Page 51 of Easy, Tiger

"I only want to make sure⁠—"

She throws up a hand, cutting me off. "Listen to me because I'm only saying this once more. I want our relationship because of the man you are. The one with calloused hands who knows every trail in these mountains, who brought me soup when I was sick and makes me laugh even when I'm terrified. Not because some mystical force decided we belong together."

Her conviction hits me harder than any mating bond ever could. This is her choice, freely made, fully aware of everything I am and everything this life means.

"The bond might have introduced us," she continues, "but everything I feel for you belongs entirely to me. It's real, and it's what I'm choosing."

Reaching for her hand, I thread our fingers together. "You're amazing."

"I know. Now stop asking me if I'm sure and tell me what to do to help out. I don't want to be a bum while everyone runs around doing their tasks, and I sit on my butt."

A chuckle escapes me, tension I didn't realize I'd been storing finally releasing from my shoulders. "Don't worry. They'll put you to work."

As if summoned by her words, Sadie appears at my elbow with a clipboard and the purposeful stride she wears when organizing anything more complex than a grocery list.

"Perfect timing," she announces, glancing between us. "Halsey, how are you with inventory? We need someone to cross-reference our medical supplies against this list, and Owen's handwriting resembles chicken scratches."

"Hey!" Owen calls from across the clearing. "I heard that!"

"Then write better!" Sadie calls back. She hands Halsey the clipboard and a pencil. "Everything's laid out on those tables. Check off what we have and make notes about quantities."

Halsey reviews the list, already mentally organizing the task. "What about things that are running low?"

"Mark those too. We'll need to know what to restock before winter really hits." Sadie grins at her. "See? I told Nolan you'd fit right in."

Halsey stations herself at one of the supply tables, attentively working through the medical supplies with the same attention she brings to her illustrations. Within minutes, she's reorganized half the supplies into more logical groupings, making the inventory process faster for everyone.

"She's good at this," Owen observes, joining me as we view her work. "Detail-oriented."

"She's good at everything she puts her mind to."

Karlene approaches Halsey's table with an armload of additional medical supplies, and I see them fall into easy conversation about expiration dates and storage requirements. The older woman's initial wariness melts away as Halsey demonstrates both competence and genuine interest in learning their systems.

"Look at that," Sadie mutters, appearing beside us again. "She's respecting how we do things and trusting our way. She's simply learning."

The morning unfolds in hushed purpose, Halsey cross-referencing supplies while conversations flow around the clearing about winter preparations and route adjustments. She's found her place among us faster than I dared hope, asking practical questions about storage temperatures and shelf life that demonstrate she's thinking beyond the immediate task.

"I've been meaning to ask," she says, tearing her focus from the clipboard to look at me."Why do you migrate at all? Tigers aren't exactly known for migrating."

Sadie, who is organizing a box of bandages nearby, chuckles. "Normal tigers usually are stationary. But shifting in sub-zero Appalachian blizzards drains too much energy to sustain. Generations ago, our ancestors found a sheltered valley south of here with natural geothermal springs."

"We have winter cabins built into the cave systems there," I add, approaching the table. "It stays warm enough to survive the deep freezes comfortably. For the enclave members who run businesses in town, like Karlene, they either rotate shifts commuting by snowmobile or close up shop entirely for the deep winter off-season."

Halsey slowly lowers her head, processing the logistics. "Makes perfect sense. Adaptation is the key to survival."

Around noon, two of our scouts return from their morning patrol, their faces grim enough to cut through the relaxed atmosphere. They head straight for Owen, muttering in voices too low for anyone else to hear, but their body language tells me everything I need to know.

Owen's face hardens as he listens, then he targets me with a sharp nod and jerks his head toward the radio equipment. I leave Halsey with her inventory and join them.

"What's the situation?"

"He's changed tactics," one reports, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the cool air. "Found three different surveillance positions abandoned—all places he's used before. But now there are fresh sites higher up the mountain, completely off our usual routes."

"How fresh?"

"Day or two, maybe less. And they're not deployed for the migration paths we've used for decades." The other takes out a hand-drawn map, pointing to marked locations. "These new spots give him clear sight lines to areas we've never even considered using."

Owen reads the map, his brow furrowed in concentration. "He has abandoned our patterns. Instead, he is trying to predict where we'll go when we deviate."