Page 43 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
"Oh! Well, hello there, Ms. Santiago." The sheriff's tone warms considerably. "Welcome to Angel's Peak. Sorry about the accommodations situation, but you couldn't be in better hands. Dominic here's the most capable man on the mountain."
"I'm managing just fine, Sheriff, thank you," I respond, moving closer to the radio.
"Good to hear. We don't get many big-city wine experts in our little town. You're causing quite a stir. Margie at the bakery has already planned a welcome breakfast for when you make it down the mountain."
Dominic's expression is pained. "Is there an actual update, Donovan, or is this a social call?"
"Just letting you know we've got the lower roads partially cleared. Still working on the mountain access. If the weather cooperates, you should be freed within 36-48 hours." A pause, then: "You two need anything? I could send Paul up on the snowmobile with supplies."
"We're fine," Dominic says firmly.
"Alright then. Stay warm up there." The knowing tone in the sheriff's voicemakes heat rise to my cheeks. "Donovan out."
Dominic hangs up the radio with more force than necessary. "And now the entire town will know exactly how long you've been here and speculate accordingly."
"Small towns," I say with a shrug, trying to appear more nonchalant than I feel. "Is he always so..."
"Nosy? Yes." Dominic runs a hand through his damp hair. "Sheriff Donovan considers gossip a crucial part of public safety."
The mental image makes me laugh, breaking the tension. "At least we know we'll be rescued eventually."
We return to our cooking competition, the playful atmosphere restored. After a blind taste test, we declare a diplomatic tie, though Dominic insists my stew has "superior structure," a wine term that makes me smile.
As we clean up, Dominic pauses, seeming to come to a decision. "There's something I want to show you. Professionally speaking."
He leads me to a heavy door I hadn't noticed before, unlocking it with a key from his pocket. Beyond lies a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Dominic flips a switch, illuminating a state-of-the-art wine cellar carved directly into the mountainside.
"My experimental cellar," he explains as we descend. "Where I test new techniques before implementing them in the main production."
The space is immaculate and unexpectedly sophisticated, with climate controls and monitoring systems that would make most established wineries envious. A series of small-batch barrels on one wall bear handwritten labels with dates and cryptic codes.
"You're using concrete eggs." I notice the ovoid fermentation vessels with surprise. "And is that amphora?"
Dominic nods, a hint of pride in his expression. "Traditional techniques with modern monitoring. I'm testing how the altitude affects different fermentation methods."
He shows me around, explaining his experiments with unusual openness. For each question I ask, he provides thoughtful, detailed answers, our shared language of wine creating a bridge between our different philosophies.
"This is the project I'm most excited about." He leads me to a corner where several small barrels bear the label "V79-H." "A hybrid I've been developing specifically for this elevation. Most wine grapes struggle with our seasonal extremes, but this clone has shown remarkable resilience."
He draws a small sample with a wine thief, offering me the first taste. The young wine is startlingly alive, vibrant fruit balanced with an earthy complexity and a mineral finish that must come from the unique soil composition.
"This is extraordinary," I admit, genuinely impressed. "It's unlike anything I've tasted from Colorado. Or anywhere."
Dominic watches me intently, gauging my reaction. "It's not ready yet. Another eighteen months, minimum, but when it is..."
"It could be revolutionary for high-altitude viticulture." I complete his thought, understanding the significance of what he's sharing. "This is why you've been hesitant about wider distribution. You're waiting for this."
He nods slowly. "Silverleaf, as it exists now, is just the beginning. This," he gestures to the experimental barrels, "this is the future I'm building toward."
The trust implicit in showing me these experiments—his vision for the future, his proprietary techniques—isn't lost on me. This is Dominic allowing me behind the professional walls he's constructed, sharing something precious and vulnerable.
"Thank you for showing me," I say softly.
He's standing close enoughthat I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and feel the warmth radiating from him in the cool cellar.
"You understand it," he says. "Most people wouldn't."
The air between us thickens with unspoken awareness. I'm acutely conscious of our isolation, of the privacy this underground space affords. When Dominic takes a half-step closer, I don't back away.
