Page 88 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“A photograph can tell us that.”

“It may not tell me everything.”

Her tone is steady, but she finishes dressing faster. The ease between us has vanished, replaced by the same current of awareness that moved through the cabin when she woke from the vision.

I pull on my jeans and reach for my shirt. “What does the card mean?”

“The Tower represents sudden upheaval. Destruction. A truth that tears down whatever was built on a false foundation.”

“Could it mean violence?”

“It can.”

“Then you’re not going near it.”

Her head comes up. “If someone wanted to steal from me, he had the chance. He left a message instead.”

“I understand that.”

“No, you understand security. I understand the cards.”

“And someone out there understands that you do.”

The words stop her. I cross the space between us and take her face in my hands. Her skin is still warm from my body, her lips swollen from my mouth. An hour ago, I believed the greatest threat in this cabin was how badly I wanted her.

I was wrong.

“This isn’t about the festival anymore,” I say. “Whoever entered that booth chose yours. He knew what to leave and where you would find it.”

Her eyes search mine. “That’s why I should come.”

“That’s why you’re going with me.”

Surprise flickers over her face. I retrieve my weapon from the holster attached to my discarded belt, check it, and secure it beneath my jacket.

“You stay beside me,” I tell her. “You don’t approach the booth until I clear it. If I tell you to get down, you do it. If I tell you to run, you don’t argue.”

“I don’t run very fast.”

“Tonight, you will.”

I zip her coat and let my hands remain at her waist for one second longer than necessary. I want her back in that bed, warm and rumpled. Instead, I open the cabin door and scan the darkness beyond it.

The wind has strengthened. Dead leaves race across the gravel, skittering beneath Loralee’s vehicle and disappearing into the trees. Nothing moves along the road, but the night no longer feels empty. It feels occupied.

Loralee steps beside me, close enough that her shoulder touches my arm.

“There’s something else,” she says.

I keep my eyes on the tree line. “What?”

“The Tower wasn’t in the vision.”

I look at her. Her face is pale in the porch light, but her voice is certain.

“It wasn’t a warning about what I already saw,” she says. “It’s a warning that something has changed.”

I guide her toward my vehicle with one hand at her back. Whatever waited for us at the festival has stopped following the path Loralee predicted. Now it is choosing one of its own.