Page 4 of Treated to a Mountain Man
A distant engine sound cut through the quiet. I froze, drill suspended, as tires crunched over my gravel road. Nobody came up here unannounced. Ida always called before sending Will up with deliveries. My sister Gretchen wasn't due from D.C. until Thanksgiving with her brood of city kids.
I tapped in one last spile, gathered my tools, and headed back toward the cabin. The sun was already sinking behind the ridge, throwing long shadows across the land. I'd meant to check the evaporator before dark, but that would wait. I cut through a stand of birch trees—their white bark glowing like bones in the fading light—and emerged into the clearing where my cabin stood.
A small blue Subaru I didn’t recognize pulled up the drive. I stalked onto the porch and planted my feet wide, arms crossed. Whoever this visitor was, they'd state their business quickly or get off my mountain.
The driver's door opened and a woman stepped out, holding a small box. Even from here, I could see she wasn't dressed for these woods—some frilly burgundy dress with a black apron, hair falling loose around her shoulders. Probably lost, looking for the scenic route back to the highway.
"Hello?" Her voice carried clear in the mountain air. "Mr. Blackwood?"
"That's me," I called back, not budging from my spot. "You're on private property."
She marched toward me, unruffled by my welcome. As she climbed the steps, I got a better look—she was small but curved in ways no clothing could hide, with big brown eyes that took in everything at once. Her confidence said this wasn't a wrong turn.
"I'm Cinnamon Moretti," she said, closing the distance between us. "I own Sugar & Spice in Woodbridge Falls. Just opened a few weeks ago."
A candy shop. My gut clenched.
"Not interested," I growled.
She blinked, thrown by my bluntness, but recovered fast. "You don't even know what I'm here for."
"Don't need to. You own a candy shop, which means you want my syrup, which means my answer is no." I turned toward my door. "Drive safe going down."
"Wait!" She jumped forward, thrusting the box toward me. "I brought samples. Just try one, please?"
I stopped, hand on the knob. "Ms. Moretti—"
"Cinn," she cut in. "Everyone calls me Cinn."
"Ms. Moretti," I repeated, jaw tight. "I don't sell to candy makers. Not now, not ever. Nothing personal."
But hell, it was personal. Every time I visited Mom and she stared through me like I was a stranger, it was personal. Every night I sat alone in this cabin my great-grandfather built with his bare hands, it was damn personal.
"Look, I understand you've had bad experiences—"
"You don't understand a damn thing about me or my business," I snapped. "And I don't know who told you where to find me, but you wasted a trip."
For the first time, her polished smile cracked, showing a flash of temper underneath. Good. Maybe now she'd leave me be.
"Ida Terwilliger told me about you," she said, setting her box on my porch railing. "She said your syrup is unmatched—dark amber with mineral notes. That's exactly what I need for my grandmother's maple truffle recipe."
I hesitated. Ida knew better than to send strangers up my mountain. But she'd always had a soft spot for new businessesstruggling to find their feet. And the woman's description of my late-season batch was dead-on.
"There's a competition," she continued, words tumbling out now that I hadn't immediately thrown her off my porch. "The Halloween candy competition during the Autumn Harvest Festival. This year's theme is maple. The prize is ten thousand dollars, and I need that money or my shop won't survive the winter."
"Not my problem," I said, though something in her desperate tone nagged at me.
Her chin lifted. "If I win using your syrup, I’ll split the prize money with you. Five thousand for each of us."
I nearly laughed. "Lady, I don't want your money, and I definitely don't want another candy business in my life. Already told you—I don't sell to candy makers."
"Then what would it take?" she pressed, refusing to back down. “You must have a price.”
Something in her stubbornness dug under my skin like a splinter. Most folks retreated after my first growl. This woman—Cinn—seemed bullet-proof against rejection. Almost admirable, if it wasn't so damn irritating.
"It's not about money," I said. "It's principle. Last time my family dealt with companies like you, my father died and my mother—" I clamped my mouth shut. Why the hell was I telling her my business? "The answer's no. Now I need you to leave my property."
Instead of backing down, she stepped closer. The scent of vanilla and warm spice drifted from her skin—cinnamon, fitting her name. It mixed with chocolate, sugar, and something richer beneath.
