Page 74 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

A part of me wants to argue. Another part understands that remaining here will divide his attention, whether he admits it or not. If he knows I am somewhere secure, he can watch the festival rather than watching me.

“I’ll go,” I say.

Suspicion enters his eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I am capable of making sensible decisions.”

“I have limited evidence.”

I almost remind him that he has spent an unusual amount of time collecting evidence about me. The joke would be easy, but the worry beneath his control makes me resist it.

“I’m tired,” I tell him. “Not depleted like before. Just tired.”

“That is reason enough.”

He reports our departure to his team and walks me through the lodge. We use a side exit rather than passing the auction display again. Outside, the night has settled fully over the mountains.

The festival glows behind us as we cross the vendor lane. The music has changed to something slower, accompanied by an acoustic guitar. Couples stand near the firepits. Parents carry sleeping children toward the parking area.

It would be easy to believe nothing terrible could happen here. That is often when terrible things do.

Rocco remains close without touching me until we reach the SUV. He opens the passenger door, waits until I am seated, then circles to the driver’s side.

The drive to my rental cabin is quieter than the one we made earlier. He checks the mirrors more often than necessary and takes an indirect route. I recognize what he is doing by the second additional turn.

“Are you making sure no one followed us?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think someone would?”

“No.”

“But you’re checking.”

“Yes.”

I watch the dark road pass beyond the window. “Does it ever stop?”

“What?”

“Looking for what might go wrong.”

His hands remain steady on the wheel. “No.”

The answer holds no pride. Only fact.

“Do you want it to?”

He takes several seconds to respond. “Sometimes.”

The honesty is more intimate than anything we said inside his cabin.

When we reach my rental, Rocco drives past it once before circling back. He checks the parked vehicles, the neighboring cabins, and the darkness between the trees. Only after satisfying himself does he pull into the short drive.

He walks me to the door and waits while I unlock it. The cabin smells faintly of the sandalwood candle I burned the night before. My belongings wait exactly where I left them.

“I’ll check the rooms,” he says.