Page 1 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
1
Sadie
The rental car wheezed up the final stretch of mountain highway toward Silver Ridge, its engine keeping time with the words I'd been humming for three hundred miles:Last time, last festival, last performance, last time I pretend Sadie Reynolds has anything left to give.
Through the windshield, the Canadian Rockies rose against December sky wrapped in snow, their slopes dotted with ski chalet lights that kept this tiny town breathing through long winters. The Christmas Comet Festival banner stretched across Main Street in cheerful red and gold, but all I felt was the familiar weight pressing down on my chest, growing heavier with each mile.
My phone buzzed. Keisha's contact photo lit up the screen, both of us grinning at some industry party when we still thought making it big would solve everything. I let it go to voicemail. Whatever new opportunity she'd found could wait until I found courage to tell her I was done.
After this weekend, I was walking away from music forever.
Heritage buildings painted in cheerful pastels lined Main Street, their eaves heavy with icicles catching afternoon light. The scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon drifted from a bakery promising "Fresh Bannock Daily," and somewhere church bells chimed Christmas carols. It was aggressively charming, and despite my mood, something in my chest loosened slightly. This place felt safe—somewhere a person could disappear and remember who they used to be.
Beth, the festival coordinator, met me at the community center with genuine warmth and a steaming mug of hot chocolate. "Sadie! Thank goodness you made it safely. I hate to rush you, but could we run through the sound check? The equipment's been temperamental."
Of course it has.Even the universe was trying to tell me something.
Twenty minutes later, I was ready to take the hint. Feedback shrieked through speakers, the monitor cut out mid-song, and by the time we got everything working, my voice felt raw and my patience had evaporated. The small crowd of early festival-goers looked disappointed when I finally gave up.
"Don't worry," Beth said, wringing her hands. "It'll be perfect for the shows. The Christmas magic always makes everything work out."
I nodded and smiled—the automatic response that had become as natural as breathing. But inside, that weight pressed heavier.
"Let me show you around while we have daylight," Beth offered, and I followed her outside, grateful for air that didn't taste like failure.
"The festival started in 1924," she said as we walked toward the vendor booths. "My great-grandmother headlined that first year. She came all the way from Nashville to perform.”
We reached the festival grounds where vendors were setting up between the community center and outdoor stage. That's when I saw him.
He was unloading supplies from a beat-up truck, muscles working beneath flannel as he hefted equipment with practiced ease. Dark hair escaped from under a wool toque, and even from a distance, I could see he wore his scowl like armor. But it was his hands that caught my attention—scarred from obvious kitchen work, handling heavy equipment with competent strength that made something flutter unexpectedly in my chest.
"That's Gavin MacLeod," Beth said, following my gaze. "Best food there is. His venison pies alone have people driving up from Calgary."
He looked up and caught me staring. His eyes were pewter-gray, and for a moment I felt a strange feeling of recognition without familiarity. He held my gaze, then looked away.
"Not much for small talk," Beth continued, "but he shows up for every community event. Don't know what we'd do without him."
My stomach chose that moment to growl loud enough to be heard over the wind.
"You should try his stall," Beth suggested. "Though he closes right on time—doesn't make exceptions for anyone."
We'll see about that.
By the time I ventured back to the festival grounds after settling into my bed and breakfast, most vendors had packed up. But warm light still spilled from one booth near the edge of the grounds, and the scent that reached me halfway across the empty space made my mouth water.
Gavin's stall.
The aroma was intoxicating—rich, savory, carrying stories of comfort and childhood memories. I read his menu board: "Wild Mushroom Bisque," "Alberta Beef Stew," "Grammy's Venison Pie." Food that sounded like it had souls behind it.
He was wiping down his counter when I approached, moving with the efficient precision of someone ready to call it a night.
"Excuse me?"
He turned, a scowl firmly in place. "We're closed."
"I know, I'm sorry. I missed dinner, everything else is closed, and that stew smells incredible."
Those pewter eyes cataloged my designer jacket and carefully styled hair, probably filing me under "entitled tourist."
