Her fingers worked feverishly, tugging, unraveling. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.” Then—a voice. “Well, would you look at that.” Evelyn froze. The voice came from behind her. Cold. Confident. She turned slowly. A man stepped out from the trees, unshaven, sun-worn, and carrying a hunting knife at his belt.
His face was unmistakable—she’d seen sketches of him in the margins of the journal. This was the writer. The poacher. He stared at her like he already knew who she was. “You’re not from around here,” he said casually, glancing down at the cub. “Shame, really. You’ve ruined a very valuable opportunity.”