jolt of catching our fall has clearly aggravated the newly knitted bone and tissue. He winces, favoring the arm heavily as a faint smear of pink surfaces on his skin—a sign that the severe strain nearly tore the old wound back open. But he powers past the agonizing ache and moves with a stubborn resilience that shouldn't be possible.

"Because normal people don't walk away from that. Normal people break bones and get concussions and⁠—"

"I'm tougher than I look. And I'll have Amelia check the shoulder later to make sure I didn't stress the bone," he deflects.

"Tougher than physics?"