Roaring Fork Rockstar (Roaring Fork Ranch Book 3), page 3
“Look what the storm blew in,” Buck called from his position at the stove, spatula in hand.
“Morning,” I replied, heading straight for the coffeepot.
The dining room table was already crowded. Cord and Juni sat side by side, their honeymoon glow still evident despite the early hour. Flynn and Irish’s twins, Paxon and Rooker, babbled in their high chairs while Irish tried to convince them to eat their breakfast rather than wear it. Buckaroo—Buck and TJ’s two-year-old son—smooshed his pancakes with pudgy fingers as TJ wiped syrup from his cheeks while Beau and Sam sat quietly at the end of the table, taking it all in.
“Unca Holt!” Buckaroo squealed when he spotted me, waving syrupy fingers in my direction.
“Hey, little man,” I said, taking a seat.
“Miguel called the house phone, looking for you, this morning,” Flynn said, one eyebrow raised. “Said you left your guitar at the bar last night. That’s not like you.”
Buck glanced in my direction, but I avoided his gaze, focusing instead on pouring maple syrup over my pancakes. Buck had always been able to read me better than the others—a talent that grew more annoying with age.
“Heard a rumor that CB Rice is headed out on tour next year,” he said.
“You heard right.”
Flynn put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Holt.”
I focused on my plate rather than the pity in my baby sister’s gaze. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”
“I hate to butt my nose in, but the stipulations of this trust are highly manipulative,” said Beau, shaking his head.
Given Sam had inherited the estate where Cord was sent last year, which we subsequently found out had been in our mother’s family—and that Sam was our cousin—it didn’t surprise me that Beau had heard the whole story.
A heavy silence fell over the table. Our father had ruled the ranch with an iron fist for forty years. What secrets he’d taken to his grave, we might never know.
“I’m not convinced this was Dad’s doing,” said Cord, clearing his throat. “Something tells me our mom was involved.”
“Mom, who died years before Dad did?” Flynn objected.
“She kept her share of secrets,” Buck countered. “And now, Keltie Marquez, who owns the Goat, has a photograph of her aunt and father from decades ago, and I’m convinced Mom was aware of it, somehow.”
I set down my fork with an unintentional clatter. “Did any of you know of Victor Marquez?”
A chorus of nos answered me.
“I spoke with Keltie yesterday,” Sam said, breaking the momentary silence. “She said she and her daughter are staying here for Christmas. Seems like they’re on their own.”
“She has a daughter?” Juni asked, surprise evident in her voice.
“Luna,” I confirmed without thinking
“She’s four,” Sam added.
Six pairs of eyes turned to me with varying degrees of curiosity.
“I met her last night,” I explained, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “She came to the bar, looking for her mom.”
“Was she alone?” Juni asked.
“No, with an older woman. Her babysitter, I think.”
“Was she okay being in a bar?” TJ wondered aloud. “That’s an odd place for a kid that age.”
I thought about Luna’s flushed cheeks and the something in her eyes that didn’t seem quite right. “She seemed… I don’t know. Not sick exactly, but not entirely well either.”
Flynn and TJ exchanged a glance, the kind of silent communication that happens between mothers.
“What?” I asked, noticing the look.
“Nothing,” Flynn said too quickly. “Just… kids that age catch everything. Especially at this time of year.”
“What would you think of inviting them to spend Christmas with us?” Sam asked. “With Buckaroo and the twins, it would be fun for Luna. And then they wouldn’t be alone for the holiday.”
A murmur of agreement swept around the table.
“Someone needs to ask them,” TJ pointed out, glancing meaningfully in my direction.
“Why me?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Because you’re already halfway in love with her.” Buck smirked.
“I am not,” I protested, feeling the tips of my ears burn. “I barely know her.”
“Then, get to know her,” Flynn suggested. “While inviting her to spend Christmas here.”
I pushed away from the table. “I’ll think about it.”
Their knowing looks followed me as I retreated to the kitchen to refill my coffee mug.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Sam said, appearing beside me with her own empty cup. “They’re typical siblings.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
Sam gave me a sympathetic look. “I think inviting Keltie is a good idea, regardless of whether you’re interested in her romantically. This is all new for her—new town, running a business, raising a child alone. Trust me, holidays can be rough when you’re flying solo.”
There was a weight to her words that suggested personal experience. I studied her face, thinking about how recently she’d discovered she was our cousin.
“I’ll ask,” I promised. “But no matchmaking attempts from any of you.”
Sam smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Would we do that?”
“In a heartbeat,” I grumbled, but found myself smiling too. “Seriously, though. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
I motioned for her to follow me out to the screened-in porch. “So, we’re cousins, and you and Keltie are cousins. Does that mean…?”
Sam shook her head before I finished the question. “I’m related to you on your mom’s side and to her on my grandmother’s side. She was a Marquez like Keltie’s dad is. Your mom wasn’t related to the Marquez family. Keltie’s aunt married your mother’s brother.”
I cocked my head, not sure I followed everything she’d said.
“Holt, if you were cousins, I’d tell you.”
That was good enough for me. “Thanks,” I said before heading out to my truck. “Say bye to everyone for me, would you?”
“Are you going to invite her for Christmas?”
“Yes, Sam.”
As I walked away, I heard her clap.
After breakfast, I returned to my cabin and dug out my laptop. With half my earnings this coming year going to charity, I wanted to know exactly where that money was headed.
The Miracles of Hope Children’s Charity website was basic but functional. Founded twenty-two years ago by an anonymous resident whose child had been diagnosed with a rare blood disorder, the organization specifically helped families in Crested Butte with kids facing serious medical conditions.
Luna’s face flashed before me—those big brown eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and that inexplicable feeling that had hit me like a truck when I shook her tiny hand. The certainty that something was wrong remained—a weight in my chest I couldn’t dislodge.
My phone buzzed, Remi’s name flashing on the screen. I’d been expecting this call since yesterday.
“Where the hell are you?” His voice boomed through the speaker, his New York accent thickening with anger. “We had a session booked yesterday. Ben’s been waiting.”
“I can’t do it, Remi,” I said, the words burning my throat on their way out. “I can’t join the tour.”
Silence hung on the line for several seconds.
“Is this your idea of a negotiation tactic?” he finally asked, suspicion creeping into his tone. “Because if you want more money—”
“It’s not about money,” I cut him off. “It’s a family situation. I can’t leave Crested Butte for the next year.”
“A year?” Remi’s voice rose in pitch. “The tour kicks off in three weeks, Holt. We need you in the studio now.”
“I know the timeline.” I paced the length of my cabin, boots thudding against the wooden floor. “I wish things were different.”
“This is career suicide,” Remi warned. “You know that, right? Opportunities like this don’t come around twice.”
The weight of his words settled in my chest.
“I know,” I said quietly.
“What am I supposed to tell Ben? He considers you part of the family.”
I closed my eyes, realizing I should’ve been the one to tell him. I’d known Ben Rice my whole life, and our families were close. I should’ve had the courtesy to tell him before Remi.
“Let me talk to him. This is personal, man.”
Remi snorted. “Personal? What it is, is bullshit.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “This isn’t your business, Gilbert.”
“I make it my business when someone throws away their shot, Holt. I’ve seen it before. Usually, it’s drugs or alcohol.”
“It’s neither,” I said, frustration building.
“Right,” Remi sighed. “Look, I like you. You’re talented. But I can’t hold this spot. If you can’t commit, we’ll have no choice but to find someone to take your place.”
“I understand. I hope the tour’s a success.”
Remi was quiet for a moment. “You’re making a fucking mistake, Holt.”
“Wouldn’t be my first,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest.
After we hung up, I sat on the edge of my bed, guitar-calloused fingers running through my hair. The silence of the cabin pressed in around me, broken only by the occasional sound of timber settling in the cold.
My gaze fell on the corner where my Gibson usually rested. I needed that guitar—needed its familiar weight in my hands. More than that, I needed to see Keltie again, to understand why her daughter had sparked such a visceral reaction in me.
I grabbed my truck keys and headed out into the snow.
Fifteen minutes later, I parked in front of the Goat, surprised to find the lights off. The “Open” sign was flipped to “Closed,” and the handwritten note taped to the door sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Closed due to family emergency.
I sat in my truck, engine idling, staring at the darkened windows. What kind of emergency? Was it the little girl? The feeling that had sent me running last night was back, stronger now.
A tap on my window made me jump. Miguel stood outside, bundled against the cold, holding a familiar guitar case.
I rolled down the window. “Miguel. What happened?”
“Figured you’d come for your guitar. Keltie asked me to lock it up last night.”
“Thanks,” I said when he opened the rear passenger door and set it on the seat. “Where is she? The note says ‘family emergency.’”
His expression turned somber. “Luna. She’s in the hospital over in Gunnison. Fever spiked real bad last night after you left. Keltie texted me at seven, asking if I could let everyone know we’d be closed today.”
My stomach dropped. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Don’t know, man. Keltie sounded pretty scared on the phone when she called to check in an hour ago. Said something about tests they needed to run.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
As Miguel walked away, I gripped the steering wheel and a familiar certainty settled in my bones. I’d been right. Something was wrong with Luna—something serious enough to warrant a hospital visit in the middle of the night.
Without consciously deciding to, I shifted the truck into drive and headed for the highway that would take me to Gunnison. Christmas invitation or not, I needed to see for myself that the little girl with those huge brown eyes was going to be okay.
And if I was being honest, I needed to see her mother too.
5
KELTIE
It was a little after ten in the morning—six hours since I’d rushed Luna to the Gunnison Valley Hospital’s emergency room with a fever that had spiked to 103°F. I sat beside her bed in the pediatric bay, watching her sleep fitfully after hours of tests and medications.
“Mommy?” Luna’s voice was small and raspy.
I brushed a damp curl from her forehead. “I’m right here, baby.”
“When can we go home?”
“Soon, I hope,” I said, forcing a smile. “The doctors are running tests to figure out why you keep getting fevers.”
Luna’s eyelids were already drooping. “I’m tired.”
“Sleep, Luna-bug. I’ll be right here.”
I watched as she drifted off, the steady beep of the heart monitor a metronome tracking each moment. My own heart felt like it might burst from my chest, hammering with fear I couldn’t show her.
This wasn’t our first hospital visit. Over the past three months, Luna had experienced recurring fevers, growing fatigue, and most recently, unexplained bruising on her legs that the previous doctor had dismissed as “normal childhood injuries.” I knew something was wrong, but each time we visited her pediatrician, we left with a different explanation—a virus, a growth phase, childhood anemia.
The curtain rustled as Dr. Patel entered, clipboard in hand. The on-call pediatrician who’d examined Luna when we arrived was new to us. Unlike the others, he hadn’t dismissed my concerns.
“Ms. Marquez? May I speak with you?”
I squeezed Luna’s hand before stepping right outside the curtained area.
“We have some preliminary blood results,” he said, his expression serious. “Luna’s counts are concerning enough that I believe she should see specialists in Denver for a more thorough evaluation.”
The floor felt like it tilted beneath me. “Are you saying…? What are you saying?”
Dr. Patel lowered his voice. “These symptoms, along with the blood work, could indicate several conditions.”
“Right,” I muttered, hating that I was once again dealing with someone unwilling to tell it to me straight. Maybe it was my sheer exhaustion or that hospitals didn’t give a shit about the people who had to sit at their kid’s bedside for hours on end, but something inside me snapped. “What do you think it is?”
“Given the symptoms, I’d like to determine whether her blood-forming tissues have been compromised. Further testing would help us do that.”
Blood-forming tissues? What in the hell did that mean?
“Specifically certain kinds of cancer,” he added before I could ask. His words struck me in the same way it would have if he’d reached out and punched me. My daughter—my bright, beautiful four-year-old—might have cancer.
“I’ve made some calls,” the doctor continued, his voice fading in and out like a bad radio signal as my mind reeled. “There’s an excellent pediatric oncology team at Children’s Hospital in Denver. They can see Luna next week. In the meantime, we’ll stabilize her fever and run additional tests here.”
I was unable to form words.
“Ms. Marquez? Is there someone I can call for you? A family member or friend?”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “No, thank you. I need a minute.”
“Of course. Luna’s sleeping now. I can ask one of the nurses to step in to give you a few minutes if you’d like.”
I glanced at my daughter, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked beside her. Bunny had been through every fever, every doctor’s visit, every late-night terror. Now, it might be facing something far worse with her.
“I’ll be right back,” I whispered, though she couldn’t hear me.
The walk to the exit felt endless. Nurses and staff blurred past as I moved on autopilot, walking through the automatic doors and out into the frigid December air.
Only when I reached my truck did I finally break. My legs gave way, and my knees hit the frozen asphalt with a dull thud. The tears came without sound at first, then built into gut-wrenching sobs that tore through my chest.
Luna. My baby. My entire world. The thought of losing her was unimaginable. Yet here I was, forced to imagine it.
Would our new insurance cover all these tests? What would happen to the bar while we were in Denver? The questions spiraled, each more overwhelming than the last.
A warm hand touched my shoulder, gentle but firm. I startled, looking up through tear-blurred eyes.
Holt Wheaton crouched beside me, his blue eyes filled with concern. Without a word, he embraced me.
I should have pulled away. I barely knew this man. Instead, I collapsed against his chest, my fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket as the sobs overtook me again. He held me, one hand stroking my hair, the other arm wrapped around me, saying nothing, asking nothing.
When the worst of it finally passed, leaving me hollow and spent, I wiped roughly at my face.
“What are you doing here?” My voice was hoarse from crying.
“I stopped by the Goat, and Miguel told me you brought Luna here.” Holt’s gaze was steady. “I thought you might need…” He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
Need what? Need him? The thought should have annoyed me, but instead, a treacherous part of me whispered that maybe I did.
He handed me a bandana from his pocket. “Here.”
I took it and wiped my face. “Thanks. I, uh, should go inside.”
“Let me walk you.” He stood, extending his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I took it.
As we passed his truck, Holt stopped. “Hold on a sec.” He reached inside and pulled out his guitar case. “Maybe this will help. You know, kids usually like music.”
The simple gesture—so unexpected, so thoughtful—nearly broke me again.
Inside, Dr. Patel was waiting near the nurses’ station. His eyes flickered between Holt and me.
“Ms. Marquez, you’re here. Good.” He glanced at Holt. “Is this Luna’s father?”
“No,” I said quickly. “He’s a friend.”
Holt extended his hand. “Holt Wheaton. Here for support.”
“I’d like a private word with Ms. Marquez, if you don’t mind,” said Dr Patel.
“No problem.” Holt took a step away. “I’ll wait over there.”
