Page 44 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“I’m here.”

“There’s going to be a gun.”

Every part of me becomes still.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see someone carrying it?”

Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “I saw blood.”

I reach for the radio at my shoulder.

Loralee catches my wrist. “Yours.”

The booth noise recedes. I hear the festival beyond it — the music, conversations, a child laughing somewhere near the main path. But my attention remains fixed on the woman kneeling in front of me.

“What do you mean, mine?”

“Your blood was on my hands.”

I look down. Her palms are clean.

Loralee follows my gaze. “I know it isn’t there now.”

Her body sways. I move closer and hold her upright before her shoulder strikes the counter.

“Medical to booth 37,” I say into the radio. “Discreet response.”

“No.”

“That isn’t optional.”

“I don’t need an ambulance.”

“I called the festival medic.”

“I’m not injured.”

“You nearly lost consciousness.”

Her eyes close.

“Loralee.”

“I’m still here.”

“Open your eyes.”

They open again, unfocused at first, then settling on me.

A customer appears at the front of the booth. I recognize the woman from a candle purchase earlier in the day.