Page 5 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

The drive into Cady Springs winds through steepening hills painted with autumn. Gold aspens shimmer beside the road. Dark evergreens climb the mountain slopes, and the air pouring through my cracked window smells of cold earth and woodsmoke. With every mile, the restless pull inside me becomes quieter. Not weaker, but closer.

Festival signs direct vendors toward a broad park beyond the town’s main street. White tents stand in orderly rows beneath the trees. Workers carry crates, test strings of lights, and argue cheerfully over the placement of hay bales. Beyond them, the mountains rise against a sky already deepening toward evening.

I stop at the check-in table, collect my credentials, and follow a volunteer’s directions toward booth 37.

The location is better than I expected. A massive maple tree spreads red-gold branches over the rear corner, and a low timber fence separates the artisan booths from a quieter garden area. If I angle the privacy screens correctly, clients on the massage table will see leaves and filtered sky rather than the back wall of the kettle-corn vendor.

I open the rear hatch and begin unloading. The first folding table catches on a box of candle vessels. I tighten my grip, pull harder, and nearly send both onto the pavement. A large hand closes around the opposite end of the table.

“Stop.”

The voice is low, controlled, and entirely too close. I look up.

He is tall enough to block a portion of the autumn sky. Long dark hair brushes the collar of a black jacket. His body is lean rather than bulky, but muscle defines the hand holding my table and the forearm visible beneath his pushed-up sleeve. A tattoo disappears beneath the cuff.

His eyes settle on mine. They are dark and penetrating. Despite catching me off guard, something inside me becomes perfectly still.

The man from my dream had no face, but I know this energy. Water held beneath ice. Intensity compressed until it has become control. A locked door with something restless behind it. Scorpio … strong Scorpio energy.

He looks from me to the equipment protruding from my vehicle. “You can’t unload here.”

I glance at the empty lane. “I appear to be doing it.”

“This is an emergency-access route.”

“I’ll only need a few minutes.”

“You have already been here eleven.”

I study him more carefully. A radio is clipped near his shoulder. A small black emblem is embroidered over his chest.

BLACKRIDGE PROTECTIVE SERVICES

Somehow, the universe has led me across Colorado to be reprimanded by security.

“You timed me?”

“I noticed you.”

The words pass between us before either of us can make them ordinary. His expression does not change, but the energy around him does. A subtle tightening. Awareness sharpening into something warmer and far less professional. I should apologize and move my vehicle. Instead, I hear myself ask, “What month were you born?”

His eyes narrow. “Move the vehicle.”

“October or November?”

“I’m not discussing my birthday.”

“November, then.”

He releases the table and steps back. “Move the vehicle. I’ll take this to your booth.”

“You’re unloading for me?”

“I’m clearing an emergency route.”

“That is unexpectedly helpful.”

“Don’t mistake it for flexibility.”