Forgotten Boxes (11 page)

She only had an address and the first
initial of the recipient’s name for her next delivery, but it was enough to start
her ascent onto the mountain the next day. It was a winding mountain road, twisting
around the steep hills and dipping low into the valleys. It seemed that overnight
the leaves had turned, working hues of gold, orange, and red in among the green.
Of course, she was also in a slightly different part of the state today, further
to the east. Deeper into the Northeast Kingdom.

Further away from Tarn,
Charity couldn’t help but think.
She had no idea where the man actually lived, but she reasoned that since she had
met him further to the south, he most likely hailed from that direction. Not that
it really mattered. She doubted she would ever see him again.

The thought left her sad but resigned. Even if he never called,
even if their paths never again crossed, he had given her a wonderful gift to cherish.
Not the maple cream or the hard candies, although both had been delicious. Not even
the kiss, even though it had been magical. He had given her hope. And he had given
her confidence.

If a man like Tarn the Mountain Man could be attracted to
her
,
if he felt she was worthy of his kiss, then nothing was impossible. She could break
free of her rut; she could strike out on her own and start living her life the way
she
wanted to live it,
where
she wanted to live it. And one way or
another, she could unravel the mystery surrounding Kingdom Parcel and her uncle.

Maybe these last two packages would hold the key she was looking
for. Without a current address, she could not deliver the final box, but maybe she
would open it herself, and see if any clues lay inside. Maybe she would turn it
over to officials and let them decide what to do with it. Or maybe she would simply
dispose of it and acknowledge that she couldn’t always fix life’s problems. At any
rate, she would decide that later, after she found the rightful home for the box
she carried now.

She repeatedly checked her GPS and the paper map. According to
both, she was headed in the right direction. It appeared she should turn here, but
was this even a road? Another quick glance at the directions. A little further up
the hill.

She came upon the sugarhouse quite by accident. She rounded a
curve, and there it was… little more than a wooden shack along the side of the road,
with its telltale cupola smokestack and a woodpile outside. If she had any doubt,
the huge collection vat setting at the end of the small shack confirmed her suspicions,
even before she saw the sign.

“Ooh, a genuine sugarworks, like the one Tarn must work at!”
she said brightly, whipping her car into the driveway. Tucked into a hollow on the
side of the hill, she was in the parking lot before she realized there was an entire
network of old buildings. Some of them were decrepit and had seen better days, others
were worn but sturdy, the largest looked well cared for, and all were weathered
by the harsh winter elements. Charity locked her car behind her and headed for the
largest building, the one marked ‘Gift Shop’.

The sweet smell of maple syrup greeted her the moment she stepped
through the door. The little country store and gift shop had a wide variety of gift
items and treats, all centered around the maple syrup industry. She was immediately
reminded of Dan’s and her all-too-brief encounters with Tarn.
Where was the mountain
man now?
Had he thought of her since their kiss in the parking lot?

“Help ya, young lady?” a friendly voice boomed. The unexpected
greeting startled her; not only was she lost in her musings, but she had not seen
the man behind the counter. His voice was loud and robust, with an unmistakable
New England lilt.

She turned toward the voice, immediately wondering how she could
have missed such a man. He was tall and thick, reminding her of Tarn. Then again,
most anything reminded her of Tarn these days, but that was beside the point. This
man had the same unmistakable bulk, the same rugged beard and mustache, the same
type of checkered flannel shirt, even though his was partially covered by a pair
of bib overalls. Charity supposed this man and Tarn were prime examples of the typical
mountain man in the Northeast Kingdom.

She ignored the little voice in her heart that argued that Tarn
was far from typical. Tapping down the sentiment, she smiled at her host. “Good
morning,” she said.

“And morning to you, young lady. What brings you our way on this
fair and sunny day?”

“Actually, I came upon you quite by accident,” she admitted.
“Mind if I browse for a few moments?”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

Charity perused the aisles, finding a half dozen treasures she
couldn’t live without. She needed a new potholder, and this one was obviously hand-made,
stitched in the shape of a maple leaf. A new magnet would always come in handy,
especially when it reminded her of her time here in Vermont. She would just have
to remember to keep selective memories, mostly those that revolved around Tarn.

“Are these made locally?” she asked as she fingered a patchwork
quilt.

“Yep. Wife does all the sewing for everything you see.” A large
paw swung through the air, encompassing the various displays of textiles.

“She is very talented.” Charity had always envied the art of
sewing. She could barely thread a needle and sew on a button. Perhaps if her mother
had lived, she mused, she would have taught Charity to sew. Worry furrowed along
her brow. Had her mother even sewed? She couldn’t quite remember.

That was what frightened Charity the most, the fact that she
might forget her mother altogether. It had been sixteen years, and already the memories
had begun to fade. She was twelve when her mother died, too young to know the importance
of storing up enough memories to last a lifetime.

And who will remember Aunt Nell,
a sad voice asked in
her head. Did anyone, in fact, still remember Harold?

It came to her attention that she never thought of the man as
‘Uncle’ Harold. She felt removed from him, perhaps because her parents had obviously
disapproved of him.
Why
, she wondered? What was it about Harold Tillman that
made his in-laws view him so unfavorably? Even his neighbor Hilda had not been fond
of the man.
I guess Aunt Nell saw something in him that no one else did,
she
decided
. Maybe it was love at first sight, like when I saw Tarn.

The thought startled her. She wasn’t in love with the mountain
man! She didn’t even know his last name. Falling in love with him would be… impossible.

Wouldn’t it?

“Oh, you carry the same brand!” she cried in delight, seeing
the maple cream on the shelf. It was like the one Tarn had given her from Dan’s
Market. She scooped up three jars: one for Tanya, one to send to GoGo, and one for
herself.

“Only fittin’ to carry sugar made here on the premises,” the
man chuckled.

Her heart stuttered. “This-This is your brand? Made right here?”

The big man nodded to the sugarhouse out front. “In that building
yonder,” he said proudly. “This year’s batch. Had a fine run.”

“You’re the sugarmaker?” she asked, heart drumming out a crazy
tempo of hope. How crazy would it be if this were the sugarhouse where Tarn actually
worked?

“Yep. Been a family tradition for six generations. All started
right here on this very property.” He thumped the counter top for emphasis. “Course,
now my sons do most of the hard labor. Following family tradition, my oldest boy
will officially take over on his fortieth birthday. Not too far off now, just a
handful more years.”

Charity looked down at the label in her hands. “You’re a Danbury?”
she guessed.

Coming around from behind the counter, he gave an exaggerated
bow. “Gavin Danbury, at your service.”

Did she dare ask? Her heart thumped out an eager
yes-yes,
yes-yes.
She swallowed and went for broke.

“I was down in Caledonia County a few days ago, at a little store
called Dan’s Market.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “I-I met a very helpful man
that I think must work for you. About your size, dark curly hair, beard. I think
he makes deliveries for you? He helped me select a delicious Grade-A Fancy syrup
and one of these jars of maple cream. He-He was very helpful,” she repeated nervously.

“Tarn?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”
Thump-thump, yes-yes.
She tried
not to look too eager.

The man nodded. “My oldest son and future heir to the throne.
He’s out back right now, replenishing the wood pile.”

Tarn was
here?
What crazy, wonderful luck! Or was it…

Fate.
A smile spread over her heart, leaking out onto
her face. There could be no other explanation.

“So you know Tarn, huh?” His father rambled on, but his eyes
were sharp as he watched her face transform with a tender smile.

“Like I said, he, uh, helped me select some syrup.”

“Uh-huh,” Gavin Danbury agreed with a slow nod, the word drawn
out skeptically. His suspicions were confirmed when she blushed a furious red.

“He’s out back, if you’d like to say hello. You can put your
purchases here on the counter and go right out that door yonder.”

Forcing herself to move at a normal pace, Charity emptied her
armload on the counter. She patted her hair in place and smoothed her clothes as
she took carefully measured steps toward the back door Gavin Danbury indicated.
It would be inappropriate to run, after all, even if her feet felt like taking flight.
Heavens knew her heart already had.

She heard him before she actually saw him. She followed the steady
sounds of
thump, whack, split, thump, whack, split
around the side of the
building, toward one of the decrepit sheds at the edge of the woods. She saw him
then, his broad back to her, swinging a large ax with ease over his tussled head
of hair. His shirt was off, revealing muscles that rippled with each stroke of the
ax. He was a large man, thick and stout, but he was solid. There was nothing soft
about him.

“Tarn?” she called softly. There was a steady reply of
thump,
whack, split
. She watched for another moment, amazed at how uniformed the wood
splintered, even though he worked free hand. She finally cleared her throat and
spoke louder. “Tarn?”

He faltered mid-air, the momentum of his powerful swing already
in motion. He controlled it with obvious effort, twisting around to face her.

Like the rest of him, his chest was covered in hair. A dark,
thick, curly mat stretched across the impressive breadth of his chest and narrowed
to an intriguing V that disappeared below his belt. His stomach wasn’t flat, not
like the male models in magazines and on television, but Charity’s mouth went dry.
She jerked her gaze back up to his startled gray-blue eyes, both of them blushing.

“Charity? What-What are you doing here?” He sat the ax down,
leaning it against the stump where he had earlier slung his shirt. He now donned
it hastily, pulling the red t-shirt over his head. It fit him snugly, hugging the
planes and muscles of his work-chiseled chest.

“I-uh-I just stopped on a whim. Then I saw the label on the maple
cream, and I met your father. He-He said you were out here.” She knew she was rambling.

“What are you doing up here on the mountain?”

“Uhm, just-just driving.”

He shortened the distance between them with a few long strides.
“Not many people just happen to drive up on Danbury Mountain,” he told her.

Her eyes went wide. “You own the whole mountain?”

“Not quite the whole thing,” he shrugged. “Just most of it.”

“I-I don’t know why, but I thought-I thought you only worked
for the syrup company,” Charity admitted. “You were delivering the products, so
I just assumed… I didn’t know you were the heir apparent!”

Tarn rolled his beautiful eyes. “You’ll have to excuse my father.
His attempt at humor. He likes to imagine this as his own little kingdom within
the kingdom.” A sweep of his hand indicated the scene beyond, which Charity noticed
for the first time.

The sugarhouse was snuggled onto the side of a hill, overlooking
more of the rolling peaks and valleys that comprised this part of the countryside.
The mountain ranges were not dramatic here, not like in the western part of the
United States. The Green Mountains were more a series of gentle hills and rolling
ridges, but they were every bit as breathtaking. The early autumn day sparkled in
the sunlight, the leaves on the trees glistening with hints of color. The pastures
were lush and green, dotted with a few cows and horses. In the distance, she saw
a small village nestled in a dell, the rooftops peeking through the trees, its steepled
church bell gleaming as it caught the mid-day sun. The air had a crisp bite to it,
not yet cold, but no longer warm. On the air floated the earthy smells of the rich
Vermont soil and the pungent twang of newly cut wood, all laced with a hint of maple.

“I can see why,” she whispered, moved by the majestic vista.

“Yes, but don’t encourage him.” Even though he spoke in jest,
she could hear the pride in his deep voice. Who wouldn’t be proud of such a legacy?

The conversation stalled. Charity came up with a needless, “Uhm,
so you’re a Danbury, huh?”

“Yep. And you?”

“Gannon. Charity Gannon.”

“Charity Gannon.” In his deep timbre, her name sounded delicious,
like the sweet maple syrup his family made. He hitched his head toward the woods
behind him. “Wanna take a walk, Charity Gannon?”

It never occurred to her that she should say no. Tanya, of course,
would think of a dozen reasons. It was unsafe. He was a stranger. No one even knew
she was here. He was taking her into the woods, deeper atop a secluded mountain
his family owned. There might be bears active in the area, or moose. They might
be dangerous. He might be dangerous. He might be evil. He might plan to ravish her.