Page 65 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“That was not an answer.”

“Yes, it was.”

We walk toward the SUV together. I remain close enough to catch her if her balance changes, but I do not touch her. She notices the restraint.

During the drive, I report our route to Wade and instruct him to place an employee near booth 37. Another will meet us at the vendor entrance. I request updated crowd estimates and direct the nearest patrol to make another pass through the food lane.

Loralee waits until I return the radio to its holder.

“Do you give every vendor this kind of individual attention?”

“No.”

My answer comes too quickly. I keep my attention on the narrow road.

Loralee shifts in her seat. “How many vendors have been inside your cabin?”

“Employees do not count.”

“That was not my question.”

“None.”

“How many have slept in your bed?”

“You were asleep when I put you there. That is not the same as inviting you into it.”

“So none?”

“None.”

Her satisfaction fills the vehicle before she speaks. “Good.”

I glance at her. “Why is that good?”

“I’m still deciding.”

The answer echoes her earlier refusal to explain how my presence affects her. This time, I can’t resist smiling.

The festival is transformed when we return. String lights glow above the main paths, turning the vendor tents into warm pockets of color beneath the darkening sky. Lanterns hang from wooden posts. Firepits burn in designated seating areas while families gather around them with cider and paper trays of food. Music drifts from the stage, softened by distance and the noise of the crowd.

It looks peaceful. But I know that every shadow offers concealment. Every cluster of people limits sightlines.

Wade meets us at the entrance and gives me the current status. No unusual activity near booth 37. No additional sightings of the original man. The deputies have received both descriptions and understand that the second man has been cleared.

Loralee watches the exchange.

“You assigned two people to my booth.”

“One is covering the intersection.”

“While facing my booth.”

“It provides the best line of sight.”

She gives me a look that says she recognizes the distinction and does not believe it matters.

We move onto the main path. Loralee walks without assistance, her steps steady and her attention concentrated on one side of the aisle, then to the other. At first, I assume she is looking at faces. Then we pass a booth selling spiced nuts, and she stops. Cinnamon hangs heavily in the air. A copper kettle turns beneath a heating lamp while sugar darkens around pecans and walnuts.