Page 3 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
I was thinking that maybe there were still things in this world worth singing about.
2
Gavin
Four-thirty alarm, same as every festival morning. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, muscle memory guiding me through strong coffee and prep lists. Outside my cabin windows, Silver Ridge was still wrapped in pre-dawn darkness. The kind of quiet that made a man grateful for solitude.
I pulled on yesterday's flannel and started the truck, letting it warm while I loaded equipment. Without thinking, I reached for the CD wedged between the seats.Small Town Dreamsby Sadie Reynolds. Three years old now, scratched from overuse, but still the soundtrack to my early morning sessions.
Her voice filled the cab as I drove toward town—raw and honest, cutting straight through pretense. I'd been drowning in Calgary's pressure-cooker kitchen world when that album found me at 3 AM on my apartment floor. Those lyrics about small town dreams not asking for your soul as payment gave me permission to walk away from eighteen-hour days and a head chef who threw pans and peoples’ heads when orders backed up.
Three days later, I'd cleared out my locker and driven north until I found Silver Ridge.
Ironic that the woman herself had wandered into my stall last night looking like she'd forgotten every word she'd ever sung about finding peace.
The festival grounds buzzed with early morning energy. I set up my prep station behind the main stage, close enough to borrow equipment but far enough from the chaos to think straight. Lit the burners, started breaking down vegetables for today's specials—wild mushroom bisque, Grammy's Christmas stew, fresh bannock with maple butter.
As I worked, I caught myself listening for that sound from last night. The unconscious humming that had risen from her when she'd tasted something real. Hadn't heard food make someone feel in months, she'd said. What kind of life left someone that disconnected from basic pleasure?
The answer walked past my station an hour later.
I spotted her behind the main stage, studying equipment setup with focused intensity. Gone was last night's exhausted vulnerability, replaced by a performer's mask so complete it was watching a different person. Perky smile, bright eyes, every gesture calculated for maximum charm.
She was good at it. Had to be.
But I'd seen the real version of her was the one who'd hummed over mushroom bisque. This polished stranger felt like watching someone wear their own skin as costume.
The morning flew by in prep work, stocks simmering, dough rising, vegetables getting proper knife treatment. By noon, I was deep in the rhythm that kept me sane. Predictable, honest work.
"Excuse me?" A kid volunteer, maybe nineteen, looked panicked. "The headliner missed her meal break. Sound check ran long, and she's supposed to go on in twenty minutes, but she hasn't eaten since breakfast—"
"What does she usually eat before shows?"
Kid shrugged. "Honestly? I think she just forgets when she's nervous."
Nerves. That explained the mask, the careful performance of being fine. Without thinking too hard about why, I plated comfort food: yesterday's venison stew, warm dinner roll, maple butter that made everything taste like home. Added chamomile tea because her voice had sounded strained earlier.
"Tell her it's from Grammy's recipe collection. And eat it while it's hot."
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged onto the stage like she'd been plugged into a power source. The exhausted woman from last night was nowhere to be seen. This version commanded attention, every movement fluid and confident, voice carrying across the festival grounds with professional polish.
But I was close enough to see what the audience missed—the quick, grateful glance she sent toward my station before launching into her first song. Close enough to catch when her stage smile flickered into something genuine.
The set was flawless. Crowd singing along by the third song, completely under her spell. Watching her work was like watching a master craftsman—every gesture purposeful, every pause calculated. But when she sang the quiet songs requiring vulnerability instead of energy, I caught glimpses of last night's woman. The careful mask would slip, and something real would shine through.
That's when she was most beautiful. When she forgot to perform and just was.
After her set, I found myself lingering near my station instead of diving back into prep. The crowd dispersed slowly, people still humming her melodies. I was wiping surfaces that didn't need cleaning just to appear busy when she appeared at my counter.
"Thank you," she said, gratitude real in her voice. "That stew might have saved my life."
"Just food."Feed people. Bring comfort. Make them remember they're human.
"It was more than that, but thank you." She shook her head, studying my face.
"Long tour?" I asked to change the subject.
"Feels like forever." She leaned against my counter, her carefully constructed energy flagging. "Sometimes I think I've been on stage so long I've forgotten how to be anywhere else."
