Page 2 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

“Half of a day, but I get to pick the time.”

“No.” She rattled the gate just to make a point.

“Just a few hours.”

“No.”

“Do you know any other words?”

“Yes.”

Her dark eyebrows lifted, a challenge flashing in her gaze.

“Leave.”

She released a long sigh that reached me across the yard. “You are, without a doubt, the most difficult man in Lone Mountain.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

“Because you own the prettiest grove of maples in the entire county, and I need to photograph them.”

“Take pictures somewhere else.” I started stacking the wood that I had already split, trying to ignore her.

“There isn’t anywhere else.”

“There are trees all over the mountain.”

“Not like yours.” Something in her tone pulled my eyes back to hers.

The playfulness had vanished. She was staring past me now, toward the high ridge where the old maples flared in brilliant shades of rust and golds. Most people didn’t notice the difference. They saw a forest and assumed one patch of woods was identical to the next.

Maggie knew better. That still didn’t mean she belonged up here.

Or belonged to me. That damn voice inside my head had been haunting me for weeks.

I rolled my shoulders and set another piece of oak on the block.

“The weather service is calling for heavy wind in two days,” she pressed, stepping closer to the iron bars. “If I don’t get up there, the canopy will be stripped bare.”

“Not my problem.”

“It is when you’re the only thing standing between me and winning the Maple Festival photo contest.”

I paused, resting my hands on the handle of the axe. “A festival contest?”

“First place prize money,” she said, her chin lifting with sudden intensity. “That prize money is the last thing I need to finally open my art shop downtown. I just need one perfect photo, Ford. One.”

There was no trick in her voice. No flirting. Just a woman driven to make her dream happen, refusing to let a broody mountain man stand in her way.

I understood that kind of grit. I respected it more than I wanted to admit.

I swung the axe again. My focus slipped, and the blade buried itself crookedly into a tough knot, locking fast.

“See?” Maggie chimed in, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Even the firewood thinks you’re being unreasonable.”

I braced my boot flat against the chopping block, my thigh muscles straining against my jeans as I yanked the heavy handle lose with a rough jerk. I saw her gaze track the movement. “Do you ever stop running your mouth?”

“Not when a stubborn man is pretending not to hear me.”