Chapter 1

Emilia

The morning sun dapples through the trees, casting golden patches across the riverbank where I kneel. This spot, hidden from hiking trails and picnic areas, has become my sanctuary. Water trickles over smooth stones, creating nature's perfect soundtrack. I breathe deep, filling my lungs with the earthy scent of damp soil and wild mint growing along the water's edge.

"There we go," I murmur, carefully cradling the red-tailed hawk in my lap. "Just a little longer, beautiful."

The hawk watches me with fierce amber eyes, intelligent and wary. His wing extends awkwardly where some asshole's bullet grazed him two days ago. Lucky shot for the bird—any closer and I'd be burying him instead of treating him.

"I know you hate this part." I dip a clean cloth into the river water, wringing it out before adding the antiseptic solution. "But infection is the real enemy here."

The hawk tenses as I gently dab at the wound. His feathers, russet and magnificent, ripple with each careful touch. I've wrapped his talons in a protective cloth to keep us both safe, but I know better than to drop my guard completely.

"You're doing great. Such a warrior." My voice stays low and steady, the same tone I've used with injured wildlife since I was a kid rescuing baby squirrels. "This healing is coming along beautifully. Another week and you'll be ruling these skies again."

The hawk makes a soft clicking sound, his body gradually relaxing against my hands. These moments are what I live for—this connection, this trust built between human and wild creature. In my lap rests an apex predator allowing me to heal him, a privilege I never take for granted.

"The world's not kind enough to creatures like you," I whisper, carefully applying the healing salve to his wing. "Too many people with guns and too little respect for what they don't understand."

The river bubbles beside us, a constant companion to my work. Here, surrounded by cattails and willow branches that dance in the breeze, I feel more at home than anywhere else.

I wrap the hawk in a soft, breathable carrier, murmuring reassurances as I secure the top. His eyes never leave mine—that wild, untamed gaze that seems to see right through human pretenses.

"Let's get you back to the center, handsome. Dr. Martinez will want to check that wing."

The path from the river back to the wildlife rehabilitation center winds through a stretch of oak and maple trees. Morning light filters through the canopy, dappling the ground in patterns that shift with each breeze. The familiar weight of my backpack and the carrier creates a comfortable rhythm to my steps.

My phone buzzes. Probably Ranger Raymond checking on the hawk. I'll call him back at the center.

A blue jay calls overhead, and suddenly I'm not here anymore but ten years in the past. William's laugh echoes in my memory as we raced down this same path, him pulling me by the hand toward the river.

"Come on, Em! I found the perfect spot!"

God, we were just kids then. Eighteen and stupidly in love, spending every free moment exploring these woods when we should've been studying for finals. William knew every trail, every hidden grove. The lawyer's son who'd rather be barefoot by the river than anywhere else.

I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. Ten years. A whole decade since he left for college and never really came back. Oh, he returned to Riverton physically—Christmas visits to his parents, the occasional weekend—but the William who returned wore tailored suits and checked his watch constantly. The forest dirt under his fingernails had been replaced by manicured hands that typed briefs and shook clients' hands in Boston.

The hawk stirs in his carrier, pulling me from thoughts I shouldn't be entertaining anyway.

"Sorry, buddy. Almost there."

The rehabilitation center comes into view, its wooden sign weathered but welcoming. Dr. Martinez waves from the porch, already pulling on her gloves.

"How's our patient?" she calls.

"Feisty. Wound's looking clean." I lift the carrier slightly. "The bullet just grazed him, thank God."

I step onto the porch, swallowing the lump in my throat. Memories of William are like splinters—you think you've removed them all until one suddenly makes itself known, sharp and insistent beneath the skin.

I lean against the exam table as Dr. Martinez works, her hands moving with practiced precision over the hawk's injured wing. The bird's chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, sedated just enough to keep him calm during treatment.

"Gorgeous wound treatment so far," she murmurs, applying fresh antibiotics. "You've got the magic touch, Emilia."

Around us, the center buzzes with its usual morning energy. Volunteers move between enclosures, checking food and water. Through the window, I watch Jessie, our newest intern, carefully feeding a baby raccoon with a syringe. Her face lights up when the tiny creature eagerly takes the formula.

It's beautiful here—this place I've built my life around. The whitewashed walls covered in wildlife education posters, the gentle symphony of animal sounds, the earthy scent of fresh straw and healing herbs.

So why does my chest feel so damn heavy?

William's face flashes in my mind again. That crooked smile. Those blue eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon.

"You'll always be my wild girl," he'd whispered that last summer night before leaving for Harvard. "The one who taught me to see the world differently."

Pretty words. Empty promises.

I'd been naive enough to believe him—to think our love was special enough to survive distance and different worlds. For two years, I'd planned my life around his visits home, turning down internships that would've taken me too far from Riverton.

Until the day his calls stopped coming as frequently. Until I saw those photos of him at some Harvard gala, some blonde tucked perfectly against his side. She was pretty, smart, and rich. Everything that a man like William deserved.

And what about me? I'm pretty, too. I'm lean. My curls are big and bouncy, my eyes are brown and warm. If all the men around me are right, I have a nice smile and my skin is smooth as chocolate butter, which is a new phrase I've learned from Ranger Miles Inglewood. Who may or may not had been trying to slither into my pants that day.

"Emilia?" Dr. Martinez's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay? You look miles away."

I blink, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just thinking about treatment options for this guy." I gesture to the hawk. "Maybe we should try that new physical therapy technique you mentioned last week."

She studies me for a moment, her eyes too knowing. We've worked together for five years now—she can read my bullshit like a large-print book.

"You sure that's all it is?"

I nod, stroking the hawk's feathers gently. "Just tired. And this one's got me worried."

The hawk's amber eyes flutter open briefly, wild and untamed even in his vulnerable state. Like me, he carries his scars. Unlike me, he'll heal completely.

Dr. Martinez carefully places the hawk in a recovery crate lined with soft towels. "He'll be fine, Emilia. Your quick action probably saved his wing."

"I hope so." My voice sounds distant even to my own ears. "He deserves to fly again."

"Get some air," she suggests, her experienced eyes reading me too well. "I've got things covered here."

I nod and step outside, pulling off my worn khaki hat and running fingers through my curls. The sun warms my face as I lean against the wooden railing. The rehabilitation center sits on a small hill overlooking the town of Riverton, offering a patchwork view of familiar rooftops nestled among trees just beginning to hint at autumn.

My phone buzzes again. This time I check it—a text from Jessie: "Is it true William Grant is coming back to town next week?"

My stomach tightens. So the rumors are true. I've been hearing whispers for days now, but seeing it confirmed makes it real in a way I'm not prepared for.

William. Back in Riverton.

I close my eyes, feeling the familiar ache spread through my chest. Eleven years should be enough time to get over someone. Eleven years of building my life, my career, my place in this community. I'm respected here. I matter. The work I do with these animals matters.

So why does the thought of seeing him again make me feel eighteen and heartbroken?

"Stupid," I mutter to myself, pocketing my phone without responding. "It's ancient history."

Below me, Riverton continues its peaceful Tuesday morning. Life goes on, unchanged by the storm brewing inside me.

What will I do when I see him? Ignore him? Act polite but distant? Throw something at his perfect face? Ask him why he lied to me, all those years ago? Why he promised me the world, but then left me in the dust?

The breeze carries the scent of pine and river water, reminding me that this town—these woods, this air—was mine before it was ours, and remains mine after he left. I've claimed this place with every injured animal I've healed, every conservation battle I've fought.

I straighten my shoulders. William Grant may be coming home, but I'm already home. And this time, I won't let him shake my foundations.