Page 15 of Sugar-Shacked with the Mountain Man
six
Kane
Eight Months Later
Thesugarshackisrunning at full capacity, steam rising from the evaporator into the crisp March air. It's the height of maple season, and we're on track to produce twice as much syrup as I ever managed alone.
"Temperature's perfect," Sophie calls out, checking the digital thermometer we installed as part of the modernization program. "This batch is going to be gorgeous."
I watch her move efficiently around the equipment, adjusting flows and monitoring temperatures with the confidence of someone who's found her calling. She's traded her corporate suits for flannel and work boots, but she's never looked more beautiful.
"Mrs. Soon-to-be-Dubois," I say, coming up behind her to wrap my arms around her waist. "Have I mentioned lately how sexy you look running our sugar operation?"
"Our operation?" She leans back against me with a laugh. "I believe the paperwork shows Dubois Heritage Farms as a partnership."
She's right. When we restructured the business six months ago, we made it official—equal partners in both the farm and in life. The investors she found were more than willing to put money behind our vision of sustainable heritage agriculture, especially when they saw Sophie's business plan.
Her consulting firm, Heritage Preservation Partners, now has three other projects in development. Turns out there are a lot of family operations looking for alternatives to selling out to developers.
"The food writers from Toronto Star are here," she tells me. "Ready for the interview?"
"Are you?"
"I'm ready for anything with you."
The feature article is part of our spring marketing push. Dubois Heritage Farms has been booked solid for tours and farm-to-table dinners since we reopened, and our artisanal maple products are selling in specialty stores across Ontario.
"How's your mom?" I ask as we head toward the main house where the journalists are waiting.
"Good. Great, actually. The new treatment protocol is working, and she loves the cottage we built for her on the north end of the property."
Having Sophie's mother nearby has been one of the unexpected joys of our new life. Helen Charles brings a energy to the farm that complements our vision perfectly, and her stories about immigrant families building new lives in Canada fit beautifully into our heritage narrative.
"Ready?" Sophie asks as we approach the house.
"With you? I'm ready for anything."
The interview goes well. The journalists are charmed by our story—the city executive who gave up corporate life to save a heritage farm, the love story that blossomed during a snowstorm, the business model that proves preservation can be profitable.
After they leave, Sophie and I walk through the sugar bush in the fading afternoon light. The maple trees are heavy with sap lines, and the sound of dripping fills the air.
"Any regrets?" I ask, because I still need to hear her say it.
"About leaving Morrison? About choosing you and this crazy farm over financial security?" She pretends to consider it. "Not a single one."
"Even when you're covered in maple sap and working sixteen-hour days during season?"
"Especially then." She stops walking and turns to face me. "Kane, this feels like home. You feel like home."
"Good," I say, pulling the small velvet box from my pocket. "Because I'm hoping you'll want to make it official."
Her eyes widen as I drop to one knee. "Kane..."
"Sophie Charles, you saved my farm, my sanity, and my heart. You took a leap of faith on a crazy plan and a stubborn mountain man, and you made both of us better than we ever imagined we could be." I open the box, revealing the diamond ring I had made by a local artisan. "Will you marry me?"
"Yes," she breathes, and then louder, "Yes! Of course, yes!"
I slip the ring onto her finger—a simple solitaire that catches the light from the setting sun—and she throws her arms around my neck.
