Mountain Man's Crystal Touch

1. Chapter 1

Loralee

The universe has sent me the same message four times in seventeen days.

The first arrived at Ava’s birthday party between a questionable Capricorn cookie and an eleven-minute séance.

Mountains. Autumn. A man with stubborn energy.

At the time, the message felt promising, although possibly influenced by maple-spice cake and the fact that I had spent most of the evening surrounded by candles.

The second came three nights later while I slept. I stood beneath trees covered in red and gold leaves, watching a dark-haired man walk toward me through a spill of amber light. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt his attention land on me with enough force to wake me.

The third appeared in my tarot cards last Monday. The fourth is currently blinking on my phone.

ONE VENDOR SPACE AVAILABLE — CADY SPRINGS AUTUMN FESTIVAL

I stare at the announcement while the espresso machine hisses behind me. Sweet Treats does not officially open for another twenty-three minutes, which means Ava has already been working for at least two hours and would prefer that I stop looking at my phone.

She has not said this yet. She doesn’t need to. Her energy becomes extremely specific when she is irritated.

“Whatever you’re reading,” she says from the kitchen doorway, “it will still exist after the orange-cranberry muffins are in the display.”

I look toward the tray cooling on the prep table. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether the universe uses disappearing messages.”

Ava closes her eyes for a moment. Marriage has softened some of her sharper edges, but it has not diminished her commitment to schedules, properly aligned pastries, or employees arriving late for their assigned shifts. Fortunately, I am six minutes early today.

I slide my phone into the pocket of my cardigan and carry the tray toward the front. “The muffins need another minute.”

“They have had twenty-two.”

I smile and begin transferring the muffins into the glass display. Sweet Treats smells like coffee, cinnamon, and the maple syrup Jake has persuaded Ava to add to increasingly inappropriate numbers of baked goods.

The bakery has changed since I began working here. Not in large ways. Ava still arranges everything with military precision. Customers still line up for cinnamon rolls on Fridays, and the front door still sticks whenever the weather turns damp.

But Jake’s dark jacket now hangs beside Ava’s apron in the back room. His enormous boots occasionally appear beneath the smallest table near the window. Ava smiles at her phone more than she realizes and has stopped looking personally betrayed when someone offers to help her.

Energy changes before people admit they have.

A loose section of my braid falls over my shoulder as I bend to place the last muffin.

The honey-blonde strands catch the display lights, brighter against the darker hair near my roots.

Last month, I walked into a salon intending to have the ends trimmed and walked out three hours later looking as though someone had threaded sunlight through half my head.

Ava called it an impulse. I called it alignment. Neither of us mentioned that I had begun changing things about my life before I knew what I wanted the changes to become.

The bell above the front door jingles. Jake steps inside wearing work boots, faded jeans, and a dark Dalton Restoration shirt stretched across his shoulders.

He wipes his feet carefully on the mat before crossing the floor.

This ritual has become so consistent that I suspect it qualifies as foreplay for them.

Ava’s expression changes when she sees him. Only slightly, but I notice. I notice most things.

“You’re early,” she tells him.

“You’re open.”

“We are not.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“I have an employee arriving.”

Jake glances at me. “She’s already here.”

“I’m early,” I confirm.

The energy in the bakery settles into a warm, familiar vibe that makes me happy and just a little lonely.

I am not jealous of what Ava and Jake have.

Still, there is something powerful about being known well enough for another person to recognize exactly when your resistance is real and when you simply need someone to give you a hug.

My phone seems to grow heavier inside my pocket, tugging at me to respond to that message. I remember my visions of mountains, autumn and a man with stubborn energy.

“Why are you glowing?” Jake asks me.

Ava looks over. “Is she?”

“More than usual.”

“That could be the hair.”

“It isn’t the hair,” I say.

“Please don’t encourage her before sunrise.”

I take out my phone and place it on the counter between them. The announcement fills the screen beneath a photograph of a Colorado mountain town draped in autumn leaves. White tents line a broad park. Strings of lights stretch between timber posts, and mountains rise beyond the rooftops.

“Cady Springs,” I say.

Ava reads the notice. “Their autumn festival?”

“They had a vendor cancel.”

Jake looks at me rather than the phone. “And?”

“And there is one booth available.”

Ava takes a drink of coffee. “Are you selling booths now?”

“No.”

“Planning to buy one?”

“You don’t buy the actual booth. You apply for the space.”

Jake leans one forearm on the counter. “What would you sell?”

“Candles. Crystals. Flower essences. Healing oils. I could offer intuitive readings and a few private balancing sessions.”

Ava looks toward the kitchen, where the second batch of muffins waits to be glazed. “When is it?”

“Next weekend.”

Her head turns back slowly. “You want to apply for an out-of-town festival taking place next weekend?”

“I haven’t said I want to.”

“You’ve shown us the announcement.”

“The timing may be meaningful.” I smile and tilt my head.

“The timing is terrible,” Ava quickly adds.

I expected that answer. Sweet Treats is busy on autumn weekends, and I am the only person besides Ava who knows how much syrup belongs in an orange-cinnamon coffee without checking the laminated recipe card.

I also know which customers will ask for oat milk after they have already watched me pour regular milk into the cup.

The festival is several hours away. I would need lodging, transportation, tables, display walls, weatherproof containers, and enough inventory to justify the expense.

My candles are packaged for online orders and small local markets.

The flower essences still need labels. Half the crystals are arranged across my apartment according to energetic purpose rather than efficient transport.

Going would be impulsive, expensive, and exhausting.

I reach for my phone. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Ava says with a nod.

“I’ll forget it.”

Ava watches my hand close around the phone. Jake watches. The silence between them contains an entire private conversation, most of which appears to concern my face.

“What?” I ask.

Ava puts down her coffee. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t go.”

“You said the timing is terrible.”

“It is.”

“You make terrible sound discouraging.”

“I make everything sound discouraging. It saves time.”

Jake nods. “That’s true.”

She ignores him. “How many days would you need away?”

“Thursday through Sunday. Possibly Wednesday afternoon if they allow early setup.”

“Apply.”

I blink at her. “Really?”

“You’ve covered for me when I needed you. I can arrange temporary help for four days.”

“The festival may not accept me this late.”

“Then it won’t matter that you applied.”

“The fee could be unreasonable.”

“Find out before you pay it.”

“I would have to prepare a great deal of inventory.”

Ava picks up the tray of unglazed muffins. “You have nine days and access to a commercial kitchen after closing. As long as you don’t manufacture anything toxic near the food.”

“My products aren’t toxic.”

“You once left a jar labeled Deadly Nightshade beside the vanilla.”

“It was an empty decorative jar.”

Jake glances at me and subtly points toward my phone.

“Apply, Loralee.”

I open the festival link. The application is shorter than I expected.

Contact information. Product categories.

Booth dimensions. Electricity requirements.

Proof of insurance. Photographs of prior displays.

The final box asks why I believe my business would be a good fit for the Cady Springs Autumn Festival.

I type:

My work helps people slow down, reconnect with themselves, and carry a little warmth into the colder season.

That sounds respectable. I add:

Also, autumn is an excellent time to release stagnant energy, and my candles smell wonderful.

That sounds like me. I attach photographs from my last woodland market, enter my payment information, and press SUBMIT before common sense can interfere with spiritual direction.

Nothing happens. Then a small circle rotates in the center of the screen.

“Don’t reject me,” I whisper.

A confirmation appears.

APPLICATION RECEIVED.

That is not acceptance. Still, energy moves through me in a quick, bright current that raises the fine hairs along my arms.

From the kitchen, Ava says, “Did you do it?”

“I applied.”

“Good.”

The bakery opens. Morning customers arrive in familiar waves, bringing cold air, jangling keys, and opinions about muffins. I make coffees, package pastries, and tell Mrs. Archer that carrying citrine may support confidence but will not compensate for refusing to prepare for her licensing exam.

At eight fourteen, my phone vibrates beside the register. I expect an order notification. Instead, the subject line reads:

CADY SPRINGS AUTUMN FESTIVAL — APPLICATION APPROVED

Instantly, I feel a rush of air move past me, or maybe that was the bakery door opening again.

The message explains that the canceled booth is located near the center of the artisan market, adjacent to the wellness garden and within easy access of the main pedestrian path.

Electricity is available. Vendor check-in begins Wednesday afternoon.

At the bottom is a note from the coordinator.

“Your work sounds like exactly what our festival has been missing. We look forward to you joining us.”