Page 8 of Treated to a Mountain Man
I shrugged, trying to ignore the burning sensation. "Part of the job, isn't it?"
"Being stupid isn't part of any job." He released my hands and stood. "Wait here."
He disappeared into the cabin, returning moments later with a small metal box. Kneeling in front of me, he opened it to reveal a well-stocked first aid kit. I watched, oddly mesmerized, as those large, rough hands moved with a delicacy that belied his calloused fingers, cleaning my blisters with antiseptic wipes.
"This might sting," he warned, though he was already dabbing the wounds.
The antiseptic stung on my raw skin, but I kept my face neutral, not wanting to show weakness. Sawyer worked carefully, applying antibiotic ointment before wrapping each palm with gauze
"There," he said, securing the last bandage. "Should help."
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate, but I wasn't sure what else to say. His kindness was unexpected, softening the edges of his gruff exterior.
Our eyes met, and the mood between us suddenly shifted. There was a tension that hadn't been there before. His gaze dropped to my lips for the briefest moment before he cleared his throat and stood.
"Lunch," he said abruptly. "You mentioned you brought something?"
I nodded, grateful for the distraction. "In the basket by the truck."
We retrieved the food and settled on the porch steps, an awkward silence hanging between us. I passed him a sandwich and uncapped the soup thermoses, the rich aroma of vegetables and herbs rising with the steam.
"This is good," Sawyer said, gesturing with his spoon toward the soup.
"I know my way around more than just candy," I replied with a small smile.
"Cooking and candy-making take different skills," he said, focusing on his sandwich. "Most people are good at one or the other."
"True. I've always enjoyed working with my hands," I said, flexing my bandaged palms. "Though maybe not in this exact way."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You'll toughen up."
"Is that a vote of confidence from the mountain man?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself," he countered, but there was less bite in his tone than before.
We ate quickly, both of us hungry after the morning's work. The silence felt comfortable now, easier than before. I found myself noticing small things - the careful way he held his sandwich, the strength in his forearms, how he seemed morerelaxed than earlier. When I finished my soup, I was almost disappointed that the break would end. When I finished the last spoonful, I stood and wiped my hands on my jeans, ignoring the protest of my muscles.
"I'm ready to get back to work," I announced, squaring my shoulders like I was preparing for battle.
Sawyer raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"Absolutely." I met his skeptical gaze with challenge in my own. "What's next—boiling the sap? Isn't that the fun part?"
He snorted. "If you think standing over a hot evaporator for hours is fun, you've got a strange definition of the word."
"I'm ready to get back to work," I announced, squaring my shoulders. "What's next?"
"The sugar shack," Sawyer said, nodding toward the small building behind the cabin. "Time to start boiling down what we collected."
He stood and gathered our empty containers. "Fair warning - it's hot, humid work. Makes tapping trees look like a vacation."
"I'll manage," I said, following him down the path.
The afternoon passed in a blur. We filtered the sap through cheesecloth, started the fire in the evaporator, and began the slow process of boiling it down. The sweet steam filled the boiling house, clinging to my skin and hair, making everything feel tacky and warm. I followed his movements, fascinated, as the clear sap gradually transformed, darkening and thickening with each pass through the channels of the evaporator.
"It takes about forty gallons of sap to make just one gallon of syrup," he explained, adjusting the fire beneath the pan. "That's why the real stuff costs what it does."
He worked steadily, explaining each step in his terse way—how the water evaporated, concentrating the sugars; how he tested the density with a hydrometer; how the mineral content of his soil gave the syrup its distinctive smoky undertone.Despite his gruff manner, his passion was evident in the careful attention he gave each part of the process.
