Page 50 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“It is.”

“Good.”

I almost smile. “Can you walk?”

“I believe so.”

“I’ll remain nearby.”

“That was appropriately phrased.”

We enter the cabin together.

The main room contains a small kitchen, a table covered with equipment and incident reports, and a sofa facing a stone fireplace. A narrow hallway leads to the bedroom and bathroom. The space is functional rather than comfortable, although one of my employees stocked the kitchen before the festival.

Loralee stops near the door. I lock the door behind us.

“Sit wherever you’re comfortable.”

Loralee chooses the sofa and places both feet flat on the floor. Her hands rest over her knees. The posture matches the way she grounded herself after yesterday’s reading.

“Would quiet help?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to leave the room?”

She looks up quickly. “No.”

The answer emerges before she can soften it.

I place her canvas bag within reach and move toward the kitchen. “Tea?”

“What kind?”

“There are boxes.”

“That does not answer the question.”

I open the cabinet. “Black tea. Green tea. Chamomile. Something labeled Evening Restoration.”

“Evening Restoration?”

“One of my employees bought it.”

“I already like this employee of yours.”

I examine the label. “Chamomile, lemon balm, lavender, and passionflower.”

“That one.”

I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. Loralee watches me without speaking. Her color has improved, but fatigue still rests heavily around her eyes.

When the water heats, I make the tea according to the instructions instead of estimating. I carry the mug to her and place it on the table within reach.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”