Page 3 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

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 two hundred 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 was smaller, but it was mine.

I answered to nobody, needed little, and the trees made better company than most humans I'd met.

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 businesses struggling 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.

"I'm not a company," she said, voice softer but fierce. "I'm one person trying to make something from nothing. All I'm asking is enough syrup to enter the contest."

The desperation in her voice hit home—it echoed how Dad sounded when he realized what Sweetland had done to us. For a split second, I felt a twinge of sympathy. Then I remembered how trust had gutted my family.

"You're asking the wrong person," I said, the words coming rougher than intended. "My trust ran out years ago."

She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Please. There must be something I could do."

A ridiculous idea flashed through my head—guaranteed to send her scurrying back to her little shop. "You want my syrup so badly? Fine. Only way you'll get it is if you work the harvest yourself."

I expected shock or outrage. Instead, those big brown eyes narrowed in calculation, then: "Deal."

"What?" I must have misheard.

"I said, deal." She thrust out her hand. "I'll work your harvest for enough syrup to make my competition entry."

I stared at her outstretched hand. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to huff off in those impractical shoes and leave me in peace.

"You've got no idea what you're agreeing to," I said. "Harvesting sap is backbreaking work. Long hours in the cold. It's not something city folks just jump into."

Her hand didn't waver. "I'm tougher than I look. And I learn fast."

"It could take up to a week of work for what you'd need."

"Then I'll work a week."

"Your shop—"

"I have part-time help. Lucy can cover for me."

I dragged my hand through my beard, thrown by her resolve. Nobody in their right mind would agree to what I'd just suggested. Yet here she stood, hand extended, eyes locked on mine like she'd stare me down all night if needed.

Against every instinct, I reached out and clasped her hand. Her fingers were warm despite the chill, with calluses I hadn't expected. The handshake lasted a heartbeat too long before I dropped my grip.

"Fine," I grunted. "Be here at dawn. Wear layers, nothing fancy. Bring lunch, water, and work gloves if you've got 'em. If not, I have extras."

Her face lit up with a smile that transformed her from pretty to something that threatened to knock the wind right out of me. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. You won't regret this."

"Sawyer," I corrected, already regretting it. "And save your thanks. Most folks don't last the first day."

"I'm not most folks." Something in her voice—a hard edge beneath the sweetness—made me believe her.

"We'll see." I nodded at the box still perched on my railing. "Take your candy with you."

"It's a gift," she insisted. "Try it or burn it, but it's yours."

Before I could argue, she was already bouncing back to her car, practically skipping down my steps. I watched as she backed around in the clearing with surprising skill and disappeared down the mountain road, taillights swallowed by darkness.

The woods fell quiet again, but something felt different—like the air before a storm. I picked up the box she'd left, meaning to chuck it in the trash, but found myself carrying it inside instead.

Under the cabin's lamplight, I examined the package—black box with gold trim and a simple stamp: Sugar & Spice. Inside lay an assortment of chocolates and candies, each one appearing crafted by hand. Grudgingly impressed, I bit into a dark chocolate piece.

The flavor hit me hard—bitter chocolate giving way to rich cream laced with coffee and a nutty undertone. I couldn't stop the low grunt of approval that escaped me before I caught myself, annoyed at my own reaction. Damn thing was perfect.

I shut the box and set it aside, trying to ignore a spark of curiosity about what her maple creation might taste like. Dawn would come early, and I'd bet good money Cinnamon Moretti would run back to town after a few hours of real work. Then I could return to my quiet life.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind in the trees.

Then I reached for the box on my nightstand and ate another chocolate. Fuck.