Page 5 of Treated to a Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #11)

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 more relaxed 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.

"Full moon tonight," he commented as the sky began to darken outside. "Old timers say the resin runs strongest when the moon is full."

"Is that true?"

He shrugged. "I notice a difference. Could be the temperature, could be the moon. Could be the trees just know things we don't."

By sunset, my body was beyond exhaustion.

Every movement sent fiery daggers through my lumbar vertebrae, and my bandaged hands throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

But we'd produced the first small batch of what Sawyer called "midnight amber"—syrup so dark it was almost black, with a complex smokiness that made my candy maker's imagination run wild with possibilities.

"That's enough for today," Sawyer finally announced, banking the fire in the firebox. "We'll continue tomorrow."

I nodded, too tired to even pretend I wasn't relieved. As I gathered my things, preparing to head back to town, Sawyer handed me a small glass jar filled with the syrup we'd made.

"Sample," he said gruffly. "For your recipe testing."

I cradled the jar like it was precious—which, to me, it was. "Thank you."

He just inclined his head, avoiding my eyes. "Dawn tomorrow. Don't be late."

"I'll be here," I promised, making my way carefully to my car. Before sliding in, I turned back to him. "You'll see, Sawyer. I don't quit."

His expression was unreadable in the gathering dusk, the rising moon casting silver highlights across his features. "We'll see."

The drive back to town was a haze of pain and pure resolve. By the time I climbed the stairs to my apartment above the shop, I felt like something the cat dragged in. I ran a bath, pouring in Epsom salts and lavender oil, then peeled off my filthy clothes with wincing movements.

Sinking into the warm water, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge just how brutally hard the day had been. Tears stung my eyes—not just from physical pain, but from the emotional toll of pushing through, of proving myself, of fighting the ghosts of my past with every tree I tapped.

"Worth it," I whispered to the empty bathroom, glancing at the jar of syrup sitting on the edge of the sink. "It has to be worth it."

As the salt soothed my screaming muscles, I thought of Nonna, how her hands had looked much like mine now—blistered and raw from work, but capable of creating such beauty. "Le mani del lavoro sono le mani della dignità," she'd say. ‘Working hands are hands of dignity.’

The water gradually cooled, but my thoughts remained hot, drifting treacherously to Sawyer—the surprising tenderness in his touch as he'd doctored my hands, the flecks of gold in his deep blue eyes when they caught the sunlight, the way his flannel shirt stretched across broad shoulders as he worked.

It had been months since I'd been with anyone, longer still since I'd felt genuine attraction rather than just going through the motions.

The thought of him—likely in his own shower right now—sent a pulse of heat through me that had nothing to do with the bathwater. I imagined water sliding down his chest, over those broad shoulders. Would those muscles in his arms feel as hard as they looked?

"Stop it," I scolded myself, sinking deeper into the tub. "He's just a means to an end. A supplier, not a—"

But I couldn't fool myself. Something about Sawyer stirred me in a way I hadn't felt in years. The focus in his eyes when he tested the product he’d worked so hard to make. The careful touch of his fingers on my injured hands. The way his voice dropped when he talked about the trees and the land.

I closed my eyes and let myself imagine his beard scratching lightly against my skin as his mouth moved down my neck. Those big hands sliding up my legs. His broad body pressing mine against the cabin wall.

A small moan escaped my lips, echoing against the bathroom tiles.

I turned the tap back on and splashed cold water on my face, trying to cool the heat spreading through me. This was ridiculous. I had a contest to win. A shop to save. I couldn't afford to get distracted by fantasies about a man who made it clear he wanted nothing to do with someone like me.

Sawyer Blackwood would have to remain strictly business.

Tomorrow was another day closer to winning that Halloween Candy Competition—and salvaging everything I'd come here for.