Page 36 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner (Angel’s Peak #6)
Golden autumn light bathes Silverleaf Vineyards, transforming the carefully tended rows into ribbons of amber and crimson. One year after the Denver Wine Festival, the landscape has changed—both literally and figuratively.
New sections of vines extend down the southern slope, and the experimental varietals claim their own dedicated acreage.
A renovated barn has been transformed into a private tasting space, its weathered wood and modern glass serving as a perfect metaphor for the blend of tradition and innovation that defines Silverleaf.
I stand on the deck of what is now our home, watching the final preparations for the harvest party below. My time is divided between San Francisco and Angel's Peak in a rhythm we've perfected over months of trial and adjustment.
Three weeks there consulting for Heritage's climate-adaptive wine program and overseeing our restaurant partnerships; three weeks here working alongside Dominic at Silverleaf and developing our collaborative "First Snowfall" label .
It’s not a perfect solution, but a workable one that honors our personal connection and professional ambitions.
The continuing negotiation of our separate worlds has only strengthened what began in a snowstorm twelve months ago—teaching us patience, communication, and the value of building something that can withstand distance and time.
"There you are." Dominic's voice reaches me before his arms slide around my waist from behind. He smells of vineyard and sunshine, his chin resting comfortably on my shoulder as we survey the activity below. "Hiding from Margie's decoration committee?"
"Strategic retreat," I correct, leaning back against his solid warmth. "If I heard one more debate about proper napkin folding techniques, someone was going to get stabbed with a corkscrew."
His laugh rumbles against my back, the sound still rare enough to feel like a gift.
Though Dominic has emerged from his self-imposed isolation over the past year, becoming a respected voice in sustainable high-altitude viticulture, he remains selective with his warmth, making the moments of unguarded joy all the more precious.
"The caterers need your input on the wine pairings for the final course," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. "And Ruth is threatening to serve something she's calling a 'Snowbound Seduction' cocktail unless you intervene."
"That woman is impossible." But I'm smiling as I say it, genuine affection for Ruth and her boundary-free personality having grown alongside my love for this community.
"She's also right downstairs," Ruth calls up from below, her hearing apparently supernatural. "And this cocktail is happening, honey. It commemorates how you two finally admitted what the rest of us saw from day one."
Dominic's arms tighten around me briefly before releasing. "We'd better go down before she starts telling everyone exactly what she thinks happened during that snowstorm."
"As if she hasn't already," I retort, but take his offered hand as we descend to join the preparations.
The vineyard yard has been transformed for the harvest celebration.
Long tables dressed in crisp linens stretch beneath string lights, each centerpiece showcasing elements from the vineyard—grape leaves, vine cuttings, and small bunches of the distinctive Silverleaf grapes.
A temporary bar has been erected near the converted barn, where Ruth supervises the arrangement of bottles like a drill sergeant.
"There she is." Margie bustles over, flour somehow already dusting her apron despite the desserts being long finished.
"Elena, dear, we need a final decision on the dessert wine.
I've paired my chocolate cabernet cakes with the late-harvest Riesling, but Martha insists your port-style Petite Sirah would be better. "
"Martha is wrong," George Washington announces, appearing with his wife in tow. "The Riesling has the acidity to balance the chocolate. The port would be overwhelming."
"The port," Martha sniffs, "has complexity. Something you wouldn't recognize if it bit you on the nose."
Their good-natured bickering has become a familiar soundtrack to community gatherings, their decades-long marriage a testament to the staying power of complementary contrasts.
I catch Dominic's eye over their heads, our silent communication perfectly honed after months of partnership. He nods slightly, understanding my plan without words.
"Why don't we offer both?" I suggest. "Let guests choose their preference? Wine is subjective, after all." I send Dominic a meaningful look, referencing our first philosophical disagreement about wine appreciation.
"A diplomatic solution worthy of Solomon," Sheriff Donovan comments, joining our circle. "Though I take full credit for your relationship. That emergency call to The Haven was perfect timing—gave you two perspective on what matters."
Dominic raises an eyebrow. "You're claiming the burst pipe was strategic?"
"I'm not saying I had anything to do with it," Donovan replies with exaggerated innocence. "Just that my timing has always been impeccable."
The preparations continue around us, with the entire Angel’s Peak community pitching in with the ease of people who have welcomed me as one of their own.
Jason from The PickAxe oversees the wine service stations with military efficiency.
Hannah and Liam distribute hand-painted place cards created by the town's schoolchildren.
Mabel moves through it all, directing traffic with the same skill she uses to manage her now-thriving guest house.
"I forgot to tell you," she says, catching my arm as I pass. "The Mountain Wine Suite is officially open. First booking is next weekend—a couple from Denver who read about Silverleaf in Food & Wine and wanted the full experience."
The "Mountain Wine Suite" is Mabel's pride and joy—a luxury room in her renovated guest house themed around Silverleaf and, somewhat embarrassingly, the "romance of wine country.
" Despite my initial mortification at having a hotel suite that obliquely references our relationship, I've come to appreciate how the town has embraced our story as part of Angel's Peak lore.
As the sun begins its descent behind the mountains, guests arrive—residents, industry colleagues, and friends from San Francisco who've made the journey to witness the official launch of our "First Snowfall" label.
Catherine Halsey arrives with her husband, her professional armor softened for the social occasion.
Hunter Morgan brings his new flame, their linked hands suggesting more than a professional relationship.
Eleanor Morgan makes a characteristically grand entrance, her cane seemingly unnecessary tonight as she navigates the vineyard with surprising agility. She kisses me on both cheeks before assessing Dominic with critical affection.
"You're still too thin," she declares, patting his cheek. "But you look happy. It suits you."
Dominic's arm slides around my waist, anchoring us together. "I am happy," he says, the public admission still new enough to make my heart skip.
Eleanor's shrewd eyes miss nothing. "Good. Don't mess it up." With that parting wisdom, she moves on to terrorize the sommelier we've hired for the evening.
Merlot weaves through the gathering with the confidence of a dog who knows he's universally adored, splitting his attention equally between Dominic and me in a balance we've cultivated over months of shared care.
When he spots Liam near the dessert table, he bounds over, the two friends reuniting with enthusiastic affection.
"He's gotten so attached to you," Dominic observes as we watch Merlot return to nudge my hand for attention. "Sometimes I think he forgets who rescued who."
"He recognizes quality when he sees it," I tease, scratching the dog's ears. "A trait he shares with his owner."
As twilight deepens, Dominic calls for attention, gathering our guests around the central table where bottles of "First Snowfall" await unveiling.
The label has evolved from the hand-designed version he gave me at our parting, now featuring an elegant watercolor of Silverleaf in winter, with the original message incorporated into the design: Some collisions are meant to happen.
Some storms change landscapes forever. Some risks are worth taking .
"Welcome, everyone," Dominic begins, his public speaking confidence gradually built over a year of industry presentations and small gatherings. "Thank you for joining us to celebrate Silverleaf's first collaborative vintage."
He continues with the story of the wine—how it represents both Silverleaf's traditional approach and innovations influenced by our partnership, how it bridges mountain terroir with broader market understanding.
As he speaks, his gaze frequently finds mine, the personal significance of this project evident beneath the professional description.
After the formal presentation and tasting, as guests disperse to enjoy dinner and dancing under the stars, Dominic takes my hand. "Walk with me? There's something I want to show you."
"Now?" I glance at the ongoing celebration. "We have guests."
"They're fine for twenty minutes." His expression holds something I can't quite identify—nervousness, perhaps, or anticipation. "Trust me, it's worth stepping away."
Curious, I allow him to lead me up the path toward the experimental vineyard plot where our journey truly began.
The area has transformed over the past year, and the once-precarious project is now a thriving testament to Dominic's vision and perseverance.
Solis path lights illuminate the way, having been installed during my last trip to San Francisco—one of Dominic's many small efforts to blend his world with elements of mine.