Page 16 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
I had a wish forming in my chest, but it felt selfish compared to the magnitude of what Sadie could achieve if she took Keisha's deal. Who was I to ask her to build her life around mine?
But as I watched her across the festival grounds, saw the way her shoulders sagged under whatever Keisha was telling her, I realized I'd been asking the wrong question all along.
The question wasn't whether I was enough for someone like Sadie Reynolds.
The question was whether I was brave enough to fight for her, even if fighting meant risking everything I'd built to keep myself safe.
Mrs. Francis' words echoed in my memory:Don't you dare let her slip away because you're too proud or too scared to believe in what's right in front of you.
Above us, Comet Kringle blazed invisible toward its destiny, carrying the hopes and dreams of everyone foolish enough to believe in cosmic magic and second chances. And I found myself hoping that when midnight came, I'd have the courage to make a wish that mattered.
But first, I had to decide whether I was going to spend tonight watching her perform from the safety of the crowd, or whether I was finally going to fight for something worth keeping.
As the Christmas Eve sunset painted the mountains in shades of gold and rose, as the festival lights began to twinkle against the approaching darkness, I made my choice.
I was going to fight.
7
Sadie
The stage lights blazed against the December night, but their heat couldn't touch the cold knot of anxiety coiled in my chest. Above us, Comet Kringle hung like a celestial ornament, its warm glow growing stronger by the hour as it approached its once-in-a-millennium zenith.
Midnight. Peak visibility at midnight.
I adjusted my guitar strap and tried to find my center, but Keisha's words from this afternoon kept echoing:Los Angeles by January 15th. Three-year commitment. The opportunity of a lifetime.
The contract offer was everything I'd thought I wanted—creative control, financial security, a chance to make music that mattered on a global scale. The label executives had fallen in love with what they called my "mountain mystique," the raw authenticity I'd rediscovered here in Silver Ridge. They wanted to bottle what I'd found and sell it to the world.
The cosmic irony was devastating.
I scanned the crowd, searching for pewter eyes and the scowl that hid the gentlest heart I'd ever known. There—near the back, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that was carefully neutral. Even with the stage lights creating a barrier between us, I could feel the weight of Gavin's attention.
He'd come. Despite our unspoken tension about the future, despite knowing this might be goodbye, he was here.
Watching me perform one last time before I leave.
The thought hit me like ice water. That's what he expected, wasn't it? That I'd take Keisha's deal and disappear into the machinery of the music industry, just another artist who'd found inspiration in a small town before moving on to bigger things.
"Good evening, Silver Ridge!" I called into the microphone, forcing warmth into my voice. The crowd cheered in response, their breath forming white clouds in the cold air. "Thank you for welcoming me to your beautiful Christmas Comet Festival. Above us tonight, we have a very special visitor—Comet Kringle, making its closest approach to Earth on this most magical of nights."
But I kept finding my gaze drawn to Gavin, to the careful distance he maintained even while staying to watch. He was already protecting himself from losing me.
What if I don't have to leave? What if there's another way?
I launched into my opening song, but my heart wasn't in it. I was going through the motions, delivering what the audience expected while my mind spun through impossible choices. Between songs, I caught Gavin's gaze and saw something flicker across his expression—not just resignation, but grief. He was already mourning what we'd lose when I left.
The thought crystallized as I watched families in the crowd, couples sharing thermoses and pointing out constellations to their children. They looked like they'd been choosing each other every single day for years—the kind of love that built itselfslowly, deliberately, with morning coffee and shared dreams instead of grand gestures and impossible sacrifices.
"This next song," I said, finding genuine warmth in my voice as the realization grew stronger, "is one many of you might know. I wrote it a few years ago when I was feeling lost, questioning the path I'd chosen."
The opening chords of "Small Town Dreams" rang out across the festival grounds, and I watched Gavin go completely still. Around me, people began to hum along—this song had touched something in them, had spoken to the part of everyone that wondered if there might be different ways to measure success.
But as I sang the familiar lyrics, something shifted inside me. These weren't just my words anymore—they were Gavin's story too, his journey from Calgary's brutal kitchen culture to Silver Ridge's gentler rhythms. They were the anthem of everyone who'd chosen authenticity over applause.
"Sometimes the biggest dreams fit in the smallest places,
Where the coffee knows your name and the stars remember your face..."
