They walked together up the path that led to the raptor rehabilitation center, a long narrow building set against a slope of trees. It was quiet but alive with a predatory edge, a place of feathers and talons, of sharp eyes and sharper memories. Inside, the air was cooler, still laced with the smell of straw, antiseptic, and raw meat. Rows of enclosures lined the walls, some draped in cloth to keep the birds inside calm.
Three red-tailed hawks rested in separate sections. One was missing flight feathers on her left wing. Another, smaller and younger, had a bandage wrapped around its chest. The third stood tall and alert, his head twitching from side to side as they entered.
Mason handed her a thick leather glove. "They remember pain. That’s the hardest part."
"People do, too," she said, slipping the glove on.
He gave a slow nod. "We’re not so different then."
As they continued through the space, Natalie noticed how carefully Mason moved. He didn’t speak to the birds, but his body language was low, slow, measured. He didn’t reach unless invited. And when he did, it was with the kind of steady confidence that only came from time.
"You grew up around wildlife?" she asked, wrapping a fresh dressing around the young hawk’s wing.
"My grandfather was a tracker. I spent summers with him up north. Learned more in those woods than I did in school."
Natalie glanced at him. "You don’t talk much about yourself so that’s quite a revelation."
"Neither do you."
She chuckled softly. "Fair."
"What made you leave Boston?" he asked, not accusing, just curious.
Natalie was quiet for a moment. Her hands paused over the gauze. Then she resumed the wrap, slower this time.
"Sometimes, places start to break you."
He didn’t press. Just nodded.
"I get that," he said.
When they finished with the hawks, Mason led her outside. The wind had picked up, rattling the pine branches. They walked toward the ridge trail, boots crunching against the gravel path.
"There’s a spot up the ridge," he said. "Observation deck. We watch releases from there. Want to see it?"
"Sure."
The trail climbed gradually, winding between towering evergreens and stands of aspens just beginning to bud. Wildflowers had started to appear along the edges, early purple violets, yellow trout lilies, tiny white blossoms like lace against the forest floor. As they hiked, the conversation turned easy.
"What did you think of me that first day?" Natalie asked, half-laughing.
Mason gave her a sideways look. "You want the truth?"
"Always."
"You were sharp- tonged. Stubborn. Attacking in defense. Too quick to assume the lead."
She laughed. "You left out bossy."
"Didn’t want to be rude."
They reached the top of the ridge, and the view spread out before them. The valley unfurled in greens and golds, the sanctuary a quiet jewel nestled among the trees. The wind tugged at her hair. The sun warmed her face. Natalie stepped tothe edge of the observation deck and leaned on the railing. Below, she could see the raptor center, the fox enclosures, the curved roof of the clinic where Argus rested.
"It’s beautiful," she whispered.
"It is," he said. He leaned on the rail beside her, his arms folded.
They stood in silence, and something loosened in her chest. She wasn’t healed. She wasn’t whole. But in this place, on this ridge, beside this man who said little but meant every word, she felt the smallest thread of peace stitch through her.
