Roaring Fork Rooker, page 16
I’d promised them that if they needed me, I would come as fast as I could. It was what we did at Miracles of Hope—we walked alongside families through the darkest moments of their lives. But Carley’s case was particularly close to my heart. She reminded me of another little girl I’d once known, another fight that had been lost.
“I’m in New Mexico,” I said, already moving toward my suitcase. “But I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Where are they?”
“Denver. At Children’s Hospital.”
The logistics of getting there hit me as soon as I spoke. I’d have to find a way to the nearest airport, pray there was a flight, then once I landed in Denver, find a way to the hospital. If I could manage any of it, there was a good chance the soonest flight wouldn’t be until tomorrow.
“I’ll figure something out,” I said. “Tell them I’m coming.”
After ending the call, I stood in the cabin’s living room, staring at my phone. JW’s declaration of love seemed like a lifetime ago instead of several minutes. Real life had intruded, reminding me of the obligations and responsibilities that defined who I was now.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the lodge, my footsteps quick on the wooden porch. Through the windows, I could see him banking the fire, preparing to close down for the night. When I knocked, he opened the door immediately, taking in my pale complexion and the phone still clutched in my hand.
“Echo? What’s wrong?”
“I just got a call from work. One of our families—their little girl has taken a turn for the worse. She’s been fighting for two years, and…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Even he knew what calls like this meant.
“Her parents need me,” I continued, my voice steadier than I felt. “I have to get back to Colorado immediately.”
“Of course,” he said without hesitation. “What can I do to help?”
The unconditional offer of assistance, without questions about timing or inconvenience, reminded me why I’d fallen in love with this man, in the first place. “I was hoping to catch a flight out of Albuquerque—”
“It will take too long,” he finished, understanding immediately. “By the time you drive to the airport, go through security, make connections...”
“I know, but I don’t see any other option.”
“I’ll take you. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”
The offer took my breath away. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Go pack whatever you need. I’ll get the truck ready.”
Five minutes later, I was throwing my belongings into my suitcase with shaking hands. The beautiful days we’d shared at Sangre Vista were ending abruptly, cut short by the demands of real life. As I zipped up my bag, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I couldn’t allow myself to think my leaving was for the best, not when it meant a little girl was fighting for her life. But I still saw it as a sign.
A warning. I couldn’t think so selfishly again. Carley’s health had nothing to do with my secret, and while the devastation it would cause was nowhere near as bad as what she faced, I’d bring pain and heartache to the people I loved the most, and that wasn’t something I could do. Not for JW. Not for anyone.
He was waiting on the porch when I emerged from the cabin. His truck was parked nearby, the engine already running. The ranch that had seemed so magical in daylight looked stark and remote when the moon was covered by a cloud, and I felt a pang of loss for what we were leaving behind.
“Ready?” he asked, taking my bag from my hand.
“Ready. And, JW? Thank you. For understanding, for dropping everything to help. It means more than you know.”
The drive through the night was a blur of mountain highways and little conversation. JW kept us both alert with stories about building his ranch as we climbed back into Colorado. Every hour that passed brought us closer to Denver Children’s Hospital, closer to a family whose world was collapsing.
“Tell me about Carley,” he said as we crossed the state line, still hours from the hospital.
I found myself describing the sweet seven-year-old. How her parents had first come to Miracles of Hope when the diagnosis shattered their carefully planned life. Steve worked in construction, and Amy taught third grade—solid middle-class people who’d never imagined needing charity assistance.
“She has these enormous brown eyes,” I said, staring out at the highway stretching ahead of us. “And when she smiles, even with no hair and looking so fragile, she lights up the whole room. Her parents have been incredible through everything—taking turns staying with her, keeping up with her older brother’s soccer schedule, maintaining some sense of normalcy.”
JW’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “How long have you been working with them?”
“Since the beginning. I was the one who helped them navigate insurance battles and connected them with housing assistance when Steve had to take unpaid leave. Amy calls me whenever she’s overwhelmed.” My voice caught. “I promised I’d be there if things got bad.”
“And you will be.”
The certainty in his voice steadied me. This was what I did—what I’d built my life around. Helping families through the worst moments imaginable, providing support when their foundations crumbled.
We reached Denver a little past midnight.
“You don’t have to come in,” I said when he pulled up to the front entrance.
“I’ll park, and I’ll wait. I’m here for whatever you or they need.”
I thanked him as I fought against tears. This man, whom I’d told I needed more time after he professed his love for me, didn’t waver. I didn’t deserve him, but I couldn’t think about that now. I had to pull myself together for Carley’s sake, for her family’s sake.
The pediatric oncology ward felt different in the middle of the night—quiet and still. I’d spent countless hours here, but walking these halls never got easier. The medicinal smell, the soft-soled shoes squeaking on linoleum, the muted conversations behind partially closed doors where families processed impossible news.
I found Amy standing outside Carley’s door, clutching a cup of coffee that had probably gone cold hours ago. When she saw me, her composed facade crumbled.
“Echo, thank God you came.”
I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the way she shook against my shoulder. “How is she?”
“Dr. Reeves says it could be hours or…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “Steve’s with her now. She asked for you.”
Carley’s room was filled with the soft beeping of monitors and the whispered conversations of the medical staff. The little girl who’d charmed everyone at our summer picnic just weeks ago looked impossibly small in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines and tubes.
“Miss Echo!” Her voice was barely a whisper, but her eyes still held that spark I remembered.
“Hi, sweetheart. I hear you’re giving everyone a scare.”
She managed a smile. “Mama said you drove all night to see me.”
“I did. Wouldn’t want to miss visiting with my favorite girl.”
Over the next several hours, I moved between Carley’s room and the family lounge, helping Amy and Steve navigate conversations with doctors, coordinating with other family members, and handling the practical details that could overwhelm grieving parents. Other families filled the hallways—some celebrating small victories, others beginning journeys similar to the Wheelers’. I recognized the look in their eyes, the exhaustion that came from hoping and fearing in equal measure.
The medical staff moved through their routines with compassionate efficiency, but I could see the weight they carried too. Dr. Reeves, who’d been treating Carley since her diagnosis, had that haunted look pediatric oncologists developed after years of fighting battles they couldn’t always win.
“She’s comfortable,” he told us during a morning update. “We’re managing her pain, and she’s surrounded by people who love her.”
The words were kind, but we all understood what he wasn’t saying directly.
As evening approached, Carley’s breathing became more labored. Steve held one of her hands while Amy stroked her forehead, both parents whispering words of love and promises that they’d be okay. I stood at the foot of her bed, my professional composure intact even as my heart broke for this family.
Carley died peacefully just after sunset, with her parents’ voices the last thing she heard.
The aftermath was a blur of procedures and paperwork, of helping the Wheelers make impossible decisions while their world collapsed around them. I coordinated with the funeral home they chose, connected them with our grief counseling services, and ensured they understood the charity’s continued support throughout this transition.
“I don’t know how we would have managed without you,” Amy said as we prepared to leave the hospital hours later. “Thank you.”
“Carley was an extraordinary little girl. I was honored to know her.”
After the Wheelers left for home and the difficult task of telling Carley’s brother what had happened, I found myself walking through the hospital corridors aimlessly. The pediatric ward had quieted again, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave yet.
I took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the long hall to the hospital chapel. It was a small, non-denominational space with simple wooden pews and stained glass windows that caught the hallway lights in jeweled patterns. The room was empty, offering the kind of silence I desperately needed.
I sank into a back pew, finally allowing myself to feel the full impact of the day. Carley’s death, while not unexpected, had hit me harder than I’d anticipated. Maybe because she’d been so young, or because her parents had trusted me so completely, or because losing her felt like losing all the other children I hadn’t been able to save over the years.
The tears came without warning—deep, wrenching sobs that shook my entire body. All the composure I’d maintained while navigating them through their darkest day dissolved into grief I could no longer contain.
I didn’t hear footsteps in the chapel doorway, wasn’t aware of another presence until I felt someone settle into the pew, beside me. When I looked up through my tears, JW was there, not speaking, just present in the way I needed most.
“How did you—?” I started to ask.
“I knew you needed me, and I came.”
He didn’t offer platitudes about Carley being in a better place, didn’t try to minimize my grief with empty reassurances. Instead, he simply sat with me while I cried, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of my emotions.
When the worst of the tears subsided, he spoke quietly. “She was lucky to have you with her.”
“I couldn’t save her.”
“That wasn’t your job. Your job was to make sure she wasn’t alone, that her family had support. You did that.”
“Some days, I wonder if I’m strong enough for this work,” I admitted, the words escaping before I could stop them.
“Echo.” He turned to face me fully. “I watched you as we drove here. Your focus was on the family from the moment you heard you needed to come. Nothing would’ve kept you away. That’s strength.”
Something in his voice and the absolute certainty of his words cracked the last of my defenses. “I’m so tired of being strong all the time.”
Without hesitation, he pulled me against his chest as fresh tears began to fall. His arms encircled me completely, one hand stroking my hair while the other held me steady. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to be comforted, let someone else carry the weight I’d been bearing alone.
“That little girl showed more courage in seven years than most people find in a lifetime. She fought until the end, surrounded by love. There’s beauty in that, even in grief,” he murmured against my hair. “Lean on me, Echo. Let me help you carry this burden. You don’t have to do it alone ever again.”
His words resonated deeper than I’d expected. I thought about the secret I’d been carrying for decades, the weight of the choices I’d made when I was too young to understand their full consequences. JW spoke about not bearing burdens alone, but how could I share mine? How could I risk destroying this fragile connection we were rebuilding?
“Life is too short for fear,” he continued, his voice gentle but firm. “Carley knew that, even at her young age. She didn’t waste time being afraid of treatment or procedures or even dying. She just loved her family and let them love her in return.”
I pulled back to look at him, seeing my own grief reflected in his eyes, but also something else—a deep understanding of loss and the preciousness of time.
“JW, I…” I shook my head, unable to push him away again.
“We’ve already lost thirty years. Echo. We can’t get those back, but we don’t have to waste whatever time we have left.” His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing away tears. “Our love has endured through all the time we’ve been apart. I know you love me just as much as I love you. We can do this. We can get past the pain and hurt and uncertainty.”
The chapel fell silent around us, broken only by the distant sounds of hospital activity beyond the doors. In this quiet sanctuary, surrounded by the echoes of others’ prayers and hopes, I felt something shift inside me.
“You’re right. I never stopped loving you,” I whispered, the admission torn from someplace deep and hidden. “Even when I hated you for leaving, even when I convinced myself I’d moved on—I never stopped.”
His intake of breath was sharp, his eyes searching mine. “Maya—”
“I was so angry when you came back. Terrified of feeling everything again, of risking the life I’d built on the assumption that you were gone forever.” The words came faster now, as if Carley’s death had broken something open that had been sealed too long. “But watching her family today, seeing how they loved each other even knowing it would end—maybe the risk is worth it.”
JW’s forehead touched mine, his eyes closing as if in prayer. “It is. I believe that with all my heart.”
“I want to see what we could be now, as the people we’ve become.” My voice grew stronger with each word. “I want to try again. To give us a chance.”
When he kissed me, it tasted of tears but also of the sweetness of new beginnings. In the hospital chapel, surrounded by the weight of loss and the fragility of life, I let him in and knew I could never let him go again.
“So what happens now?” I asked, still wrapped in his arms.
“Now, we take each day as it comes. No more wasted time.”
I nodded, holding tight to his words and to him. Praying it could be that simple.
19
JW
The drive back to Crested Butte from Denver stretched through the early morning hours, both of us emotionally drained from Carley’s death, but somehow lighter too. Echo dozed while I navigated the mountain highways, her hand resting in mine on the console—a simple touch that felt like everything.
We’d crossed a threshold in that hospital chapel. After thirty years of separation and weeks of careful dancing around each other, we’d finally admitted what we both knew. We still loved each other, and we weren’t going to waste any more time pretending otherwise.
“Come inside,” Echo said as we pulled into her driveway. “I need coffee, and we should talk.”
Her house was exactly what I’d imagined—cozy and welcoming, with books stacked on tables and photographs covering the mantle. It felt like her, warm and thoughtful. She moved around the kitchen, making coffee while I took in the space that had been her sanctuary all these years.
“So we’re really doing this,” she said, setting mugs between us. Not a question.
“We are.” I reached across the table for her hand. “The arrangements we’ve discussed—me here most of the time, trips to Sangre Vista when needed—will that work for you?”
“It will. You’ll be busy at Roaring Fork when we’re here. Either working or with your grandchildren.” She smiled and winked, then her expression turned serious. “My work will have its emergencies, like yesterday.”
“And I’ll drive you wherever you need to go,” I said. “You won’t face any of it alone again, Echo.”
The look of relief that spread across her face was worth every mile, every tank of gas, every sleepless night.
“You should get some rest,” I said, standing to leave.
“Oh, um, right.” She stood too and walked me to the door.
“Before I go, there’s something I need.” I cupped her cheek and wound my other arm around her waist.
Echo’s eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the same desire I felt. The same heated look I remembered from years ago. I wanted this woman with every breath I took, but our reunion was still fragile. She’d given in and agreed to try again, but if I pushed too hard, I risked her changing her mind.
I kissed her long, slow, and deep, loving the feeling of her breasts crushed against my chest when I pulled her closer so she could feel how hard I was for her.
“Do you have to leave?” she asked.
“Not if you want me to stay.”
“I do.” She led me toward the back of the house, to her bedroom.
When we reached the threshold, I stopped. “Echo…”
She stopped too. “If I misunderstood—”
I silenced her with another kiss that was full of passion, and heat, and promise. “You didn’t. I just want to make sure you really want this.”
She half smiled. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I smiled too. “Perhaps not as obvious as my desire for you.”
“JW, I want this. More than anything. Now that the door has opened, I can’t close it. I burn for you, JW.”
The air was thick with anticipation, a silent symphony of heartbeats echoing through the room when we walked in. Her bedroom was bathed in afternoon sunlight. The scent of lavender filled the air, a soft, lingering whisper of tranquility amidst the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.
