Page 7 of Maple Kissed by the Mountain Man

“They look ordinary,” I corrected, standing up and brushing dirt off my jeans. “This place isn’t ordinary, Ford. But these photos... they look like every cheap postcard sold at a gas station.”

“What do you want them to look like?”

The question was quiet, devoid of his usual bite.

I turned to look at the oldest tree in the center of the grove. Its trunk was thicker than a barn door, its massive branches spreading across the creek in an arch of sheer resilience.

“I want them to feel like this place feels,” I whispered, looking up at the crimson leaves. “This tree has survived hundred-mile-an-hour blizzards, droughts, fires, and winters cold enough to split younger wood in half. It survives all of that brutal shit... and then every fall, it puts on a show. It shows off.”

Ford looked at the tree.

A single crimson leaf drifted down from the high canopy, landing softly right on the shoulder of his canvas coat. Bright, fiery red against dark brown.

“It survives all that,” I murmured, watching him, “and it still gets to be beautiful.”

Ford turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

For the first time since I’d met him, the anger and the fortress around him cracked. He looked at me with something raw, vulnerable, and deep.

I raised my camera and clicked the shutter.

Snap.

Ford’s face hardened instantly. “Delete that.”

“It’s a fantastic shot.”

“Maggie.”

“The leaf matches your dark soul, Burke.”

“Delete it.”

I looked at the digital preview screen. He was standing beneath the ancient maple, one hand jammed in his coat pocket, his head turned toward me. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked like he belonged to the mountain—stubborn, dangerous, unbreakable.

It was a stunning portrait. But it wasn’t the winning landscape shot I needed for the festival.

“I’ll delete it later,” I lied.

“Now.”

“I need evidence to prove to the folks in town that you actually exist out here.”

He shot me a glare that could melt steel, but he didn’t grab the camera.

The wind picked up, howling through the ridge and stripping dozens of leaves from the branches. The sky turned a darker shade of slate. The light was gone. Completely.

I lowered my camera, a heavy, suffocating disappointment settling in my throat.

“I missed it,” I whispered.

“The clouds rolled in,” Ford said, stepping closer. “You didn’t miss anything.”

“It feels the same.” I stared down at the dark lens, blinking back a sudden, frustrating burn behind my eyes. The final portfolio submissions closed soon. If I didn’t get this photo, I couldn’t enter. I couldn’t win. The shop with the red door on main street would stay empty, and I’d be stuck shooting school pictures and dogs with Santa to pay my rent for another year.

Ford watched me, his brows pulling together in a heavy frown. “How much is this festival prize?”

“Five thousand dollars.”