Page 21 of Roaring Fork Rockstar (Roaring Fork Ranch #3)

HOLT

I bolted upright at five in the morning, my shirt damp against my skin despite the winter cold permeating my cabin.

The dream of my mother sobbing as she cradled a tiny, frail baby refused to fade.

My father stood on the opposite side of a window, looking in at them with tears streaking down his cheeks.

His unmistakable distress, when he was usually rigid with stern authority, jarred me.

I’d never known him to show grief or such stark vulnerability, even after my mom died.

The sheets were twisted around my legs as I sat there, my pulse racing. These dreams were intensifying, gaining detail and clarity with each occurrence. What baby? My mother had died when Flynn was a toddler. There hadn’t been another child after her.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin to ward off the cold. The fire had died during the night, and I’d forgotten to turn the heat up before I went to bed. Yet, instead of getting up, I remained motionless, the dream scene replaying in my thoughts.

After several minutes, I finally pushed myself to my feet, pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, then shuffled to the fireplace. My fingers trembled as I arranged kindling and struck a match. The tiny flame expanded through the dry pine until a proper fire radiated heat, pushing away the darkness.

But the unease inside me persisted.

I retrieved my Gibson from its stand, seeking the comfort I always found playing the guitar. My fingers moved across the strings, discovering that same melody I couldn’t remember learning yet somehow recognized intimately. Its mournful sound was almost a lullaby with darker undertones.

For nearly two hours, I played variations of the haunting tune, attempting to dispel the disquiet the dream had created. As morning light spilled across the mountains, illuminating the snow-covered landscape outside my window, I set the guitar aside and pressed my palms against my face.

I needed a ride to clear my head.

After a quick shower, I pulled on jeans, boots, and my heaviest flannel before grabbing my coat on the way out. The crisp morning air bit at my cheeks as I trudged through the snow toward the barn.

Voices drifted from inside, where I found Cord and Bridger, our ranch manager. Their conversation halted as I pushed open the heavy wooden door.

“Mornin’,” Cord said, glancing up from what looked like breeding records for our stock.

Bridger raised one hand in greeting, his steady green eyes landing on mine for a moment that felt too long.

At six-foot-five, he was taller than both my brother and me, his imposing frame belying his quiet nature.

In the three years he’d been managing the Roaring Fork, I’d never heard him waste a word.

When Bridger spoke, people listened, mainly because they weren’t sure when he might again.

“You look like shit,” said Cord, frowning at the dark hollows beneath my eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I muttered, moving past them to the tack room. “Thought I’d take Stang out for a ride. Either of you interested?”

Bridger and Cord exchanged a look, and Cord shrugged. “Why not? It’s been a while since the three of us rode together.”

Twenty minutes later, we were on our way out of the barn. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against packed snow and occasional equine snorts broke the winter stillness. We followed the trail winding toward the eastern ridge, where the vista extended for miles across the valley.

Stang picked his way carefully along the path, sure-footed despite the slippery conditions. Ahead of me, Cord rode his paint gelding, Midnight, with the easy confidence of someone born to the saddle. Bridger led the way on Thunder, a massive black stallion that matched his demeanor.

We rode in silence until we reached the ridge. When we stopped, Cord twisted in his saddle to look at me. “You gonna tell us what’s eating at you, or are we supposed to guess?”

I sighed, my breath forming puffs in the frigid air. “Just got things on my mind.”

“Things like a bar owner and her daughter?” Cord’s voice held no judgment, only curiosity.

“Partly,” I admitted, turning Stang to take in the vista spread out below us. From here, the distant ranch buildings looked like toys, and I could see smoke curl from the main house’s chimneys. “But there’s other stuff too.”

Cord dismounted, letting Midnight’s reins hang loose as the horse dropped his head to sniff at the ground. Bridger followed suit, his expression unreadable as always, although he appeared more interested in our conversation than he sometimes did.

I hesitated, considering how much to share. These were the two of the men I trusted most—along with Buck and Porter—yet what I needed to say sounded delusional even to me.

“I’ve been having these… dreams,” I began awkwardly, getting off my horse too. “Or visions, I guess you could call them.”

Cord’s eyebrows rose. “What kind of visions?”

“About Mom.” The words felt thick in my throat. “She’s in a hospital, holding a baby. Last night, Dad was there too—standing outside the window, crying.”

My brother’s expression shifted to one of concern. “A baby? Flynn?”

I shook my head. “No, not Flynn. A smaller baby, sickly looking. Hooked up to machines.”

Saying it aloud made it sound even more absurd. But the dream had felt real—more memory than fantasy.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had… feelings about things,” I admitted, looking out over the valley rather than at my companions. “When Mom got sick, I knew. Before anyone told me, before the doctors even diagnosed her.”

“You never mentioned that,” Cord said quietly.

“How do you tell people something like that? ‘Hey, by the way, I get these premonitions sometimes.’” I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. “Sounds crazy.”

“Not necessarily.” To my surprise, it was Bridger who spoke. “Native Americans believe there are people who are born with a spiritual sensitivity—the ability to see beyond what others can.”

Cord and I both turned to look at him.

“My grandmother used to talk about it,” he continued, his eyes on the distant mountains. “She said certain folks have different eyes for seeing.”

“Thanks, man,” I said, genuinely touched by his attempt to normalize what I was experiencing. “Still feels pretty messed up.”

“So, what do you think these dreams about Mom and the baby mean?” Cord asked.

I removed my hat and ran a hand through my hair.

After the night Keltie and I almost let things go too far, I’d given her space—not wanting to crowd her, to push for more than she was ready to give.

But the separation was making me restless, worried.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re stress dreams. There’s a helluva lot going on. ”

“I, err, don’t know if you’ve heard, but Sam’s going to Denver with Luna and Keltie tomorrow. For the appointment,” said Cord.

“Seriously?” I said, unable to mask my hurt. “I was supposed to go with her.”

Bridger cleared his throat softly. “Sometimes, when people are scared, they reach for what feels safe. A woman might understand another woman’s fears better.”

His insight caught me off guard again. For someone so quiet, he certainly had a lot to say today.

We mounted up and rode to the ranch in silence, my mind churning with the dreams, the trust, and most of all, Keltie and Luna.

By the time we reached the barn, I’d made up my mind to drive over to Ben Rice’s studio today.

We’d postponed getting together since another storm was supposed to dump snow on us, but that didn’t end up happening.

Now, I needed a distraction, and recording an EP felt like the perfect escape.

Ben’s studio was impressive—everything a musician could dream of. He played me a track from the new album, one I’d helped write but would never perform live, and my gut twisted with regret.

Ben watched my face carefully as the song played. When it ended, he said, “Your fingerprints are all over that track, Holt. No one plays it the same way you do.”

“It sounds great,” I said, meaning it despite the pang of what-might-have-been.

“It’s ready for you to lay down your tracks,” he said quietly. “Whenever you’re into it.”

“Seriously?” I said for the second time today, albeit in an entirely different way.

“Absolutely. We need you on this one.”

Liv stepped farther into the room. “How are Keltie and Luna?” she asked, setting her coffee cup down. “Luna is such a sweet child.”

The mention of the little girl’s name brought an immediate smile to my face. “She is. Smart as a whip too.”

“And quite attached to you, from what I could see,” she added.

I couldn’t deny it. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“For both mother and daughter?” Ben asked, his tone teasing, but his eyes serious.

Heat crept up my neck. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair to say.”

“Good.” Liv’s smile widened. “You deserve someone special, Holt. Both of you do.”

“This is beyond generous, Ben.”

“It’s selfish, really,” he countered. “I want to hear what you come up with. And, hey—if Keltie ever wants to get behind a mixing board again, you should encourage it.”

I tensed, remembering how Keltie had reacted to Ben’s recognition of her at Christmas. “I’ll mention it,” I said, hesitating. “But, as you know, it’s been a while since she’s done that work.”

“Like riding a bike,” Ben said with a wave of his hand. “That kind of talent doesn’t go away.”

The tour continued as Ben pointed out the features of the studio while Liv occasionally added her own insights. They were gracious hosts, yet I found my mind continually drifting to Keltie and Luna. Two days without seeing them felt like an eternity.

When I pulled up to my cabin later that afternoon, Cord was waiting on my porch, arms crossed against the cold.

“Six-pack’s been asking questions,” he said as I climbed out of my truck.

I frowned, unlocking my door and gesturing for him to follow me inside. “What kind of questions?”