Page 13 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
Community Connections
M orning light spills across my laptop, where both drafts of my review remain unsent.
I've barely slept, the weight of my decision pressing against my chest like a physical thing.
Professional integrity versus something I barely recognize in myself—this unfamiliar yearning for connection, for belonging.
The walls of my luxury suite at The Haven suddenly feel confining. I need air. Perspective. Distance from both Hunter and my own tangled thoughts.
I dress quickly in jeans and a light sweater, grabbing my jacket to ward off the mountain morning chill. The lobby is quiet, with only a single staff member polishing the already gleaming reception desk.
"Heading into town?" His name tag reads "Jeffrey," and his smile seems genuinely warm rather than the practiced hospitality smile I've grown accustomed to in luxury establishments.
"Yes. Any recommendations?"
"Maggie's has the best breakfast, but you might try The Pickaxe for lunch. It’s the only real bar in town. Best burgers in the county." He leans across the desk conspiratorially. "Don't tell Maggie I said that."
The path into Angel's Peak has become familiar now—past the stone marker commemorating the town's founding, down the gentle slope where pines give way to the first weathered buildings. Mid-morning sunshine gilds everything in honey light, the mountains standing like sentinels in the background.
Angel's Peak looks different today. No longer a picturesque backdrop for my review, but a living community with heartbeats and histories. People nod as I pass, a tentative acknowledgment that I'm becoming a recognized face rather than just another transient tourist.
The Pickaxe sits at the far end of Main Street, a squat building of rough-hewn logs with a faded wooden sign depicting crossed mining tools. It looks like it's been standing since the town's founding, worn smooth by time and use.
A bell jingles as I push open the heavy wooden door.
The interior is dim after the bright mountain sunshine, smelling of beer, old wood, and something delicious simmering from the kitchen.
A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, currently cold in the summer heat.
Vintage mining implements and black-and-white photographs cover every available surface.
The bar runs the length of the room, polished to a high shine by generations of elbows. Behind it, bottles glint in the light filtering through small windows. A handful of locals occupy scattered tables despite the early hour, conversations dropping to curious silence as I enter.
I approach the bar, where a woman in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun, regards me with a frank assessment.
"What can I get you?" Her voice has the rasp of either cigarettes or hard living.
"Whatever's on tap and the burger I've heard about." I slide onto a stool, aware of eyes watching from corner tables.
She pours a golden ale from a tap marked with a hand-carved wooden sign reading "Angel's Tears." The beer arrives in a heavy glass mug, condensation already beading on the sides.
"Haven guest?" she asks, punching my order into an ancient register.
"Yes. Audrey Tristan." I offer my name as a small concession, an opening.
"Ruth Fletcher. My family's owned this place since 1912." She gestures to a faded photograph behind the bar showing a much younger version of the building. "Back when this was a proper mining town."
The ale is surprisingly complex, with notes of pine and citrus balanced by a smooth maltiness. I comment on this, earning a slight softening around Ruth's eyes.
"My nephew's brewery. Started in his garage five years ago. Now he supplies half the restaurants in three counties." She wipes an already clean section of bar. "Including your chef friend's place up at The Haven."
The possessive warms me despite myself. "Hunter seems committed to sourcing locally."
"Saved more than a few businesses around here doing that." This comes from a man at a corner table, white-haired and weathered as the mountains themselves. "When the mine closed in '89, this town nearly died. Tourism's all we got now."
A plate appears before me—a burger that makes a mockery of the gourmet versions I've critiqued in Manhattan steakhouses. Hand-formed patty on a house-made brioche bun, melted cheese that stretches when I lift the top, handcut fries still glistening from the fryer.
"Morgan designed this burger for us." Ruth's voice carries unexpected pride. "Taught my cook how to grind the right blend of cuts, how to season it proper."
I take a bite and close my eyes. It’s the perfect ratio of fat to lean, seasoned with a hand that understands restraint, the bun substantial enough to hold together without overwhelming. Nothing pretentious, nothing unnecessary—just honest food executed with care.
"He did this for you? For free?" The critic in me is always suspicious of motives.
Ruth snorts. "Wouldn't take a dime. Said it was payment for all the free advice his granddad gave him over this very bar."
"Hunter's grandfather was a fixture here?"
The question opens a floodgate. The white-haired man—Jim, retired from forty years in the now-closed silver mine—moves to join me at the bar. The story of Hunter Morgan and his grandfather unfolds in fragments from different voices as other patrons drift over.
Old Man Morgan, as they call him, was the town's unofficial caretaker after the mine closed.
Head cook at the original Angel's Peak Hotel, he fed people who couldn't pay during the hardest times.
When the hotel burned down in 2001, he kept cooking from his home, teaching his orphaned grandson everything he knew.
"That boy would follow him into the woods, learning which mushrooms were safe, which berries were sweetest," Ruth says, refilling my ale without being asked. "By twelve, he could field dress a deer faster than most grown men."
"When he got that fancy chef job down in Denver, we all figured he'd never come back," says a woman who introduces herself as the local librarian. "But luck has a way of circling around here."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Jim interjects. "That business partner of his was a snake. We all saw it when he visited, though Hunter was too trusting to notice."
I think of the article my editor sent, the bankruptcy and scandal that followed. How different it sounds here, among people who've known Hunter his whole life.
"Lucas Reid was smart, bringing him back to run Timberline," Ruth says. "Old money recognizing real talent."
Another round of stories follows—how Hunter convinced Lucas to institute a local employment preference at The Haven, how he established a culinary internship program with the regional high school, and how he still finds time to help Ruth's nephew improve his brewing techniques.
I recognize the Hunter they describe—dedicated, generous with his knowledge, deeply connected to this place and its people.
But there's something disconcerting about hearing it from others, realizing how little I know him beyond our intense physical connection and the glimpses he's chosen to show me.
The conversation shifts as a woman bursts through the door, breathless with excitement. "You'll never guess who confirmed for Mabel's fundraiser today! That food writer from Denver Monthly!"
My blood freezes in my veins.
"Another fancy critic?" Jim scoffs. "What do they know about real mountain cooking?"
"It's exposure," the woman insists. "And we need all we can get if we're going to save Mabel's place."
Ruth notices my confusion and explains. "Mabel Wilson runs the only guest house in town proper. Historic building, been in her family for generations. But it needs serious renovation to meet county codes. Town's been fundraising all summer."
"And Hunter's cooking," the newcomer adds, eyes bright. "Said he'd feed a hundred people if that's what it takes to keep Mabel going."
I check my watch, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here, where my professional identity feels like a betrayal of these people's trust.
"Is this fundraiser open to anyone?" The question slips out before I can reconsider.
"Four o'clock at Mabel's. Corner of Pine and Aspen." Ruth studies me with shrewd eyes. "You thinking of coming?"
"Maybe." I leave enough cash to cover my meal and a generous tip. "Thank you for the history lesson. And the excellent burger."
Outside, I walk aimlessly through town, memories surfacing from my past—so different from the community solidarity I've just witnessed.
Growing up in a series of sterile apartments with a mother who worked two jobs and still couldn't afford fresh vegetables.
The revelation of my first authentic restaurant meal at sixteen, paid for with weeks of babysitting money, showed me that food could be more than mere sustenance, that it could tell stories and create experiences.
My college years were spent waiting tables while studying journalism, allowing me to witness the power dynamics of fine dining from the service side.
How I swore I'd be the critic who remembered what it felt like to choose between paying rent and eating well.
How, somewhere along the way, that mission twisted into becoming The Executioner, known more for clever takedowns than championing worthy establishments.
When did I stop seeing the humans behind the restaurants I reviewed?
My feet carry me to the corner of Pine and Aspen. Mabel's Guest House is a Victorian painted lady in faded blues and creams, its wraparound porch sagging slightly but still graceful. A banner strung between porch columns reads "Save Mabel's Place - Community Fundraiser Today!"