Page 1 of Roaring Fork Rockstar (Roaring Fork Ranch #3)

KELTIE

I should have known something was up the moment the Wheaton siblings huddled together and bolted for the door.

But on the twenty-first of December, with the Goat packed wall to wall for our early Christmas bash, I had other concerns—like keeping the bourbon flowing and making sure no one fell off the mechanical bull we’d rented for the night.

Taking over my family’s old bar in this small mountain ski town wasn’t the career path I’d imagined after years of mixing sound for touring bands, but the money my father had promised I’d make would help with Luna’s medical bills.

“Another round for table six,” I told Miguel, my most reliable employee, sliding the empty glasses across the polished wood.

The holiday crowd pressed in from every direction, a sea of flannel and denim, cowboy hats and boots.

Through the crush, I spotted him again—Holt Wheaton—the local musician who’d been playing regular Thursday- and Saturday-night sets since I reopened.

The man was unfairly gorgeous, with intense blue eyes and dark hair that he kept long enough to run fingers through.

Not that I was looking. Not with Luna at home with Mrs. Lopez, my elderly neighbor who charged half her going rate because she adored my daughter.

His voice, though—that was something else entirely.

The first time I heard him sing, I nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks.

There was a raw, haunting quality to it that made the hair on my arms stand up.

The locals told me he was part of a famous band that toured internationally, but he never mentioned it when he showed up every week, guitar case in hand, asking if the stage was ready.

“Keltie!” One of the waitresses—Jenna, I think—waved frantically from across the room. “We need more napkins!”

As I ducked beneath the bar to grab a stack, my phone buzzed with a text from Mrs. Lopez, confirming Luna was asleep. I allowed myself a small breath of relief. The good nights were becoming more frequent, but I never took them for granted.

I checked the time—three more hours before I could relieve the sitter and hold my little girl close.

I hated being away from my daughter at night, but the stack of her medical bills grew faster than I could pay them down.

I glanced over at Holt again, reminding myself there was no time to fantasize about blue-eyed musicians when my four-year-old needed specialized care I could barely afford.

The Wheaton family had caught my attention earlier, a boisterous group celebrating near the fireplace.

I’d recognized Holt immediately, of course, but hadn’t met the others until they approached the bar.

The introductions had been casual enough—Cord and his wife, Juni, her parents, and another woman, named Samantha, who came to stand near them.

That’s when everything shifted.

“Hey, Cord,” the one called Juni had said, pointing to a picture on the wall. “And, Sam, did you see this?”

They were all staring at a photo I’d hung, of my father with his sister Ursula outside the original Goat.

“How do you know my aunt Ursula?” I asked, moving toward them.

The older man—Jay, Juni’s father—looked over his daughter’s shoulder. “That looks like the guy I bought our place from.”

My forehead scrunched. “That’s my dad.”

“What’s his name?” Jay asked.

“Victor Marquez.”

The one called Cord muttered something under his breath while his wife spun around, her eyes wide with shock.

“So, uh, anyone wanna fill me in?” I asked, feeling like I’d walked into the middle of a movie.

That’s when Samantha stepped closer. “Pilar Marquez was my grandmother. I’m Samantha.”

The revelation hung in the air between us, a connection neither of us had known existed. I grabbed the bourbon without thinking, lined up shot glasses, and asked who was in. All five raised their hands.

“To the Goat,” I toasted, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.

“To the Goat!” they echoed.

I noticed Holt watching from several feet away, his expression unreadable. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Their intensity wasn’t just for show on stage.

“Did your dad ever mention anything about East Aurora?” Sam asked, leaning across the bar.

I shook my head. “Not really. Only that he and Aunt Ursula ran a place there before I was born.”

“And he never mentioned the Wheaton family? Or the Rookers?”

“No,” I said, trying to recall hearing any random comments about either. “He’s not exactly the reminiscing type.”

Holt approached then, resting his hand on Cord’s shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. I watched them move through the crowd, collecting what I assumed were his other siblings. They gathered near the door, heads bent together in conversation.

“Excuse me,” Cord said, setting his empty glass on the bar. “We need to step outside for a minute.”

Juni looked torn, glancing between her husband and her parents.

“Go,” said Juni’s father. “We’ll be fine.”

I watched them leave, Holt holding the door as the others filed out into the softly falling snow. Something told me they wouldn’t be back—at least not tonight.

“Your father might have the answers we’ve been looking for,” Sam said, handing me a napkin where she’d written her phone number. “Would you mind asking him to give me a call tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I replied, tucking the number into my pocket. “But I’m not promising anything. Dad can be…selective about what he shares.”

Hours later, after Sam and her husband had also left and the bar emptied, I counted out the register while thinking about Luna.

Four years old and already braver than most adults I knew.

The recurring doctor visits for her unexplained fevers were adding up—meaning I needed to earn a helluva lot of money.

I rolled my shoulders, willing the stress away, then locked the cash in the safe and grabbed my coat.

“You heading out, boss?” Miguel called out.

“Yeah. You good to finish up?”

He stopped sweeping. “Hey, what was that all about earlier? With the photo?”

I shrugged. “Family stuff, I guess. Turns out my dad has more connections to this town than he let on.”

“Mysterious.” Miguel grinned. “Like a telenovela.”

“God, I hope not.” I laughed, though part of me wondered.

Outside, the temperature had dropped to well below freezing.

The snow crunched under my boots as I made my way to where I’d parked.

Downtown Crested Butte sparkled with Christmas lights, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the beauty of it—the white-peaked butte, visible even in the darkness, the quiet of a small town long since closed up for the night.

I climbed into my truck and turned the key, waiting for the engine to warm. Tomorrow, I’d call my father and demand answers. But tonight, I needed to get home to Luna. Whatever secrets lingered in the walls of the Goat would have to wait until morning.

As I pulled away from the curb, I caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing under a streetlight across the street—Holt Wheaton, watching as I drove past. Our eyes met for a brief moment before I turned the corner, heading for home.

What was he doing, standing out in the cold?

Did he need help? What had happened to all his siblings?

I couldn’t stop myself. I spun the truck around and pulled up beside him. “Everything okay?” I asked.

He stepped over and rested his arms on the window I’d lowered. “Favorite time here in town,” he said. “When everything’s quiet enough that you can hear the snow falling.”

“Well, it’s actually my favorite time to be in bed. Err, I mean, asleep.”

He chuckled and stepped away. “You got me there. Being in bed is my favorite thing too—and I don’t mean to sleep,” he added with a wink.

I shook my head, raised the window, and drove the three blocks home, knowing damn well that as soon as I crawled under my covers, I’d fall asleep wondering what sharing my sheets with the rock god Holt Wheaton would be like.