Page 61 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

The radio reports movement toward the parking area.

I look at the man standing in front of me. Vigilance shaped by mistakes, military service, and an accident his body still remembers. He is already halfway out the door in his mind.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

Relief flashes across his face. He crosses to me and grips the back of my chair. For one suspended second, I think he might kiss me after all. Instead, he bends until his forehead touches mine.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“I will.”

“And don’t open it unless you hear my voice.”

“Rocco.”

His eyes meet mine.

“Be careful.”

“I promised you.”

He walks out before I can remind him that promises do not stop bullets.

I lock the door and stand at the window, watching until the trees swallow him from view. The cabin feels emptier than it did when he left me alone before. This time, solitude gives nothing back.

Chapter 11

Rocco

By the time I reach the south service entrance, the man in the dark jacket is gone. Evan waits beside the last row of vendor vehicles, one hand pressed to the radio at his shoulder. Beyond him, the gravel lot slopes toward a line of pines already darkening beneath the evening sky.

“Where did you lose him?”

“He cut between those two vans.” Evan points toward a white cargo van and an older pickup with woodworking decals on the doors. “When I came around the other side, three men matched enough of the description to slow me down.”

“Which direction?”

“One went toward the portable restrooms. One got into the pickup. The third kept walking toward the overflow lot.”

“And the baseball cap?”

“Two of them.”

Descriptions are useful until several thousand people dress for the same season.

“Did any of them look at you?”

“The one heading toward overflow did. He changed direction after he saw the radio.”

That may mean he has something to hide. It may also mean he dislikes security, has an outstanding warrant, or does not want questions about whatever he came here to do.

“Cameras?”

“South entrance caught him from behind. We’re checking the parking footage now.”

I scan the rows of vehicles. Families carry purchases toward their cars while vendors restock for the evening crowd. A woman secures a sleeping toddler into a car seat. Two men unload split firewood from the bed of a truck. Nothing looks wrong.

Loralee’s voice remains in my head anyway.