“Hank,” Jason said. “This is Mauve.”
“Pleased,” Hank said.
“Hank’s been with the family for decades,” Jason said.
“Thirty-two years this June,” Hank said. “I’ve loved every one of them too. But enough about me. Hop on in. Your dinner’s waiting.”
A small lantern hung from a hook at the front, swaying gently and shedding enough light that Mauve could see heavy wool blankets and a faux fur lap thrown across the bench. She turned and looked at Jason. His expression was soft in the lantern light, half in shadow, but she could still see the warmth in his eyes. She let him hand her up.
He climbed in beside her, pulled the heavy blankets across both of their laps, and tucked the fur throw over the top. She melted against his side to find the warm place between his arm and his ribs and settled there. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Hank climbed onto the driver’s bench in front, made a small clucking sound to the horses, and, with a soft jingle of bells and a creak of leather, the sleigh slid forward into the snow.
The barn fell away behind them as the path opened into a long, white meadow. Above, stars shone bright in the dark sky. The bells settled into a steady rhythm, matching the horses’ gait. Mauve tipped her face up to the sky and said a silent prayer.
Please, God, somehow, don’t take him from me.
8
JASON
Hank brought the horses to a halt at the old sugar shack. Jason breathed in the scent of the outdoors, crisp with a hint of woodsmoke and pine he associated with home. The shack was a small building tucked just beyond the trees and was exactly as he remembered from his youth. In the soft glow of the lantern hanging from the sleigh, the squat, wooden cabin with its weathered, gray boards and steep roof heavy with snow looked like something out of another time. A thin ribbon of steam curled up from the vent at the peak, disappearing into the cold night air. Slightly ajar, a crooked door made a yellow wedge across the snow.
Nostalgia took hold of him. How many days had he spent here, helping Uncle Walter and his cousins? They’d been joyful times, with purpose and a sense of belonging, working together to make something that was both their livelihood and their hearts.
“What is this place?” Mauve asked, sounding like an excited kid.
Jason smiled, glancing over at her before looking back toward the shack.
“It’s a sugarhouse. Where our family made maple syrup. Back when the sap was running, this place never shut down. Uncle Walter would be out here half the night feeding the fire. We were all expected to help.” He shifted beside her, the sleigh creaking softly beneath them as the horses stamped in the snow. “We took turns gathering sap in pairs. Roan and I were always sent out together. We’d head out before school with our buckets, check the taps, and haul everything back before our fingers went numb. Good memories.”
Hank climbed down and came around to help Mauve out of the sleigh. Jason got down on his side and walked around to take her hand.
“I’ll be back in two hours,” Hank said. “If you need me sooner, there’s a horn just inside the door. Give it a good, long pull.”
“Thanks, Hank,” Jason said.
“You bet.” Hank tipped his cap to Mauve. “Miss.”
Leaving Mauve with a blush from his chivalry, he climbed back up, clucked to the horses, and the sleigh slid away around the curve of the trees.
The bells faded, leaving them in the dark and quiet woods. A rustling from one of the bushes told them they were not completely alone. Hopefully it was only a bunny and not a bear.
They stood, holding hands, still for a moment, taking it all in as Jason told Mauve more details.
“During harvest, it was all hands on deck. We had to feed the fire, bring in wood, watch the syrup boil. Most important, we had to keep the heat steady. If it was too hot, the syrup would be ruined. Too cool, and it took way too long. Walter tended that fire like an artist. It was amazing to see him in action.
“On weekends, we were all expected to help. My mom and Aunt Grace would bring us lunch. Nothing ever tasted as good.Chunks of cheese. Aunt Grace’s warm, homemade bread. Those were some of the happiest times in my life.”
Jason’s gaze drifted past the shack and into the trees beyond, where faint lines stretched between the trunks, barely visible in the dark.
“Luke does it differently these days,” Jason said, nodding toward the woods. “He modernized it, which was a smart decision, but not nearly as much fun. See those lines? That’s how they collect the sap now. It runs through tubing instead of buckets. The sap all flows downhill into tanks—faster and smarter than the old ways.” He paused, glancing back toward the shack, the warm light aglow through the fogged windows. “Uncle Walter always said you had to keep up with the times if you wanted to make a living at it. When Luke took over, he brought the farm into modern times.”
“But it’s bittersweet, right?” Mauve asked.
“Yeah, exactly.” His voice softened just a touch. “Because I’m not here often, I still think of the way we used to do things. I miss those times. But some things don’t change. You still have to stand over that fire. Watch it carefully. Don’t rush it. Still requires patience, no matter how good the modern equipment is.”
“It really gives me new appreciation for a stack of pancakes slathered in syrup,” Mauve said.
“Right? We should get inside before you get too cold.”
