Page 96 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

I look toward the festival below. Through the lodge’s glass front, I can see one person standing beneath the emergency lights. Even at this distance, I recognize the pale color of her sweater and the brighter movement of her hair as she turns toward Grant.

The camera can see her too.

My phone vibrates.

I remove it, expecting an update from Grant, but the message is from Loralee.

I KNOW YOU FOUND SOMETHING

A second message appears before I respond.

I CAN FEEL YOU TRYING NOT TO TELL ME

Despite everything, I almost smile at her uncanny intuition. I type with one hand.

STAY INSIDE

Her answer is immediate.

PLEASE TELL ME

I put the phone away.

Carver is watching me. “She giving you trouble?”

“She is following instructions.”

My phone vibrates again. Carver raises an eyebrow.

“She's worried.”

Morales begins photographing the camera from outside its probable field of view. The device must remain in place until the technician arrives, but leaving it active carries its own risk.

“If it’s transmitting, whoever owns it may already know we found this location,” Carver says.

“He does.”

I step sideways until I stand directly in front of the lens. A faint black circle stares back at me from inside the camouflage casing.

Somewhere beyond the trees, a man may be watching the photograph arrive.

He has observed us react to every move. He has seen which gates open, which deputies respond, and how quickly I reach Loralee whenever something goes wrong. He may believe that makes her my weakness.

He is about to learn the difference between a weakness and the one person I will not allow him to touch.

Chapter 18

Loralee

Rocco returns in nineteen minutes. I know because I watch the clock mounted above the lodge doors while pretending I am not watching it. When the minute hand moves for the nineteenth time, his shape appears beyond the glass, broad and purposeful beneath the exterior lights. The tension in my chest releases before Grant unlocks the door.

Rocco enters with Deputy Carver behind him. Red clay marks the edges of his boots, and a short pine needle clings to one shoulder. Nothing about his demeanor suggests relief or alarm, but I have learned enough to recognize the difference between his ordinary control and the kind he uses to contain something darker.

He walks directly to me.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve been locked inside a building with Grant and two deputies.”