Free Family Tree by Susan Wiggs

winced. “That imitation stuff will kill you,” she said. “I don’t even think it’s legal in the state of Vermont. Real maple syrup is pure. There is nothing added and nothing removed, except water.” Her legs felt clammy from the spilled sap, but she ignored the discomfort. There was work to be done and she loved having an audience. Besides, it was a way to shift gears away from the altercation with Degan. “This is where the real stuff is made,” she told them. “We boil down forty gallons of sapto get a gallon of maple syrup.” She showed them how the liquid flowed through the pans. “That’s how it gets sweeter by the minute,” she said.
    â€œToo bad you can’t use that technique on sisters,” said Gordy. “I have gnarly sisters.”
    Annie checked the clock on the wall. Nearly dinnertime already, and she’d probably miss out, because the work wasn’t done. “The sap has to be boiled while it’s fresh,” she told them. “That’s why we boil as fast as we can during the season. And that’s why my brother’s going to be ticked off when I tell him I fired three of his guys.”
    â€œHe won’t be ticked off when you tell him why,” Gordy pointed out.
    She shrugged off the comment. Kyle had a family now; he’d married a woman with two kids. He was definitely more concerned with the bottom line than he was with high school bullies. “We’ll see.”
    She showed them how to check the rendered syrup, knowing when it coated the spatula in a certain way that the temperature had reached 219 degrees, ready to be drawn from the finishing pan into barrels. Holding up the grading rack with its four clear bottles, she showed them the four grades of syrup—golden, amber, dark, and very dark.
    â€œThey all look good to me,” Fletcher said, but his attention was not on the rack.
    â€œHey, how’s it going?” Kyle showed up, stomping the snow and mud from his boots on the front step of the sugarhouse. He nodded a greeting at Gordy and Fletcher.
    Kyle was eight years older than Annie, a guy’s guy, strong and big-shouldered, dark-haired and dark-eyed like Annie. He was quick to laugh, but sometimes quick to anger. His full-time job was with the Forest Service, but in addition to that, all the operations on Rush Mountain—the sugaring, the orchards and lumber operation—had been his responsibility since he’d turned eighteen and their father had left.
    â€œThings are going fine,” Annie told him. “I should be finished in an hour or so.”
    He craned his neck to look out the window. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”
    Annie shot a glance at Fletcher, then looked back at her brother. “I sent them packing. They were slackers.”
    â€œDamn it, Annie,” said Kyle, surveying the idle equipment outside. “We’re only halfway through the season. I need all hands on deck.”
    â€œYou don’t need slackers,” she said with a sniff. “Hire a different crew.”
    â€œEvery sugarbush in the area is shorthanded this year. Where am I going to find more help?” He ripped off his hat and threw it down. “You know what it costs to lose even a day of sugaring.”
    â€œUm, can I make a suggestion?” Gordy said.
    â€œWhat?” Kyle sounded exasperated.
    â€œMy sisters could help out.”
    â€œYour sisters. You’re volunteering your sisters.”
    â€œWell, you’d have to pay them.”
    â€œYou know what this work is like,” Kyle said. “Cold, dirty, and backbreaking. Not exactly women’s work.”
    Gordy rocked back on his heels. “You haven’t met my sisters.”
    Kyle looked skeptical, but he jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go call them.”
    As they hiked up the hill to find a cell-phone signal, Annie went back to work. “Sorry about