Page 110 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

His eyes close briefly. Then he pulls me against him. The force of the embrace lifts my feet from the ground. I wrap both arms around his shoulders and hold on while his breath shudders against my hair. Around us, deputies move between vehicles. The bomb squad continues its work. Glass crackles beneath someone’s boots near the lodge.

But no one is screaming. No smoke rises above the festival. No child lies injured beneath shattered glass.

“I thought the vision was happening,” I whisper.

Rocco sets me down but doesn’t release me. “Part of it did.”

“The gunshot. The glass. The banner.” I look toward the lodge. “But the people weren’t here.”

“Because you warned us.”

“I didn’t stop Mercer.”

“You saw enough for us to take the threat seriously. That stopped him.”

For days, I have treated the vision as something waiting ahead of us, fixed and unavoidable. I thought my only choices were to understand it or fail the people caught inside it. Perhaps a vision is not a promise. Perhaps it is a door left open long enough for someone to choose another way through.

Rocco presses his forehead against mine. “It’s over.”

I close my eyes and feel the truth of those words move through him. Mercer has been caught. The device will be dismantled. By morning, the festival grounds will be empty rather than filled with families walking unknowingly toward danger.

The future he planned has fallen. And we are still standing.

Epilogue

Loralee

One Year Later

From a distance, I might look as though I emerged from the forest for the sole purpose of marrying a mountain man. The woman in the mirror wears a flowing ivory dress embroidered with vines, bronze leaves, and tiny flowers in shades of rust and deep gold. The fabric fits close through my waist before falling in soft layers around my legs. Greenery circles the crown of my head, woven with miniature roses, clear quartz, and one small piece of rose quartz that rests just above my left temple.

My hair falls loose beneath it. The sections I once dyed honey blonde have deepened into streaks of copper and amber for autumn, though the woman looking back at me no longer appears to be trying on a different version of herself. She knows exactly who she is.

“You were right about the crown,” I tell Chloe.

“I’m going to need you to repeat that in front of Jack.”

Chloe stands behind me in the bridal cabin, adjusting one of the leaves near my temple. She wears a burgundy dress and the satisfied look of a woman whose plans have unfolded precisely as intended.

Ava looks up from the garment bag she is repacking with far more care than anyone will ever use to unpack it.

“Chloe was also right about the dress.”

Chloe points at her. “Thank you.”

“I was agreeing with Loralee.”

“That still counts.”

Ava came from Forge Creek with Jake yesterday, although she spent most of the drive sending me messages about refrigeration temperatures and whether the venue kitchen contained enough counter space. By the time they arrived, Jake had already assured her twice that the four-tier spice cake had survived the journey.

Ava checked for herself. Then she checked it again this morning.

Through the window, I can see Jake helping Jack move another row of chairs even though the ceremony begins in less than an hour. Neither man appears to need the assistance of the other, but both have learned that carrying things gives them something to do while the women they love complete plans beyond their control.

Harper enters the room holding a snow globe in both hands.

“Before you say anything, this is not your wedding present.”