Page 22 of Into the Lion's Den (Secrets of the Northland Shifters)

Three days later, shortly before dinner, I borrowed one of the company Jeeps and drove down the hill to the town of Evergreen. I had a lot on my to-do list before the resort’s first big event of the season.

I’d considered ordering my party supplies online, but who knew how long it would take to get a delivery this far north, even on a rush order? And there was something about supporting the local businesses, even if the thought of walking around in public made my pulse race.

I drove down the main street that ran through the six-block town. The architecture was primarily Edwardian brick, and I could make out at least a dozen gift shops, pottery shops, and art galleries.

“This place is too cute.” I pulled over in the first available spot and set the parking brake.

A busker with shaggy hair, worn jeans, and a flannel shirt was playing guitar and singing on the sidewalk outside my passenger window, and there was an almost festive atmosphere to the tiny town that I hadn’t expected.

Three young men on motorcycles rode by in jeans and black T-shirts, no helmets. A couple dozen touristy-looking shoppers wandered up and down the sidewalk, browsing the store windows. If this was what Evergreen was like in May, summer had to draw a sizable crowd for a town this small.

From where I sat behind the wheel, I could see my destination three doors up—a craft shop called Papyrus.

“Get a grip,” I said, giving myself another pep talk even as my eyes glanced down at the Minneapolis newspaper sitting on the passenger seat. The headline read:DaBruzzi Arraigned, Pleads Not Guilty to Human Trafficking.

A couple crossed the street in front of the Jeep, and the man looked at me through the windshield.

I sucked in a breath, but the couple merely stopped to drop a dollar in the busker’s guitar case before continuing on.

“Come on, Sarah,” I cajoled. “There’s no one in this tiny remote town who wants to hurt you. And you’re not only under the federal government’s protection; you’re under Reese’s protection.”

My mouth went a little dry, remembering the feel of being so close to him in that tiny first-aid closet. The heat. That weird sizzle of energy. Not to mention the words he’d said to me.I take care of what’s mine.

Still, I watched the man and his female companion warily, waiting for them to disappear into a shop before I exited the Jeep. Then—with my heart racing—I took a deep breath and slid out from behind the wheel.

Up on the sidewalk in front of me, the busker was singing Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way,” and his voice was a cool, gravelly baritone.

His open guitar case contained several dollars in tips. What I hadn’t noticed before was the black lab puppy sleeping at his feet.

“Oh,” I said, unable to contain myself. I silently asked the musician if I could pet his dog. His gaze focused on my bruised cheek, but he gave me the go-ahead with a lift of his chin.

I ducked my head self-consciously—apparently my makeup wasn’t doing its job—and stepped onto the curb to pet the puppy.

It lazily raised its soft head to meet my hand.

“Oh, sweet baby,” I cooed. Then I stood, dropped a dollar into the musician’s guitar case, and headed for the craft store.

As I walked, I passed a couple of shops with paper signs posted to their doors. When I reached the craft store, the same notice poster was tacked there, so I stopped to read it.

WARNING

Mountain Lion Sighting

County Road 146

Campers use caution.

Mountain lion? That county road ran right by the lodge, and I immediately thought of those scratch marks on the stable wall. I’d have to warn Reese when I got back. That is, if I could find him.

Since the intense moment we’d shared with the ice pack—and despite being “under his care”—I’d swear he was purposefully avoiding me.

Yesterday, when I did spot him and told him “good night,” he hadn’t responded at all—other than to give me such a dark look it made me rush off to my room like a frightened rabbit. Honestly, my reaction to him could be downright unnerving.

A bell rang out as I pushed open the door to the craft store. The middle-aged woman behind the counter raised her head from the magazine she was reading and said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I need a few items for some party decorations I’m making.”

She eyed my cheek with concern.

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