Page 20 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“It isn’t.”

“People are commenting about me.”

“People comment about everything.”

“One wants to know whether I’m dangerously hot.”

“She phrased it as a safety question. You should appreciate that.”

I stare at her. Loralee presses her lips together, attempting to contain another laugh. It doesn’t work. The sound is warm, unguarded, and entirely too appealing in the cold morning air.

“I won’t identify you,” she promises. “Your mysterious professional integrity remains intact.”

“I own a security company. I’m not mysterious.”

“You have long dark hair, at least two scars, an old injury you refuse to discuss, and a voice that convinced four thousand people to care about electrical clearances. You’re practically folklore.”

Before I can answer, one of my employees passes behind us carrying a radio charger.

“Morning, Mr. Fire Load.”

I turn my head. He continues walking without looking back.

Loralee reaches beneath the counter and offers me a muffin. “For the emotional damage.”

I take it. Her smile changes, becoming less teasing and more warmly personal.

“Caramel apple,” she says. “Associated with temptation, knowledge, and hidden desire.”

“It’s a muffin.”

“That is what Jake said the first time I met him.”

“Who is Jake?”

“Ava’s man … not mine.”

I look down at the caramel glaze. Now, I’m wondering if Loralee has a man. What kind of man could possibly keep up with her.

By nine fifteen, the festival paths are crowded. Families move between booths beneath strings of rust and gold banners. Children carry paper cups of cider while their parents examine carved wood, pottery, quilts, and food products. Music from the stage travels across the park without overpowering conversation.

Booth 37 draws attention immediately. Some visitors stop because of the crystals arranged beneath the lanterns. Others lift candle lids and smell every available scent. Several recognize Loralee from social media, and one woman has driven more than an hour for a scheduled reading.

I pass her booth four times before ten. Each pass is operationally justified.

The artisan section sits between the main entrance and the wellness garden. From there, I can monitor crowd density, observe the western food-vendor lane, and check the emergency route Loralee blocked yesterday. It remains clear.

On my fifth pass, Loralee is seated across from an older woman at a small round table near the rear of the booth. A deck of cards lies between them. I cannot hear the conversation, but I can see the change in Loralee’s posture.

She is no longer playful. Her hands rest quietly on the table, and her attention remains fixed on the woman’s face rather than the cards. The woman speaks for several minutes, then begins crying.

Loralee reaches across the table and covers her hand. I look away.

Whatever happens within that booth is private unless someone’s safety is involved. Tears are not evidence of danger. Still, I remain near the garden entrance until the woman leaves.

She emerges minutes later with red eyes, but seems at peace. Loralee walks her to the front, accepts a brief hug, and waits until she disappears into the crowd. Then Loralee grips the edge of the table.

The movement lasts less than a second. Most people would miss it. I don’t. I cross the path and enter her booth.