Page 2 of Cider for the Mountain Man

Another reason why such a mountain of a man would never spare me more than two seconds of a glance? He’s mature, steady, and wears the few silver strands at his temples with easy confidence. I’m just a twenty-four-year-old with too much restless energy, offering goofy salutes and hoping for a crumb of a smile.

Feeling myself growing flustered, I thank him and spin on my heel before I can possibly embarrass myself any more than I already have. Trying to run away, I almost trip on those pesky extension cords. Hearing Caden bark behind me at those responsible, I don't stop moving until I'm long out of his view.

Chapter two

Caden

The harvest festival is in full swing—screaming kids, the sticky smell of funnel cake, and a handful of vendor emergencies waiting for me to step in and help. I'm supposed to be doing my rounds, focusing on those who need me the most.

Instead, I find myself hovering in the same space where sunshine radiates with a laugh I can only describe as whimsical. It’s like my body has found what to revolve around, and I can’t help but make myself exist near Valerie.

I told myself all week I was just looking forward to the festival being over, but that was a lie. I was looking forward to today because I knew she’d be here.

What a fool I was to try to think otherwise.

A bastard my age has no business looking twice at a woman like her. But logic doesn't mean a damn thing when my heart is already stamped with her name.

Despite my best efforts to look anywhere else, my eyes drift back to her, disguised as a quick check to make sure the booth is running smoothly.

She’s tucked into the shade near the pumpkin patch, looking entirely out of place and completely at home all at once. A faded flannel is tied haphazardly around her waist, her bare arms now smeared with streaks of bright, washable paint.

I watch her lean in close to a squirming toddler, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. The butterflies and superheroes she’s painting on these kids aren't masterpieces—the lines are rough and a little crooked —but the moment she hands them a mirror, their faces light up like it's Christmas instead of nearing Halloween.

She’s a natural with kids—patient in a way most people aren't anymore. I don't know if that warmth comes from raising children of her own, but if she had a family, a man would be at her side. He’d be hovering close, grasping at every excuse to exist in her orbit. Or maybe I’m just projecting, because that’s exactly what I’d be doing in his boots.

Twenty feet away, I can hear her laugh at something one of the other women has said. It's a noise so addicting, I find myself wanting to figure out what kind of jokes will earn me such a sweet sound.

Focus, Caden.

If only it were that easy.

Somehow, I find the strength to turn away. Leaving that magnetic sound behind, I head out to explore the rest of the festival and do my due diligence.

The stalls aren’t the only thing under my radar. On the other side of the festival, far enough away to give me the distance I need, excited chatter bubbles up from a group passing by as they head toward stalks of corn.

John sits behind a stall full of printed maps and a jar of folded raffle tickets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on God’s green earth. In his mid-forties, with a face lined by too many seasons in the sun and hands calloused from real labor, he tips back in his folding chair. Watching the festival crowd with a flat, unimpressed stare, it’s hard to tell if he’s bored to death or just counting down the minutes until he can retreat back to his fields.

He’s the local farmer who handed over his land to grow a corn maze for today’s event—mostly because it’s been a big hit from the very first year, and partly because keeping half the ticket cash and all the harvest was the only offer sweet enough to lure him out of isolation.

Noticing me approaching, the front legs of his chair hit the dirt with a thud. He cocks a heavy brow. “Don’t tell me you’re coming over here to take a break,” he grunts, tipping his chin toward the chaos. “My vision might be going out, but I can still see you running yourself ragged out there.”

I can’t even think of an excuse to deny his words. Every time I’m handed a project, I always give it my all no matter the complexity. Call me passionate about what I do in my free time. These last few years, I’ve had more than enough of it to spare.

John keeps himself busy with his fields; his company is made up of nothing but his farm animals. Despite his permanent scowl, he’s happy with what he’s got.

Then there’s me. Just a lonely bastard who spends half of his time alone on the mountain and the other half volunteering on projects, hoping for a taste of sunshine too sweet and young for someone my age.

“I’m fine,” I reassure him, glancing over his printed map. His design this year is a few pumpkins on the top, and the town’s name spelled out in cursive. “Looks more difficult this year.”

He nods, then scoffs under his breath. “Too many kids said it was easy last year. Let’s see how many of them get lost in the loops. They’re all taking much longer this time around.”

Just as he says the words, a group of three pre-teens pops out of the tall stalks—two looking like they’ve run a marathon and the third looking like they’re ready to kiss the grass.

John lets out a rare rumble of satisfaction and crosses his heavy arms over his chest.

“You’re a cruel man, John,” I mutter, shaking my head at the sight.

“I’m an educator,” he corrects without a shred of remorse. “Teaching them to appreciate what they have.”