Page 67 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Glass. Red. Smoke. Cinnamon. A crying child.”

“But not the way I saw them.”

The words are quiet, but a nearby man glances toward us. I lead Loralee away from the serving line before we draw more attention.

“Could this be what you saw?” I ask.

“No.”

“You have every element.”

“The child in my vision wasn’t crying over something already finished. She was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“That matters.”

“I know.”

Frustration edges the answer. I stop pressing.

We reach booth 37. The canvas panels have been lowered across the entrance and secured with clips and a lock. Nothing appears disturbed. My employee stands at the opposite intersection, exactly where I assigned him.

I inspect the exterior, check the fastenings, and examine the narrow space between Loralee’s booth and the one beside it.

“No one entered,” I assure her.

“I believed you the first time.”

“I didn’t ask whether you believed me.”

“Do you know how exhausting you are?”

“Yes.”

The answer draws a reluctant smile from her.

“You can go inside if you still want to,” I say.

Loralee places her free hand against the canvas panel but does not reach for the key. Her eyes close briefly.

“No.”

“Why?”

“The vision isn’t pulling me toward the booth.”

“Then where?”

She turns toward the center of the festival. The stage lights have come on. Beyond them, the main lodge glows through tall glass doors and windows. A red harvest banner stretches across the entrance. It moves slightly whenever the doors open. Smoke from the nearest firepit drifts toward the building while visitors carry cider and sweets between the indoor exhibits and the lawn.

Loralee releases my hand and walks toward it. I signal my employee to follow at a distance.

Her pace increases as we pass the stage. Music swells behind us. A group of teenagers crosses our path, forcing us to slow, but Loralee moves around them without taking her attention from the lodge.

“What are you feeling?”