Page 3 of Treated to a Mountain Man
The older woman's eyebrows rose. "Cinnamon, I'm serious. Sawyer Blackwood makes Ebenezer Scrooge look like a social butterfly. Man's built walls higher than the mountain he lives on."
I smiled, the expression sharper than I intended. "I've had plenty of practice charming reluctant men."
Something flickered in Ida's expression—curiosity, perhaps suspicion—but she didn't pry. Instead, she rang up my purchases and bagged them neatly.
"The turnoff to Blackwood Sugar Grove is unmarked, about eight miles north on Route 28. Look for a dirt road on the left after the old covered bridge. But don't say I didn't warn you."
BY THE TIME I FINISHEDclosing the shop and preparing a sample box of my finest creations—truffles, caramels, brittles, and a few pieces of my experimental cherry taffy—dusk was settling over the mountains. I hesitated, considering waiting until morning, but a glance at the calendar on my phone made the decision for me. The competition deadline loomed, and I needed time to perfect my entry.
I loaded the samples into my old Subaru, along with the competition brochure. The car had been a lucky find at a used lot in Albany when I first moved upstate—just enough miles left in it to get me to Woodbridge Falls, a town small and remote enough to make me confident that my past couldn't follow me here.
The drive north was a blaze of autumn glory, maple and oak trees forming a tunnel of crimson and gold in the fading light. As the car climbed in elevation, the air coming through my cracked window grew sharper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves. Under different circumstances, I might have appreciated the beauty, but my mind was too full of calculations and contingencies.
The contest wasn't just about saving my shop. It was about proving to myself that I could build something real, something that honored Nonna's legacy while creating my own. Second chances didn't come easy, and I was determined not to waste this one.
After the covered bridge, I almost missed the turnoff—just as Ida had warned, it was unmarked, a gap in the trees that could easily be mistaken for a logging trail. The dirt road narrowed as it climbed, becoming increasingly rutted and rough. Twice I had to stop and reverse when the path forked, guessing which way might lead to a sugar grove rather than a dead end.
The forest closed in around my car, branches scraping against the windows like fingernails. Shadows deepened between the trees, and something small darted across the path—a rabbit or squirrel preparing for winter. Just as I was beginning to think I'd made a terrible mistake, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing bathed in the last amber light of day.
A cabin stood to the left, built of weathered logs with a wraparound porch. Smoke curled from a stone chimney, carrying the scent of burning maple wood. Behind it, barely visible in the gathering dusk, was what had to be the sugarshack—a smaller building with a metal chimney from which another thin wisp of smoke curled. The entire scene looked like something from another century, untouched by the chaos of modern life.
I parked and sat for a moment, my fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel. This was the definition of a long shot, but I'd learned to take those when they presented themselves. Right now, I needed every ounce of persuasiveness I had.
The cabin door opened before I could even get out of my car. A tall figure stepped onto the porch, backlit by warm light from within. Even in silhouette, I could see broad shoulders filling out a flannel shirt, dark hair, and what appeared to be a beard. He stood with his arms crossed, watching my car with obvious suspicion, his stance wide and unmovable as the mountain itself.
Sawyer Blackwood, I presumed. The reclusive maple farmer who held the key to my future without knowing it.
I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, and pinched my cheeks for color. Some skills you never unlearn. Then I grabbed the sample box, opened my car door, and stepped out into the crisp mountain air.
Time to convince a mountain man that his syrup belonged in my candy.
Chapter Two
Sawyer
My drill bit sank into the sugar maple with a satisfying crunch. The tree yielded reluctantly, as if knowing I was stealing its lifeblood. I pulled the bit free, hammered in a spile, and hung a bucket underneath. The first drops of sap pinged against the metal.
This late-season harvest wouldn't yield much, but what it produced would be worth the effort. Dark, rich amber with complex notes that made those plastic-bottled factory concoctions taste like sugar water with food coloring. Locals called this fall batch "midnight amber," and old-timers swore it carried hints of woodsmoke and mountain soil that spring runs couldn't touch. I didn't know if it was the trees bracing for winter or something deeper in the earth that changed the flavor, but the result spoke for itself.
Up here, the only sounds were wind through branches, the distant tap-tap of a woodpecker, and the occasional startled deer crashing through underbrush. No people yammering, no machines grinding—nothing but the rhythm of the harvest and my own breathing. Just me, the trees, and knowledge passed down through Blackwood blood.
I stretched, my back cracking as I looked over the line of buckets now catching sap. Late afternoon sunlight knifed through the canopy of fire-colored leaves, making the forest floor a patchwork of light and shadow. The air bit with the promise of frost by morning, heavy with dying leaves and loam. My fingers traced the rough bark of a maple that had to be twohundred years old, feeling the life pulsing beneath. These old giants had watched over my family for generations. My job was simple: take what they offered, honor what they gave.
Dad's ghost seemed to follow me between the trees. "Listen to the forest, Sawyer," he'd always told me. "The trees speak if you're quiet enough to hear."
Five years gone. The heart attack took him fast—doctors said the stress had weakened him for years. Mom hung on longer, but dementia stole her mind piece by piece. Now she lived at Pine Crest, thirty miles away. Good days, she called me by name. Bad days, she didn’t know me from Adam.
I blamed Sweetland Candy Company for both.
The memory still burned my gut like bad whiskey. That slick corporate bastard in his thousand-dollar suit, visiting our humble operation with promises too good to ignore. A contract for our entire premium stock—triple our normal output—at a price that made Dad's eyes shine.
"This could set us up for years," he'd said, a rare grin splitting his weathered face. "It’s our lucky day, son."
We'd worked ourselves to the bone filling that order. Tapped more trees than ever before, stayed up round the clock monitoring the evaporator, pushing ourselves beyond exhaustion for three straight months.
Then Sweetland declared bankruptcy two days before paying us. Calculated timing, the lawyers explained later. They'd known they were sinking but kept placing orders they never intended to honor. By the time we realized what happened, they'd scattered like roaches when the light flicks on. We were left with empty bank accounts, syrup we couldn't sell fast enough, and debt from equipment we'd bought to handle their demands.
I jammed my drill into another tree trunk, the anger still hot enough to taste. Never again. These days, I sold only to Ida's store and a few families who'd stood by us. My operation wassmaller, but it was mine. I answered to nobody, needed little, and the trees made better company than most humans I'd met.
