Page 2 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

My heart raced with possibility. This competition could be exactly what I needed to turn things around. This wasn't just a lifeline; it could be the foundation of the business I'd dreamed of when I'd sunk my last dollar into Sugar & Spice.

I continued gathering items—flour, butter, sugar, gelatin for the marshmallows I wanted to try—while my mind raced ahead.

Nonna's maple truffles. They were perfect, unique.

I could almost taste them: the complex sweetness, the hint of smoke, the way the filling would shimmer with just the right amount of—

"Damn," I muttered, the word slipping out before I could catch it.

"Problem?" Ida asked as she sorted through a box of canned goods.

"The syrup." I tucked a strand of auburn hair behind my ear. "Nonna's recipe requires a particular kind of maple syrup—dark, with a robust flavor profile. The grocery store varieties just won't work."

"Ah." Ida nodded knowingly. "You'll want a proper sugar maker then, not those mass-produced brands."

"Are there any local producers? Tree farms, sugar houses, that sort of thing?"

Ida considered this, pushing her glasses up her nose. "There's Garrett Pembroke's operation over in Franklin County—Summit Sugarworks. His product is decent, but fairly standardized. He sells to most of the restaurants around here."

"But not the best?" I pressed, recognizing the hesitation in her voice.

"No." Ida sighed. "The best is Blackwood Sugar Grove, up on Hewitt Mountain.

Traditional methods, small-batch production.

Sawyer Blackwood is third-generation, makes syrup like his grandfather did.

The dark amber he produces in fall is unlike anything else—has a minerality from the soil up there, almost smoky quality. "

My stomach did a little flip. That sounded exactly like what Nonna's recipe called for. "Perfect. I'll head there tomorrow."

Ida's expression fell. "I wouldn't bother, dear. Sawyer doesn't sell to commercial food producers. Especially not candy makers."

"Why not?"

"Bad blood. His family was swindled by a candy company years back.

Took a massive order of their premium syrup, then the company went bankrupt before paying.

Cleaned the Blackwoods out. Sawyer's father died of a heart attack not long after.

His mother's in assisted living now with dementia, and he's been a recluse ever since. "

I frowned. "But I'm not a big company. I'm just one person with a small shop."

"Doesn't matter to him." Ida shook her head. "He only sells to the general store and a few local families. Been that way for years."

A familiar heat kindled in my chest—that stubborn determination that had gotten me through the toughest times in my life. The same fire that had pushed me to start over when everyone said I couldn't.

"We'll see about that," I said, more to myself than to Ida.

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 FINISHED closing 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 sugar shack—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.