Page 21 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Are you okay?”

Loralee straightens, but the movement does not restore the color to her face.

“That depends on whether you’re asking as the festival security specialist or as the man who has passed my booth five times this morning.”

“I’m asking because you look like that reading took something out of you.”

She gathers the cards into a single stack and rests her hands over them. Her fingers are steady, although the brightness she carried through the morning has dimmed.

“It did,” she admits. “I don’t normally feel drained this early. I only have four private readings scheduled today, and I planned enough time between them to reset.”

“What happened?”

Her gaze moves briefly toward the path where the woman disappeared. “Sometimes a reading requires more from me than I anticipate. I put a great deal of energy into that one.”

She offers no details about the woman, and I don’t ask. Whatever was said belongs to the two of them.

“My next appointment is in fifteen minutes,” Loralee continues. “That gives me time to ground myself.”

I look around the booth. Several customers browse the candles near the entrance, and more people are approaching from the main path. Privacy and rest are difficult to find when strangers can step into her space at any moment.

“Do you need the booth cleared?”

Surprise flickers across her face. “No. Shopping doesn’t require much from me. I only need a few quiet minutes before I open myself to someone else.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

The question seems to catch her off guard more than anything else I have said.

“I appreciate you asking,” she says. “But I’ll be all right.”

I nod and step back toward the aisle. Giving her space should not feel like leaving something unfinished, but it does.

“Rocco?”

I turn. Loralee’s attitude has softened.

“Thank you for checking.”

“You looked like you needed someone to.”

For a moment, she only watches me. Then some of the warmth returns to her eyes.

“I’m not accustomed to being the one people check on.”

The admission is quiet enough that I almost miss it beneath the festival noise.

“Maybe you should be,” I say.

A radio call reports a blocked service entrance on the west side. I confirm that I’m responding, then leave Loralee to the fifteen minutes she asked for.

I make it halfway across the artisan section before looking back. She is seated with her eyes closed and both feet planted on the ground. Her hands rest loosely over the cards.

No one approaches her. I continue toward the west entrance before I can invent another reason to remain.

The blocked entrance is caused by a delivery van that takes twelve minutes to relocate. Afterward, I check the children’s area, verify an alcohol vendor’s wristband procedures, and address a disagreement over electrical access behind the stage.

For almost an hour, I do not pass Loralee’s booth. I know because I count everything.