Page 38 of Dream Weaver

Liselle’s phone rang, and she reached into her purse for it.

“Sorry. I’ll be in touch later,” she murmured, backing away.

Yeah — much later, preferably.

Still, my mind raced. I would have to talk to my sisters about this — and mention this out-of-town witch to Ingo, who worked in supernatural law enforcement. What if Liselle wasn’t on his radar?

I found myself wishing for Cooper, too. He had quickly figured out I wasn’t entirely human. What insights would he have gleaned from this woman?

And that was just one of many reasons I missed him.

I brought the steel back to my anvil and started whacking, willing my unwelcome visitor out the door and onto the street.

Who was Liselle Steinmeier? Was a brazier all she wanted, or did she have other plans? Could I — should I? — attempt to do something about that?

And what about Cooper? Was he all right? And when was he coming home? Er — I meant, when was he coming back?

Funny how I found myself hoping,the sooner, the better.

Chapter Eleven

COOPER

“Home sweet home,” Vic murmured as the truck rattled along.

It’s about time,my bear muttered.

From the moment we’d exited town days earlier, something had pulled me back.

Someone,my beast murmured.

Yes, someone. But I’d been doing my best to deny that all this time.

Playing it cool, I cracked my eyes open long enough to spot theWelcome to Sedonasign. Home was Wyoming. But, yeah. Sedona was fine for now.

Home is where the heart is,my grizzly murmured, echoing one of my mother’s favorite lines.

“Great job, everyone,” Rich announced. “You did good.”

We had, though the fire hadn’t been as tricky as the last one. But, hell. We would take what we could get. And a satisfied ride home always beat the alternative.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate that fire?” Mark asked.

My bear snickered. Such a rookie question. But I probably hadn’t been much different when I’d started out.

Alice shrugged. “A four, tops.”

Personally, I had it at about a three. The challenge had stemmed more from the area of the fire than its ferocity.

Either way, no big deal — to the extent that a two-thousand-acre wildfire could be no big deal.

“Lucky break with that wind shift, huh?” Chuck observed.

“Yeah, and the way the fire dead-ended at that old stockyard,” Vic agreed.

I ran a finger over the handle of my ax, not saying a word but thinking of plenty. Normally, my arms would be lead after two days of nonstop digging and chopping, but not this time. And normally, it took multiple break lines to stop a fire. But it had only taken one on each of the fire’s fronts. There’d been lots of fronts — one for every twist in the landscape — but the fire hadn’t jumped a single line we’d carved into the earth. It had just screeched to a halt like a dog barking at the limit of an invisible fence. It had gone on raging and crackling for ages, but it never crossed those invisible thresholds.

I glanced down. Were those lucky breaks just lucky? Or was there more at play?

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