Page 10 of Treated to a Mountain Man
"Thought I'd mix things up. Keep you guessing." She lifted the cloth covering the basket. "Besides, these donuts are better warm. I've got roast beef and cheddar sandwiches packed for lunch later."
We worked the morning tapping more trees, and I had to concede that she was a quick study. Where yesterday she'd fumbled with the drill and fought with the spiles, today her movements were smoother, more confident. She'd found the rhythm of it, understanding how to read the bark for the best spot, how to angle the tap just right.
"You're getting the hang of it," I said as she set her fifth spile of the morning without any help.
"I told you I learn fast." She brushed a strand of hair from her face, leaving a smudge of tree sap on her rosy cheek. "It's not so different from candy making, really. Both require steady handsand timing, understanding how things transform under the right conditions."
I watched her work, noting how she connected everything back to her craft. When she tested the sap's flow, she compared it to checking caramel consistency. When we discussed the evaporation process, she related it to reducing sauces for flavor concentration. Smart. Observant. Nothing like the flighty city girl I'd expected upon first meeting her.
By afternoon, we were back in the evaporator house, the fire running hot as we fed it more tree juice. The sweet steam filled the small space, fogging the windows and making everything feel close and warm. Outside, clouds gathered, promising the storm the weather service had been warning about for days.
"How long have you been doing this?" Cinn asked, stirring the boing liquid in the finishing pan with careful attention.
"Since I could walk, practically. Dad had me carrying buckets before I started school." I adjusted the damper on the firebox, memories flooding back. "Used to race my older sister Gretchen to see who could collect more sap. She always won—had longer legs and wasn't afraid to climb for the higher taps."
"You have a sister?" Her voice held genuine interest, not the polite small talk I was used to from buyers.
"Yeah. Lives in DC now with her husband and three kids." I found myself continuing when I might normally have stopped. "Good guy, treats her right. Got her out of here after everything went to hell with the business."
"Do you see them much?"
"Thanksgiving, usually. Christmas if the weather cooperates." I tested the syrup's density with the hydrometer, using the task to avoid looking at her. "Kids are growing like weeds. My nephew Tommy—he's seven now—reminds me of myself at that age. Too smart for his own good and twice as stubborn."
A smile tugged at my mouth remembering his last visit. "Kid tried to tap one of my oaks last spring, convinced it would make syrup too. Had a whole business plan drawn up in crayon about diversifying the operation."
Cinn laughed, the sound bright in the steamy space. "Sounds like he inherited the family entrepreneurial spirit."
"More like the family stubbornness." But I was smiling now, couldn't help it. "When I explained only maples make syrup, he demanded to know why we didn't just plant more maple trees then. Had graphs and everything about projected profits over twenty years."
"In crayon?"
"Multicolored crayon. Very professional. Looked a lot like a rainbow."
She caught me smiling then, her expression softening. "You really love them. I can tell."
"Yeah, well." I cleared my throat, suddenly aware I'd been running my mouth.
"Gretchen deserved better than watching this place struggle. She's got a good life now—suburban house, minivan, PTA meetings. Normal stuff."
"But not for you?" Cinn asked quietly.
I shrugged, checking the fire again though it didn't need it. "Had my chance at normal. Girlfriend of three years, Beth. When Dad died and I took over the farm, she stuck around for a while. But when it became clear I wasn't going to magically turn into some millionaire syrup mogul, when the bills kept piling up and I got..." I paused, searching for the right word. "Harder to live with, I guess. She left. Said I'd become too bitter, too focused on the past."
"Was she right?"
The question should have rankled, but something about the way she asked it—no judgment, just curiosity—made me consider it honestly.
"Maybe. Probably." I admitted. "Hard to be sweet when life keeps serving you sour."
Cinn tilted her head, a teasing glint replacing the seriousness. "Maybe you should eat more sugar. Might improve your disposition."
The words hung in the air between us, and my mind immediately went places it shouldn't. Images of licking maple syrup off her fingers, tasting the sweetness on her lips, exploring exactly how much sugar it would take to—
"I can think of sweeter things than sugar," I said, my voice dropping lower than intended.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and hell if that didn't make my chest tight. She turned quickly back to the evaporator, but I caught the way her hands trembled slightly on the ladle.
"What about you?" I asked, needing to shift the dangerous energy between us. "No boyfriend waiting back in the city wondering where you've run off to?"
