Shadow and light played across the ground in changing patterns, the leaves overhead sighing and rustling in the evening breeze. Adjusting her grip on her camera, she approached her quarry, a two-hundred-year-old cemetery at the edge of the forest she’d spotted the day before during her walk. When she cleared the trees, she saw the man standing there with his back to her. Nairne faltered. He was huge. His wide shoulders blocked the sunlight beating down on his black leather jacket as he stared down at the weathered grave marker. Something about his posture, the way he bowed his head, made her think he was no ordinary tourist. It almost looked like he was grieving. Backing up a step, her foot landed on a twig. She drew up short, wincing at the quiet crack it made. The man whipped his head around, his gaze freezing her. The breath caught in her throat. He was young, maybe in his early thirties, and terribly scarred down one side of his face and neck. But that wasn’t what gave her pause.
