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The drive toward Maple Lane Falls took me beneath a canopy of copper and scarlet leaves. Sunlight flickered through the branches, illuminating mossy stone walls, split-rail fences, and occasional glimpses of the mountains beyond the trees.

I passed a roadside farm stand piled high with pumpkins and a handwritten sign advertising fresh cider. Farther along, somebody had decorated a mailbox with a scarecrow wearing an enormous plaid shirt.

I’d always loved autumn in Minneapolis, but there was something wonderful about being surrounded by so much uninterrupted woodland. Even the air smelled different here, carrying hints of damp earth, fallen leaves, and the occasional curl of woodsmoke from a distant chimney.

After a few miles, I spotted a sign for a public scenic overlook and turned into the gravel parking area.

It wasn’t much more than a widened turnout with a wooden railing, a couple of benches, and a magnificent view across a valley thick with autumn foliage.

I parked, buttoned my wool coat over my cardigan, and stepped outside.

Cold air brushed my cheeks. Somewhere in the trees, a woodpecker hammered away with the enthusiasm of a contractor who charged by the hour.

I wandered toward the railing and breathed deeply.

This was exactly what I’d hoped to find in Maple Lane Falls. Peace, beautiful scenery, and enough distance from city traffic that I could hear the wind moving through the branches.

Unfortunately, the wind wasn’t the only thing I could hear.

A short distance down the road, two men stood beside a utility truck near the entrance to a gated service road. CROSSCUT LOGGING was printed across the truck’s door, and both men wore reflective safety vests over their work clothes.

I might have glanced at them and returned to admiring the scenery if one of them hadn’t started speaking.

“Tell Toby I want those barriers checked again before anyone goes back through there. And if the access road’s still slick this afternoon, we’ll leave that section until tomorrow. There’s no point taking chances to save an hour.”

Oh.

My.

God.

I turned toward the voice so quickly that my coat caught against the rough wooden railing.

The man speaking stood well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders that strained the fabric of his dark flannel work shirt. A high-visibility vest hung open over it, and his heavy trousers disappeared into scuffed work boots.

His sandy hair looked overdue for a haircut, and dark stubble covered a jaw that had absolutely no business belonging to someone standing beside a logging truck on an ordinary Thursday afternoon.

He looked as though a romance-cover artist had been asked to design the ultimate lumberjack and had gotten a little carried away.

But his voice!

It was deep and rich, with a warm, rough edge that made even a perfectly ordinary discussion about road conditions sound unexpectedly intimate.

I gripped the railing.

I’d heard hundreds of male voices during my career. Trained actors, experienced narrators, men who could make a simple greeting sound like a marriage proposal.

This man’s voice was different.

There was no artificial gravel, no exaggerated growling, none of the theatrical tricks inexperienced performers sometimes used when they thought a romantic hero needed to sound intimidating. He spoke naturally, with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being listened to.

And I wanted to listen to him for approximately the next six hundred years.

The other man answered something I couldn’t make out. My magnificent stranger laughed, the sound low and easy.

Good heavens.