Tasted By the Mountain Man (Whitetail Falls: Mountain Men #2)

Chapter 1 – Silas

People think syrup-making is about sweetness, but it's really about patience.

I check the lines stretching between the sugar maples, blue tubing barely visible under fresh snow. The forecast called for six inches by nightfall, but the sky hangs heavier than that. I tug my wool hat lower, fingers already stiff despite the thickness of my gloves.

My boots crunch through the crust as I move between trees, checking connections. The sugar shack sits downhill, smoke curling from the chimney where the evaporator runs steady.

A foreign sound breaks the silence—the high whine of tires spinning against ice. I pause, frowning toward the access road. Nobody comes up here, especially during tapping season. I've made damn sure of that.

Through the falling snow, I make out a small car, wheels churning helplessly. City car. Summer tires, probably. Brilliant.

I could pretend I didn't see it. Could finish my rounds and let whoever's trespassing figure out their own solution. But the storm is worsening, and I'm not completely heartless.

Sighing, I trudge toward the road.

As I approach, the car door swings open. A woman emerges, and my first thought is: young. Too young to be out here alone. My second thought follows immediately, unwelcome and irritating: beautiful.

She's bundled in what looks like a fashionable but useless coat—camel-colored wool that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. Her hair whips across her face as she turns, spotting me. For a moment, she freezes, wariness flashing across features flushed pink from cold.

"Oh!" she calls over the wind. "Thank God. I'm completely stuck."

Her voice carries a note of practiced confidence that doesn't quite mask the relief. City girl, definitely. Probably some weekend tourist who ignored weather advisories to grab rental cabin photos for her Instagram.

"You shouldn't be on this road," I say, voice gruff from disuse. "It's private property past the county marker."

She pushes hair from her face, revealing large green eyes. "I'm sorry. I think I got turned around. The GPS kept rerouting, and then I lost signal entirely."

"You're about five miles off course if you're headed to the resort cabins," I tell her. "And you won't make it there in this. Storm's getting worse."

"I realized that about ten minutes ago." Her smile seems genuine, if strained. "I'm Sage, by the way."

I don't volunteer my name in return. Instead, I assess the situation—her car is well and truly stuck, wheels sunken into what was probably a drainage ditch beneath the snow.

"You have someone expecting you?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Not really. I rented a cabin for a few weeks. Nobody specific is waiting."

That raises questions I don't ask. Young woman, alone, no one expecting her.

"Well, you can't stay here, and I can't pull you out until the plow comes through. That won't be until tomorrow, earliest." I gesture toward the trail. "My place is about half a mile down. You can wait out the worst of it there."

Uncertainty flickers across her face, the appropriate caution of a woman being invited to a stranger's isolated cabin. But the alternative is freezing in her car.

"I really appreciate that," she says finally. "Let me just grab my bag."

She reaches into the back seat, emerging with the overnight bag and, to my surprise, a professional-looking knife roll. Not standard tourist equipment.

"Force of habit," she explains with a small shrug. "I don't go anywhere without my knives."

Interesting. A cook, then. Probably some culinary school graduate who works at a trendy farm-to-table place, making dishes with names longer than the ingredient list.

"It's this way," I say, not offering to carry her bags. Test of character, maybe. Or simple stubbornness.

She follows without complaint, matching my pace despite the depth of snow and her clearly inadequate footwear. Still, she stays upright, adjusts her stride to step in my footprints. Not entirely clueless, then.

The wind picks up as we crest the ridge, bringing a wall of white that momentarily blinds us both. She gasps, instinctively moving closer to me. I feel the brush of her shoulder against my arm, a point of heat in the surrounding cold.

"Sorry," she says, immediately creating distance again.

"Storm's getting serious. We need to move faster," I say, ignoring the momentary contact and what it did to my pulse.

We descend through the maple stand, the landscape familiar enough that I could navigate it blindfolded. The sugar shack appears first, beyond it my cabin, partially sheltered by ancient pines.

"You tap all these trees yourself?" she asks, gesturing to the lines visible between trunks.

"No, my army of invisible helpers does it. Yes, myself."

She either misses or ignores the sarcasm. "That's a lot of work for one person."

I shrug. "Keeps me busy."

We reach the sugar shack first, and I push open the heavy door. Heat and steam billow out.

Sage steps inside, and I watch her take it all in—the collection tanks, the filters, the graduated bottles lined on shelves. Her expression shifts from cold-numbed relief to something like reverence.

"Wow," she breathes, moving toward the evaporator. "This is incredible."

I'm surprised by her appreciation. But she's looking at the equipment like she understands what she's seeing, which is unlikely given her age and those impractical boots.

"Stay back from the edge," I warn as she leans slightly toward the evaporator. "It's running at 219 degrees."

She nods, respecting the boundary but continuing her inspection. "Single-source? Or do you blend from different parts of the property?"

I narrow my eyes. "Single-source, mostly. Different batches for different elevations and tree ages."

"You can taste the difference between them?"

"No, I just do it for fun." I roll my eyes. "Of course I can taste the difference."

She smiles slightly, like I've confirmed something. "I'd love to try them sometime. I bet the higher elevation produces a lighter, more mineral profile."

Now I'm certain she's parroting something she read in a food magazine. Nobody her age has a palate sophisticated enough to distinguish elevation nuances in maple.

"The cabin's through that path," I say, nodding toward the door on the far wall. "You can warm up there while I finish the batch."

She glances at the process underway. "Actually, would it be alright if I stayed and watched? I'm fascinated by traditional food production methods."

I want to say no. Having her in my workspace feels like an invasion. But the snow drives sideways outside, and sending her alone to an empty cabin seems unnecessarily harsh.

"Fine," I concede. "But there are rules. Don't touch anything without asking. Don't stand where I need to move. And don't..." I search for the right warning, "...don't get in the way."

She raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused rather than offended by my curtness. "I understand. I'll be a ghost."

Doubt that. There's nothing ghostlike about her presence—it fills the space, alters the air pressure, makes my usual movements feel self-conscious. I turn back to the evaporator, checking temperatures and flow rates, trying to ignore her as she slips off her coat.

Beneath it, she wears a simple gray sweater, fitted enough to confirm my earlier impression of curves. Focus on the damn syrup, old man.

"That's a beautiful setup," she says, moving to view the process from a different angle. "Much more sophisticated than I expected up here."

"What were you expecting? A bucket over an open fire?"

She laughs, the sound unexpectedly rich in the steam-filled space. "Maybe not quite so primitive. But this is professional-grade equipment."

"This isn't a hobby," I say, more defensively than intended.

"Clearly not." Her eyes travel over the neat rows of bottles, the filtering setup, the precise organization of tools. "How long have you been making syrup?"

"Twenty years, give or take."

"And before that?" she asks, moving closer to examine a hydrometer floating in a test cylinder.

"Before that isn't relevant." I check the density of the batch, deliberately focusing on the task.

She nods, and steps back to lean against a worktable.

"Well, I'm grateful you're letting me wait out the storm here," she says. "I promise not to touch anything or get in your way."

"The storm's supposed to pass by morning," I say. "I can help you get your car out after the county plow comes through."

"Thank you." She rubs her hands together, still warming up. "I really didn't mean to intrude on your solitude up here."

The apology sounds genuine. I grunt in acknowledgment, uncomfortable with how easily she seems to read my preference for isolation.

"You can sit there if you want," I offer grudgingly, nodding toward a stool in the corner. "It's going to be about forty minutes before these batches are ready."

She takes the seat.

The syrup has reached that critical point where attention must be absolute—the moment when sugar concentration, temperature, and viscosity align perfectly. One minute too long and it crystallizes; too short and bacterial growth becomes a risk.

I'm so focused that I almost forget her presence until I sense her moving closer, watching as I test the density one final time.

"Perfect," I murmur, mostly to myself.

"What makes it perfect?" she asks quietly. "Besides the measurements, I mean."

I glance over, surprised by the question. "Experience," I answer after a moment. "The way it sheets off the spoon. The resistance when you stir. The sound it makes at a certain viscosity—like a whisper."

"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward the finished batch.

I hesitate, then reach for a testing spoon, dipping it into the amber liquid and handing it to her.

"Careful. It's hot."

She accepts it with steady hands, examining the color first, holding it up to the light filtering through snow-covered windows. Then she smells it, her expression shifts, eyes remaining closed as she processes.

“Extraordinary,” she says finally, opening her eyes. “It smells warm and layered, a hint of wood. And there’s this… almost butterscotch note in the air?”

Her assessment is accurate. Unsettlingly so. I catch myself wishing, briefly and pointlessly, that I could experience it the way she does.

"Like I said, it's from higher elevation trees. Different mineral composition in the soil." I take the spoon back, our fingers brushing momentarily. A small contact that shouldn't register but does.

"It's beautiful work," she says, and there's genuine respect in her voice that catches me off guard. "Thank you for letting me see it."

I nod, uncomfortable with the praise and with my reaction to it.

"Can I help?" she offers.

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don't touch anything."

She returns to her stool, seemingly unoffended by my rudeness. I feel her watching as I work, her gaze attentive but not intrusive as I work with practiced movements.

Outside, the storm intensifies. Inside, steam rises, droplets beading on the wooden beams overhead before falling back down—a closed system of evaporation and return.

And between these elements sits this unexpected woman with her perceptive eyes, disrupting twenty years of solitude with her presence.