Sap & Secrets (Maplewood #1)

Prologue

Jasper

Chaos.

Pure chaos. The intense crush of bodies on the sidewalk made it difficult to even walk through town.

The April air was freezing, but not a soul cared. This was the event the whole town came out for. The Maple Festival. It was the motivation needed to get us all out of our homes after six months of winter, and the festival usually brought with it our first wave of tourists.

America’s most charming small town could not survive without those tourist dollars, and since childhood, I’d been conditioned to smile and provide directions for all manner of folks here to visit.

The shopkeepers had been sprucing their places up all week. The daffodils and tulips had just popped out of the ground in the town square, and the massive tents had been set up, the sugar shack tours had been scheduled, and all the artisans had their booths ready to go.

It was the busiest time of year for me. Not only was I needed on the farm to help with tapping trees, changing and cleaning lines, and delivering sap around the clock, but it was all hands on deck at my day job too.

Space heaters plus artisanal alpaca sweaters usually resulted in a few small fires.

And out-of-towners would slide off the icy roads.

There were emergencies galore. Chief had us working our max number of hours each week.

Thankfully, the department was well funded and had a year-round crew in addition to volunteers.

But as one of only three licensed paramedics in the vicinity, I’d worked almost nonstop for weeks.

I was bone tired, frozen, and questioning why we cared so much about sticky shit that leaked from trees when the first scream rang out.

If the schedule Mayor Harding had emailed to every citizen of Maplewood was correct, it was time to open the first barrel of syrup.

It was technically last year’s sap, but it had been boiled and processed for this occasion.

My family had been providing the sap for the annual ceremonial barrel for several generations, something my brother Josh took a great deal of pride in.

It was so like him, to care about that stuff.

I was built different. Sure, I enjoyed the farm and trees, and I could appreciate the family legacy, but I didn’t possess an ounce of passion for any of it.

Maybe it was because I was the youngest child.

Or maybe I’d been dropped on my head too many times.

But in my thirty years, I’d seen life and death and everything in between, and I’d discovered one universal truth.

We were not here for a long time, but for a good time.

So I did my damndest to make sure I had a good time.

Obsessing over sap or rainfall or fertilizer nitrogen ratios was not my thing. I needed adrenaline and movement. I needed a purpose. And fighting fires and saving lives gave me just that.

I adjusted the strap on my radio and scanned the crowd.

My neck ached the way it always did when I worked festivals and events.

I was a firefighter, a paramedic, and a babysitter of the drunk and reckless.

My job tonight was to make sure people left here with nothing more than a maple sugar buzz and a slew of happy memories.

Beneath the ache, my senses tingled. My heart picked up speed in response, an instinctual reaction to an invisible danger. Something felt off.

The radio crackled, and Marty, our dispatcher, quickly relayed information regarding the crisis my body had already picked up on. “Code three at the sugar shack.”

Nolan, our police chief, took off in a sprint toward the folksy sugar hut from the other side of the town green.

My gut tightened. Shit. This was bad. And not just Betsy Ross breaking in and making a mess bad.

As I wove past festival goers, I ignored shouts and startled looks. The sugar shack was only fifty yards away, its chimney puffing smoke eerily into the night sky.

Twenty feet from the structure, my forward movement was stopped by a strong hand on my bicep.

“Jasper.”

I stumbled, my heart lurching, and turned toward the voice. Tony Moretti, the high school football coach and owner of the pizzeria in town, gripped my arm, face red and sucking in air.

“It’s an emergency,” he said, pointing at his shop. “We called, but dispatch said the crew had already responded to another call.”

I shook my head. Shit. The sugar shack. I eyed the small building, my pulse pounding.

Sirens pierced the air, and one of our volunteers pushed through the people crowding around.

Tony tugged my arm, his grip tightening, his expression grave. He was built like a linebacker, but he had the personality of a cuddly puppy. “We’ve got a medical emergency. Please.”

I nodded once. He was right. The chief had already responded to the other call, and I couldn’t ignore a medical emergency. So I jogged after him, in the opposite direction of the surging crowd.

Inside the old brick storefront, the noise of the festival was muffled and the smell of oregano and singed mozzarella clung to the air.

The restaurant was mostly empty, though my attention was immediately drawn to the woman curled up on the cracked leather booth, crying.

Evie.

The curvy brunette I’d had my eye on for two years.

She was from New York, but had moved to town to work at Sugar Moon, the syrup conglomerate that was headquartered in town. She generally kept to herself, though I’d spotted her from time to time at yoga, at the farmers’ market, and giggling with friends at the Drip Line.

She was buttoned up, never sparing me more than a polite nod. But today she was pale and sweat soaked, and the raw scream that escaped her was one of pure pain.

“What’s wrong with her?” Frankie Dunne demanded, mopping her forehead with a napkin. She was one of the few people Evie socialized with, from what I could tell.

“Give me a minute to assess her.” I set my bag on the table and dropped to my knees beside the booth, scanning her, searching for signs that would help me determine the problem.

“Evie,” I said, using the gentle tone I always adopted in these situations. “It’s Jasper Lawrence, can you hear me?”

She gasped, her voice strained. “Pain. Everywhere. Stomach, back.”

Softly grasping her wrist, I checked her pulse. It was racing, her breathing shallow and her skin clammy.

I peered out the windows that lined the front of the restaurant, taking in the chaos, and grabbed for the microphone part of my radio attached to my shoulder. I needed transport, and fast.

“Marty,” I said, head turned to one side so the mic would pick up my voice. “This is Lawrence. Need a rig at the pizza shop. Patient in distress. Call it into the hospital. Over.”

“Copy,” Marty replied. “Body found at the sugar shack. Our unit is over there. I’ll call over to Birch Hollow.”

Aw, shit. That could take a while.

Evie cried out again, curling her legs up. Like this, I could see the back of her leggings. The black fabric was wet, and fluid was gathering on the seat of the booth.

“It comes in waves,” Frankie explained, stroking Evie’s hair. “Every few minutes.”

With a hand on her calf to get her attention, I asked, “May I examine you?”

Evie nodded, her face screwed up with pain.

I palpated her abdomen, noting how swollen and hard it was. As I was assessing her, her abdominal muscles contracted, and she whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut. After several seconds, they relaxed again.

“This fluid?” I asked.

Frankie glared at me, her brows pulled together severely.

“It just gushed out of me,” Evie said. “And there was some blood.”

“I need to press down a bit more,” I said. “This might hurt.” I moved my hands, checking her fundal height. As I suspected, her uterus was distended up to her rib cage.

She was pregnant.

And in hard labor.

My radio crackled. “The rig from Birch Hollow is on the way. Fifteen minutes out.”

Thank God. If her screams were any indication, her contractions were still several minutes apart. We had time.

“Evie,” I murmured. “You’re in labor.”

She lurched, lifting her head off the seat. “No,” she said, her expression panicked. “Not possible.”

I examined her abdomen again. “This is labor,” I told her, keeping my tone low. “Comes in waves. I can feel your uterus contracting. Do you feel pressure in your pelvis?”

She nodded. “Yes. So much pressure.”

“Okay,” I said. “I need to check the baby’s position. The ambulance is on its way, but I need a better idea of how much time we have. Can I pull these leggings down?”

She nodded, her eyes welling, her breathing choppy.

My heart clenched. She had to be in so much pain. As gently as I could, I peeled her leggings over her hips, bringing her underwear with them.

When I’d lowered them, I tapped her thigh. “Spread your knees apart for me.”

Frankie got up and stood between us and the front of the restaurant and the hordes of people outside. Given her tiny size, it likely wasn’t doing much, but I appreciated the protectiveness she displayed for her friend.

A quick look confirmed we still had time. I wasn’t an expert at delivering babies, but the head wasn’t crowning. That much I remembered from training.

“The good news is that it’s not time to push yet.”

Her only response was a groan, her eyes still screwed shut.

“Now we’re gonna time the length of your contractions and how far apart they are.” I helped her pull her pants back up. “And get you to the hospital.”

“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “You’re wrong. It can’t be. I’m not pregnant. It’s food poisoning.”

She didn’t know.

That thought hit me like a kick to the chest. Damn. No wonder she looked so scared and vulnerable.

Frankie scurried over, holding her phone up. “Ruby’s meeting us at the hospital. You’ve got this.”

Evie’s sobs continued, her breaths choppy, her head tucked, as if she was trying to hide from reality.

With a fortifying inhale, I took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “Eyes on me,” I commanded. “You can do this.”

“I can’t—” She cried out as she was hit with another contraction. I coached her through it, sweat dripping down my back as my radio screamed nonstop. A fatality at the sugar shack. Panicking tourists. A fender bender on Market Street. Chief was calling for backup.

It was utter chaos out there.

But I was here. With her. Fully.

Drowning out the noise, I spoke gently and firmly. “Breathe,” I said. “Let the pain roll through you. It will crest and then recede. Like a wave.”

We continued like this for several contractions, her eyes fixed on my face, her grip tight on mine as she breathed through the pain.

Eventually, the sirens grew closer, and moments later, the paramedics crew from Birch Hollow barreled in with a stretcher.

As they prepped to move her, I didn’t let go. Didn’t let my focus shift. She needed me.

Even once she was loaded onto the stretcher, I remained at her side. Frankie stood on the other.

Outside, the festive town green had turned into a war zone, blue lights flashing and crowds of people scattering, some with cell phones out, recording, others crying and shouting.

We loaded her into the ambulance, and while Frankie climbed in with her, the Birch Hollow crew got the fetal monitor set up.

She was good. My job here was done.

I took a step back. I was needed elsewhere. My radio crackled with orders for me to head straight to the sugar shack.

But with the second step, my mind was flooded with questions. And one big one in particular.

“Evie,” I said quietly. “Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

She shook her head, her face tearstained.

“The baby’s father?” I prodded.

She opened her red-rimmed eyes wide, her whole body trembling.

“You,” she gasped. “You’re the father.”

An explosion went off in my chest, the sound louder than the sirens. Louder than the festival. My ears rang, my vision going hazy.

One of the Birch Hollow guys pushed me back and slammed the doors shut, and a minute later, the ambulance roared off into the night. I was on duty. I’d been ordered to report to another incident. People needed me.

Yet I stood in place on the sidewalk, my chest heaving and my mind spinning.

Caught between two disasters. One unfolding at the sugar shack and one racing off toward the hospital.

My gut lurched as reality began to sink in. After tonight, nothing in Maplewood would ever be the same.