Page 43 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

Pain shoots through one hip. The cash box falls from the counter and hits the floor beside me, its contents scattering across the rug. Coins roll beneath the display shelves. The key skids toward the front opening.

I cannot move.

The festival exists around me, bright, crowded, and untouched. Music continues from the stage. Customers pass the entrance. A woman laughs near the candle display.

No one else saw what I saw. I press both palms against my thighs. Clean. There is no blood. My body does not believe it.

I drag in a breath, but the smell of smoke remains trapped in my throat. The child’s scream echoes inside my head. Rocco lies motionless every time I blink.

I need to find him.

The thought should push me to my feet. Instead, the booth tilts. Light narrows around the edges of my vision.

Someone enters through the front. I see black cargo pants and boots moving quickly across the rug.

“Loralee.”

Rocco’s voice reaches me from a distance. Alive. He drops beside me. One hand closes around my shoulder while the other braces the back of my neck.

“What happened?”

I try to answer. My mouth forms his name, but no sound comes. His face sharpens above me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. No blood.

Not yet.

That is the thought that finally breaks through.

I catch the front of his shirt with both hands.

“Rocco.”

“I’m here.”

“There’s going to be a gun.”

Chapter 8

Rocco

The cash box hits the floor hard enough for me to hear it from the path. I am already turning toward booth 37 when Loralee drops behind the counter. For one second, only the top of her head remains visible. Then she disappears completely.

I cross the aisle before the nearest customer realizes anything is wrong.

Coins roll beneath my boots as I enter the booth. Loralee is on the ground beside the fallen cash box, staring at her hands as though they belong to someone else. Her face has lost all color, and each breath catches before it fully reaches her lungs.

I drop beside her.

“Loralee.”

She doesn’t respond.

One hand closes around her shoulder while I brace the back of her neck with the other. Her skin feels cold despite the warmth trapped beneath the canopy.

“What happened?”

Her mouth moves, but no sound comes. She grips the front of my shirt with both hands and stares into my face.

“Rocco.”