Page 55 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“You don’t have to move your work because I invaded your space.”

“You didn’t invade it. I brought you here.”

“Without asking me at first.”

His eyes meet mine. “I’m working on that.”

The simple admission touches me more than an elaborate apology would.

“I know.”

He places one radio on his belt and picks up the other. “The door locks automatically. Keep it locked. My team has the cabin in sight, but no one will come inside unless you ask or there is an emergency.”

“That sounds suspiciously like security.”

“It is.”

“And if I decide I need longer?”

“Text me.”

“What if I decide to leave?”

His jaw tightens. I wait.

“Text me,” he says again. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

A reluctant grin betrays me before I can contain it. “That was very good.”

“It was painful.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Lock the door, Loralee.”

He steps outside. I turn the lock after him and listen as his boots cross the porch. He does not linger or look through the window to make sure I follow instructions. Within seconds, the cabin becomes silent.

The relief is immediate. So is the small ache beneath it.

I return to the bedroom for my canvas bag. Rocco placed it beside the nightstand where I could reach it easily, and the care behind that detail follows me back into the main room.

My emergency grounding kit is tucked into an interior pocket. I carry a larger version when I work, but this one contains enough: a small piece of black tourmaline, a muslin pouch of dried cedar and rosemary, and a vial of salt blended with lavender.

I open the nearest window before sprinkling a thin line of the salt into my palm. The scent rises as I rub my hands together. Lavender softens the sharp green of rosemary that clings to the pouch.

Then I stand in the center of Rocco’s cabin and breathe.

The first breath catches high in my chest. The second reaches deeper.

By the fifth, I can feel my feet against the floor rather than the remembered impact of the cash box leaving my hands. I close my fingers around the tourmaline and picture the vision moving out of me. I don’t want it to totally disappear. Ignoring a warning does not make it harmless. But I need it to loosen its grip on my body.

Glass.

Red.

Smoke.

A child screaming.