Page 4 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

Cinnamon

Five o'clock in the morning was never my favorite time of day, but I'd gotten used to it—the early mornings of candy preparation were nothing compared to the late nights of my previous career.

I winced at the memory as I lined a wicker basket with a checkered cloth, arranging still-warm pumpkin walnut muffins and cranberry orange scones beside thermoses of homemade vegetable soup.

"Get it together, Cinn," I muttered, rolling my shoulders to ease the familiar tension that settled between my shoulder blades whenever I thought too much about the past. "Today is about maple syrup, not memories."

I'd been up since three, baking furiously in my tiny kitchen above the shop, determined to show up with more than just tenacity.

If Sawyer Blackwood thought I was some pampered city girl who'd crack at the first blister, he had another thing coming.

The homemade pastries were a peace offering—and maybe a little more bribery.

I'd packed roast turkey sandwiches with cranberry aioli, trail mix studded with dark chocolate, and two additional thermoses of the strongest coffee I could brew.

The sky was still dark when I maneuvered my compact SUV up the mountain road, knuckles white on the steering wheel as the tires crunched over loose gravel.

Dawn was just breaking as I pulled into the clearing, the first rays of sunlight warming the weathered logs of the cabin.

Sawyer was already outside, arranging tools beside a pickup truck.

I grabbed the basket and coffees, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. He straightened, his eyebrows lifting slightly when he saw me, which gave me a small surge of satisfaction.

"You showed up," he said, his voice rough-edged like tree bark.

“I said I would.” I thrust a coffee toward him. "I brought it black, but there are sugar packets in the basket if you want some."

His deep blue eyes narrowed as he accepted the cup. "Thanks."

He took a sip, his eyes widening slightly. "This is strong enough to strip paint.”

"You're welcome," I said, lifting the basket. "I also brought breakfast. Figured we could both use the fuel."

He peered into the basket, and for a moment, I swore his lips twitched toward a smile before he masked it. "Trying to soften me up with baked goods, Moretti?"

"Cinn," I corrected automatically. "And no, just being practical. Can't work on an empty stomach."

Sawyer reached in and took a muffin, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully before nodding. “Not bad.”

Coming from him, it felt like a five-star review.

We ate quietly, the forest around us gradually coming alive with birdsong and the rustling of wind through flame-colored leaves.

The light strengthened, revealing the rich tapestry of autumn—crimson maples, golden birches, the deep green of pines.

Despite my nervousness about the day ahead, I couldn't help but appreciate the beauty.

"Ready to work?" Sawyer asked, setting his empty thermos aside.

I nodded, dusting crumbs from my hands. "What first?"

"We'll start with tapping." He gestured toward a stand of maples on the ridge. "Late season harvesting is different—we only tap select trees that still have good sap flow."

I followed him to a shed where he handed me work gloves, a drill, a hammer, metal spiles, and buckets.

The gloves were comically large on my hands, but I slipped them on without complaint.

Sawyer demonstrated the process on the first tree—drilling a hole at a slight upward angle, hammering in the spile, and hanging a bucket to catch the sap.

"Simple," he said, stepping back. "Your turn."

It was not simple.

My first attempt with the drill slipped off the bark, nearly sending me sprawling. The second time, I couldn't drill deep enough. When I finally managed to make a proper hole, I hammered the spile in crooked. Sap immediately began oozing around the edges, running down the bark and onto my gloves.

"You're wasting good syrup," Sawyer commented dryly.

I gritted my teeth. "I'm getting the hang of it."

"Are you? Because from here it looks like you're making a mess of perfectly good sap."

I yanked the spile out, sap spraying across my face. "Shit!"

Sawyer didn't even try to hide his amusement. "City girls shouldn't play with trees."

"I'm not playing," I snapped, wiping resin from my cheek. "And I'm not a 'city girl.' I grew up in rural Pennsylvania."

"Could've fooled me."

The challenge in his voice was like sugar at the hard-crack stage—one degree from burning. I repositioned, drove the drill in with more force than necessary, and set the spile perfectly. The sap began to drip neatly into the bucket with a satisfying ping against the metal.

"There," I said triumphantly. "Happy now?"

"One down," he replied, gesturing to the forest around us. "About thirty more to go."

By the tenth tree, I'd found a rhythm, like tempering chocolate—applying just enough heat and cooling at exactly the right moments.

By the fifteenth, the old fracture in my lower spine throbbed like a fresh wound, radiating fire down my left leg.

The car accident hadn't just taken my old life; it had left me with constant reminders in the form of nerve damage and chronic pain.

I straightened quickly when Sawyer glanced my way, forcing my face into neutrality and biting back a wince.

He couldn't know how badly I hurt—weakness wasn't an option if I wanted to earn his respect and his syrup.

I bit the inside of my cheek and kept going, focusing on the sharp ping-ping of each drop of liquid hitting the metal buckets rather than the pain.

"Thought you'd have quit by now," Sawyer commented as we moved deeper into the grove.

"Sorry to disappoint." I brushed sweaty hair from my forehead, probably smearing more tree juice across my skin.

"Didn't say I was disappointed." His eyes caught mine for a moment. "Just surprised."

"There's a lot about me that might surprise you, Blackwood."

He studied me for a beat too long, and I forced myself not to fidget under his gaze. "I'm starting to see that."

We worked in silence for a while, the repetitive motion becoming meditative despite the stabbing pain that shot through my back every time I bent to hang a bucket.

The forest was peaceful, scented with earth and dying leaves, occasionally punctuated by the distant call of a bird or the rustle of a small animal through underbrush.

"So why candy?" Sawyer asked abruptly as we moved to a new section.

The question caught me off guard. "My grandmother taught me. She was from Italy, had a way with confections that seemed like magic when I was a kid." I smiled at the memory of her standing over a copper pot, wooden spoon moving constantly as sugar transformed.

"You close with her?"

"I was." The ache of her loss still lingered. "She died before... before things got complicated in my life. Sometimes I think that was a blessing."

Sawyer gave a slight nod but didn't press. Instead, he reached over and adjusted my grip on the drill. "Like this—you'll get better leverage."

His hand was warm against mine, rough and leathery in ways that spoke of years of physical labor. My skin tingled where he touched, and I quickly pulled away, pulse jumping like caramelizing sugar ready to seize.

"Thanks," I mumbled, suddenly too aware of his proximity.

We finished tapping the trees by mid-morning.

My hands were blistering despite the gloves, and every movement sent shards of glass through my lower back.

I caught myself holding my breath when the pain spiked, forcing myself to exhale slowly so Sawyer wouldn't notice.

The sap sloshed, spilling over my boots and soaking into my jeans.

By the time we'd collected the last bucket, I was glazed with the sticky substance from head to toe, exhausted, and fighting the urge to whimper with each step.

"Break time," Sawyer announced, glancing at his watch. "You've earned it."

I slumped onto a stump outside the sugar shack, my legs practically giving out. The cool mountain air felt divine against my overheated skin, and I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring the small reprieve. When I opened them, Sawyer was studying me with a curious expression.

"You okay?"

"Never better," I lied with a quick smile. "Just catching my breath."

"Your hands say otherwise." He nodded toward my palms, where blood had seeped through the gloves.

"It's nothing." I tried to curl my fingers, hiding the evidence, but he was already reaching for my wrists.

"Let me see."

"I'm fine—"

"Stubbornness won't help blisters heal." His tone brooked no argument as he peeled off my gloves.

I flinched as the fabric pulled away from raw skin. Angry red blisters had formed across my palms, some already broken and weeping. Sawyer's expression darkened as he examined the damage.

"Why didn't you say something?"

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.