Roaring Fork Rooker, page 4
Irish’s brow furrowed. “The twins were up at five-thirty, checking to see if more snow had fallen overnight.”
“It didn’t,” Paxon commented, looking up from his inspection of a cinnamon roll.
“Just a dusting,” I replied. “But enough to refresh the trails if you’d like to explore today.”
The boys cheered while Flynn and Irish exchanged glances.
“I’d be happy to accompany you,” I offered. “There’s a trail that leads to an overlook with spectacular views. Easy enough for small legs, but interesting for adults too.”
“That sounds perfect,” Flynn said. “The boys need to burn off energy, and frankly, we need them to.”
While we ate, I was drawn into a conversation about their life in Colorado. Flynn described their ranch with obvious affection, while Irish shared stories of learning to work cattle after years in the intelligence field. The twins interjected with their own observations about the horses, the snow, and the vast differences between their home and here.
“Mama misses it,” said Rooker, looking up at her.
She shrugged a shoulder. “Honestly, I thought I would more than I do. Don’t get me wrong—I miss my brothers and their families. But…” She trailed off, looking embarrassed.
“What is it?” I pressed gently.
She raised her head, and her eyes bored into mine. For the second time, I waited for her direct question. Also for the second time, she didn’t ask it.
After the meal, we prepared for the hiking excursion. The twins required substantial bundling—layers of clothing, warm hats, waterproof gloves. Flynn secured Rowan in a specialized carrier that would allow her to accompany us while staying warm.
The trail I’d chosen wound through stands of aspen and pine, climbing toward a rocky outcrop that offered panoramic views of the Sangre de Cristo range.
The twins ran ahead and doubled back along the trail, while Irish kept watch and maintained conversation with Flynn and me.
When we reached the overlook, the twins were awed by the vista stretching before us. Flynn stood at the edge of the safe viewing area, Rowan alert in her arms, both mother and daughter absorbing the landscape.
“It’s overwhelming,” Flynn said softly. “The scale of it.”
“Your first time seeing the Sangre de Cristos?” I asked.
“Yes, but…” She shook her head. This time, I didn’t press her to say more.
Irish approached with the twins, who had discovered a patch of snow perfect for making snowballs. “Watch yourselves there, boys. We don’t want to start a war we can’t finish.”
“Can we throw them at Mr. JW?” Rooker asked hopefully.
“Only if Mr. JW agrees to a fair fight,” Flynn replied with a laugh.
What followed was an impromptu snowball battle that left all of us laughing and covered in snow. The twins proved accurate for their age, while Flynn juggled Rowan and snowball construction with impressive dexterity.
For thirty minutes, we were a family enjoying a winter afternoon together. The complexity of my role, the weight of revelations yet to come, faded into the background. This was what I’d hoped for—moments of pure joy, unencumbered by the burdens of the past.
On our return, the twins peppered me with questions about wildlife and weather.
“Maybe tomorrow, we could visit a different part of the ranch,” I suggested as we approached the main building. “There’s an old cabin that might interest you—part of the original homestead.”
Flynn’s eyes lit with curiosity. “How old?”
“Built in the 1880s. It’s been preserved as a historical site. The children might enjoy seeing how families lived back then.”
“Educational and fun,” Irish observed. “Sounds ideal.”
That evening, I called my attorney from my office.
“Flynn has been asking questions,” I reported. “She’s intuiting connections she shouldn’t be able to make. Her instincts are remarkable.”
“Perhaps it’s time to tell her the truth,” said Gregory. The man was my friend as much as my lawyer.
“She’s not ready. Neither am I.”
“JW, you’ve been preparing for this conversation for three decades. At what point will you be ready?”
The question hung in the air after I ended the call. Gregory was right—I’d been preparing for years, yet now that the moment approached, I felt increasingly uncertain about how to proceed.
The next morning brought another clear day, perfect for exploring the historical cabin I’d mentioned. The twins were excited about the prospect of seeing an “old house,” while Flynn and Irish seemed interested in learning more about the ranch’s history.
The cabin sat in a meadow about two miles from the main lodge, accessible by a well-maintained trail that wound through dense forest. Built from local timber and stone, it represented the kind of homestead that had dotted this region in the late 1800s.
“It’s smaller than I expected,” Flynn observed as we approached the single-room structure.
“Families were tougher back then,” I replied, unlocking the heavy wooden door. “Or maybe they just needed less space when survival was the priority.”
Inside, the cabin had been preserved with period furnishings—rough-hewn furniture, cast-iron cookware, simple tools for daily living. The twins explored with fascination, touching everything they were allowed to handle.
“This is how people lived?” Paxon asked, examining a hand-carved wooden bowl.
“For many families, yes,” I said. “They built what they needed with materials they could find.”
Flynn studied a framed photograph hanging on the wall—a sepia-toned image of a family standing in front of the cabin. “Are these the original homesteaders?”
“The Mendoza family,” I confirmed. “They worked this land for nearly thirty years before selling it.”
She leaned closer to examine the photograph. “The woman looks so young to have all those children.”
“Life moved at a different pace then. People married young, started families early.”
“And often died young too,” Irish added grimly, reading a placard about frontier mortality rates.
As we explored the cabin’s single room, I watched Flynn absorb the details—the handmade quilts, the simple furniture, the practical tools for frontier living. She had the same intense focus I’d noticed when she studied the photographs in the lodge, as if she were trying to extract meaning beyond what was visible.
“Were there many homesteads like this in the area?” she asked.
“Dozens. Most are gone now—either collapsed or removed. This one survived because it was built well and later owners chose to preserve it.”
“Lucky for us,” Flynn said, running her hand along the smooth surface of a wooden table.
The twins had discovered a collection of antique toys in a wooden chest—carved animals, a primitive doll, wooden blocks worn smooth by generations of small hands. Their delight in these simple objects reminded me why I’d wanted to share this place with them.
“Can we take some pictures?” Flynn asked, pulling out her camera.
“Of course.”
She photographed the twins with the antique toys, captured Irish examining the cabin’s construction, and took several shots of the interior details. But I noticed she also photographed the family portrait on the wall, studying it through her camera lens as if searching for something.
On the walk back to the lodge, Flynn asked more questions about the area’s history—the ranch’s previous owners, changes in land use, connections to the broader region. Her inquiries were intelligent and persistent, though she maintained a casual tone that suggested simple curiosity rather than a focused investigation.
Irish, I noticed, contributed less to these conversations, but his attention remained sharp.
That afternoon, while the family rested at their cabin, I reviewed the historical documents I’d assembled over the years. Property records, family histories, photographs spanning decades—all organized and preserved. Soon, I would need to share these with Flynn, but not yet.
The number of storms approaching one after the other would likely confine everyone indoors for several days. Perhaps that would provide the right opportunity for deeper conversations, when the isolation would create a natural intimacy for difficult revelations.
My phone rang with a call from Jim, reporting the evening security check.
“All quiet?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Though I noticed Mrs. Warrick spent considerable time on her phone this afternoon. Long conversation with someone.”
“Family, probably. She’s been away from home longer than usual.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We still have two and a half weeks left here,” Flynn said when the family joined me for dinner. “Though it feels like we’ve been here much longer.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Definitely in a good way,” Flynn confirmed. “And thank you for today. The historical cabin, the hike yesterday. We all enjoyed it very much.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I replied honestly.
“Still, I want you to know it’s appreciated.” She paused, considering her next words. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you seem like someone who doesn’t have much family of your own.”
The observation struck closer to home than I was prepared for. “What makes you say that?”
“The way you watch us sometimes. Like you’re absorbing what a family looks like, storing up the memories.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Occupational hazard of being the youngest in a large family. You learn to read people’s expressions.”
Before I could respond, Irish appeared with the children, ready to depart. Flynn squeezed my arm gently before joining her husband and kids for the walk back to Pueblo Moon.
Later, when sleep eluded me, I reflected on Flynn’s perceptive words. Her insight into my behavior suggested she was beginning to piece together more than I’d realized. The conversation I’d been avoiding was approaching, whether I was ready or not.
5
JW
The second week of January brought a restlessness I couldn’t shake. I spent sleepless nights, my mind churning with the weight of what I needed to tell Flynn. The routine we’d established—breakfast in the lodge, activities with the children, quiet dinners by the fire—felt fragile, like a bubble that would burst the moment I spoke the truth.
Time was running out. We were past the halfway point of their month-long stay, and I could sense Flynn’s frustration with my evasions.
Around ten, I saw the family emerge for their morning walk. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in Flynn’s shoulders, the way she kept glancing toward the main lodge as if debating whether to approach.
She was working up the courage to confront me directly. I could sense it.
By lunch, my nerves were taut. When the family arrived at the lodge, I picked up on Flynn’s distraction. She participated in the twins’ chatter about building snow animals, praised Alton’s cooking, and helped Rowan with her baby food, but her attention kept returning to me with that same assessing look.
“The boys want to know if they can help feed the horses this afternoon,” Irish said as we finished eating.
“Rick would love the assistance,” I replied. “He’s always looking for eager helpers.”
“Can we, Mama? Please?” Paxon bounced in his seat.
Flynn smiled at her son’s enthusiasm, but when she looked at me, her expression turned serious. “I was hoping I could speak with you privately this afternoon when Irish takes the boys to feed the horses.”
The moment I’d been dreading and anticipating had arrived. “Of course. My office?”
“That would be perfect.”
The rest of lunch passed in a blur of conversation, but underneath the surface, I could feel the approaching storm—not the weather system moving in, but the reckoning that had been building since the day they arrived.
After the family left, I retreated to my office. The leather portfolio sat on my desk like an accusation. Inside were truths that would transform Flynn’s understanding of her past, her family, and her very identity. Was I ready to share them? Did I have a choice?
At three o’clock, Flynn knocked on my office door.
“Come in,” I called, rising from behind my desk.
She entered, closing the door behind her. She’d changed from her casual morning clothes into dark jeans and a burgundy sweater that brought out the gold highlights in her hair, and that I remembered her wearing shortly after their arrival here. It felt like so long ago. Her expression was determined but not hostile—a woman seeking answers, not a confrontation.
“Thank you for making time,” she said, settling into the chair across from my desk.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
She folded her hands in her lap, gathering her thoughts. “I’ve been here over two weeks now, and I keep feeling like there’s something I’m missing. Something important.”
I waited, letting her speak.
“The trust that brought us here—it’s been orchestrating my family’s lives for three years. Each of my brothers was sent somewhere different, somewhere connected to our mother’s past.” Her eyes met mine directly. “This place, this ranch, you—there’s a connection, isn’t there?”
The question hung in the air between us. I could deflect again, offer another vague non-answer, but Flynn’s intelligence and persistence had made that increasingly difficult. Yet I wasn’t ready to reveal everything. Not yet.
“What makes you think that?” I asked, curious about her reasoning.
“A dozen small things. The way you look at my children sometimes, like you’re seeing someone else in their faces. The photographs in the lodge—several show Colorado landscapes that look familiar. Your questions about our family feel too personal for a stranger making conversation.”
“You’re very observant,” I said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it’s not.” I stood and moved to the window, needing distance. “Flynn, there are…complexities to your family’s situation that I understand better than most would.”
“What does that mean?”
I turned back to face her. “It means your intuition is correct. There are connections I haven’t shared.”
Her expression shifted from frustration to apprehension. “What kind of connections?”
“The kind that require more time to explain properly.” I returned to my desk but remained standing. “Far more than can be covered in a few hours.”
Flynn studied my face, weighing whether to push harder or accept the deflection. “You’re asking me to be patient.”
“I’m asking you to trust that when the time is right, you’ll have the answers you’re seeking.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon.”
She stood, her eyes boring into mine. “I’m left with little choice. As we both know, if I leave, our family will lose everything.”
The observation stung because it held truth. “I’m sorry, Flynn.”
She folded her arms. “You’re sorry? For what? Do you realize that me having to be here ripped me away from my family? The kind of holiday I’d longed for all my life. One I finally experienced last year?”
“You’re here because someone who cares deeply about your family wanted to ensure we had this time together. This place. These memories.”
“Someone who cares about our family.” Flynn repeated the words slowly. “You?”
I met her gaze but said nothing.
“I need to go,” she said abruptly, moving toward the door. “The boys will be wondering where I am.”
At the threshold, she paused without turning around. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“I know.”
“There’s more you’re not telling me.”
“Yes.”
“A lot more.”
“Yes.”
After she left, I stood by the window, watching her figure disappear along the path toward the cabin where her family waited.
I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Jim. Weather update?
His response came quickly. The storm isn’t due to arrive as early as expected. Probably forty-eight hours instead of twenty-four.
Good. The place where I’d hoped to start this conversation wouldn’t be as easily accessible if the weather turned. Perhaps we could meet there in the morning. Just the two of us.
The family joined me for dinner that evening, but the atmosphere had shifted. Irish seemed to sense his wife’s tension, though he gave no indication of knowing its source. His protective instincts were clearly heightened, his attention shifting frequently between Flynn and me as if trying to read the dynamics of our earlier conversation.
“The weather doesn’t look as bad as I’d heard it was going to be,” he observed as we finished the main course.
“The forecast shows several inches heading our way, but not until the day after tomorrow,” I confirmed.
Irish nodded. “Good. The boys can get one more day of outdoor energy consumption in before they have to be cooped up.”
“I have a surprise for them when the snow does come. We set up a playroom in the east wing,” I said when it appeared neither twin was paying attention.
“Playroom?” Paxon’s head shot up from his plate.
I chuckled. “Yes. There are board games, puzzles, and other toys,” I explained.
“Can we see it after dinner?” Rooker asked, bouncing in his seat.
“If your parents don’t mind,” I replied, glancing at Flynn.
“Not tonight,” she said in a tone that was probably meant for me, but its effect on her sons was immediately evident. “I’m sorry,” she added. “But let’s save it for tomorrow night. Okay? We have something special planned at the cabin tonight.”
Irish raised a brow, and Flynn shrugged. “We’ll think of something,” she leaned closer to him and whispered.
