Page 34 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

He stood right behind me, silent, his warm presence guarding my back.

I unhitched my tripod and camera with eager hands. The playful banter, the cramped tent, and the sweet ache between my thighs all faded into the background as the familiar rush of creative focus took over.

I set up near the edge of the grove, framing the oldest, massive maple tree. The first angle was too narrow. The second lost the double-reflection in the water.

I took six steps to my left, stepping into the mud.

Ford moved with me, staying close enough that his chest nearly brushed my shoulder, keeping a watchful eye on the slippery ground. But he didn’t tell me to hurry. He didn’t mention forty-five minutes or accuse me of trespassing.

He just let me work.

The morning sun climbed higher, filtering through the wet leaves.

I adjusted my shutter speed, lowered my aperture, and held my breath, waiting for the crisp mountain breeze to die down.

For one fleeting, perfect second, the air went completely still.

The golden sunlight struck the crown of the oldest maple. Its massive red canopy reflected flawlessly into the dark rainwater pool at its base, making it look as though the universe had opened up, revealing a tree made entirely of fire stretching into infinity above and below.

Click.

I took another. And another.

A gust of wind blew through, scattering droplets from the leaves, and the magical reflection rippled away.

The moment was over.

With shaking fingers, I hit the playback button on the back of my camera.

The breath trapped in my lungs hit my throat. It was flawless. The lighting, the depth, the symmetry—it was the single best photograph I had ever taken in my life.

A heavy shadow fell over me as Ford stepped up to my shoulder. “You get it?”

I turned the small LCD screen toward him, my heart in my throat.

Ford stared at the image in complete silence for a long, heavy moment.

“Well?” I pressed, suddenly desperate for his approval. “What do you think?”

“It’s good,” he grunted softly.

“Good? That’s all you’ve got?”

His mouth twitched under his dark beard. “Looks like your tree is showing off.”

A startled, breathless laugh burst from my lips. “You actually listened to me yesterday.”

“I usually listen, Maggie.”

“You pretend you don’t.”

“You talk a lot,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “I just have to filter through the noise.”

I playfully swatted his rock-hard stomach. “You’re terrible.”

Ford caught my hand mid-air, wrapping his broad fingers around mine, and yanked me flush against his chest.

The heavy camera rested between us as he tilted my chin up and laid his mouth over mine.