Vermont Valentine. Kristin Hardy

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      She’d stuck in his mind after he’d seen her the day before. At odd moments he’d thought of those laughing eyes, that soft, tempting mouth. And when he’d closed his own eyes and fallen into sleep, she’d drifted through his dreams, leaving him to wake feeling vaguely restless.

      Now, he watched her amid the crowd, animated and quick as a butterfly. And he heard her laughter, spilling out across the room in a bubbly arpeggio that invited everyone around to join in. For a moment, he was tempted to go over. Only to find out who she was, he told himself, not to get a better look. Then again, given the fact that she’d shown up in his trees one day and at the growers’ meeting the next, it was pretty obvious she had something to do with the Institute.

      And if he’d figured that out, there was no point in fighting his way through the crowd to talk with her. Not his style, first of all. Second, he had more important things to focus on than a pretty face and an inviting laugh. Like finding out the status of the situation and what, if anything, his exposure was. He’d done his Internet research, he knew the enormous risk posed by the maple borer. Now he had to find out what that meant for him, personally.

      At the front of the room, Bob Ford from the Institute tapped the mike. “Okay, everybody, let’s get started.” He waited a few minutes as people drifted toward the rows of seats. “There are some contact sheets being circulated. Please fill them out and hand them in as you leave. We need to update our roster.”

      Someone handed Jacob a clipboard. He pulled out a pen and bent over the form, filling out the top. When he looked at the questions, though, he frowned. Number of taps? Monoculture or mixed population forest? What the hell?

      Then a scent drifted over to him, something tempting and subtle and essentially female. Something immediately distracting. He glanced up to see her sitting beside him.

      And all his senses vaulted to the alert.

      “Hi,” she whispered. “Is this seat taken?”

      Low and quiet, with a little husk of promise beneath it. The way she might sound over drinks, in some dark, quiet bar.

      Or in a bedroom, late at night.

      “All yours,” he said, fighting the image.

      Her smile bloomed like a summer flower.

      At the podium, Ford cleared his throat. “Since I know everyone here, I’m going to skip introducing myself and get to business. As some of you may have heard, there have been scarlet-horned maple borer outbreaks in New York. It’s something we need to be concerned about here. Understand, if this thing gets a chance to spread it can take down entire forests. Entire forests, people. No maple syrup, no fall foliage, no tourist dollars, nothing.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve invited Celie Favreau of APHIS, the USDA’s Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service, to come to the Woodward Institute to take a look around the area. She’s going to tell you a little more about what we’re up against and what happens next. Celie?”

      “Wish me luck,” Celie murmured, squaring her shoulders and rising to walk to the front of the room. From a distance, she looked even smaller than she had in the woods. She didn’t stand behind the podium but leaned against the table next to it, microphone in hand.

      “Good evening. I’m Celie Favreau with APHIS. I head up the program to eradicate the scarlet-horned maple borer. How many know something about the beetle?” Only a sprinkling of hands went up, including Jacob’s, and she nodded. “All right, let me give you a quick rundown. The scarlet-horned maple borer is a nasty customer. It’s about half an inch long and is often mistaken for a benign bark beetle unless you look closely at the horns. Unlike the bark beetle, though, the maple borer targets live wood, not dead. And it’s particularly fond of maples.

      “It bores through the bark down near the root collar and lays its eggs at the cambium, where the bark and wood interface. Over the course of a few weeks, a fertilized female can lay several dozen eggs in galleries in the first few rings of wood. When the eggs hatch, the larvae live on the cambium. I don’t need to tell any of you what that means.”

      No indeed. A few dozen larvae merrily eating their way into maturity could easily girdle a tree. No fluids could travel from root to leaf. Presto, instant death. Jacob could hear the rustling around him as his fellow sugar-makers took it all in. It wasn’t news to him but he still felt the hot press of anxiety.

      “Of course,” Celie continued, “there’s a bigger problem than just girdling. The maple borer carries a fungus that’s deadly to maples. Each time a borer works its way into the tree, the fungus spores rub off on the sides of the hole. At that point, the tree is both infected and infested and it’s just a matter of time. Our trap tests have shown that the mature beetle will range up to a hundred yards in search of a suitable host tree.”

      There was some shifting and muttering at this. Celie scanned the room, making eye contact with each of them in turn. “So you see what we’re up against. We can’t take chances with this one. If one adult gets loose, population growth is exponential. And that means if we find any infestations, we have to take radical action to control them.”

      In the audience, a craggy-faced man with a lantern jaw raised a hand. “Just how radical do you mean?”

      “It’s pointless to talk about action until we’ve investigated the scope of the problem. I’ll be teaming up with forestry specialists from the Institute and the state to cover as much territory as possible before the days warm up. We can’t afford to play wait and see. The maple borer hatches early, so we’ve got to find any infestation pronto and take measures.”

      “And they are?” the sugar-maker persisted.

      Celie took a breath. “We have to take down any infested trees we find, plus a buffer circle of at least a hundred and fifty yards in radius around that host tree. The felled trees have to be cut up, chipped and burned immediately, and the stumps ground down to eight inches below ground level.”

      An angry buzz erupted in the room. The men who’d been charmed by her weren’t charmed any more. “You’re talking about clearing acres,” a burly redhead protested.

      “Let’s not get ahead of things,” she said calmly. “We don’t even know what we’re dealing with, yet. In Michigan, they called me in and I didn’t find a sign of infestation.”

      “And in New York, you cut down half the state,” the craggy-faced man retorted.

      For an instant, Jacob thought, she looked like she didn’t know whether to sigh or laugh. Instead, she merely shook her head. “We took out a total of twelve hundred trees, spread across three different sugarbushes and a town common. I don’t take felling trees lightly.” She looked around the room. “But I’ve seen what the maple borer can do and I’m ready to do everything in my power to stop it. If there’s infestation here, all of your trees are at risk. All of them. I hope you’ll cooperate with me to stop it.”

      “You’re not here for your health. You’re here because you know there’s a problem,” the redhead accused.

      She hesitated and locked eyes with Jacob. She’d been crouched at the foot of his tree, he remembered, and felt the clutch of foreboding in his gut. “I’ve seen early signs that might be cause for concern. If we take care of things quickly, before the weather warms up, we can get a handle on it. If anything slows that down, well, this time next year your sugar-bushes are going to look very different.” She let out a breath. “Next question?”

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