Page 4 of Roaring Fork Rockstar (Roaring Fork Ranch #3)

HOLT

T he digital clock on my nightstand read a few minutes before eight. Outside my window, snow drifted down in thick, lazy flakes, blanketing the Roaring Fork Ranch in unblemished white.

“Shit,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair as last night’s events flooded my memory.

Luna. Keltie’s daughter. Those enormous brown eyes that had looked right through me, and the overwhelming sense that something was wrong with her. The feeling had hit me so hard I’d bolted from the Goat without even grabbing my guitar.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor cold beneath my bare feet. The cabin felt emptier without the Gibson propped in its usual corner.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, checking for messages. Nothing new from Remi, which surprised me since, previously, he was relentless in trying to reach me.

After a quick shower, I pulled jeans and a flannel shirt on, then laced up my boots. The main house would be bustling by now. Sunday morning breakfast was a new Wheaton tradition since Flynn and her husband, Irish, had moved in with their twins.

For the last couple of years, as the rest of us moved out, we’d wondered if anyone would ever live there again.

The best part was that Flynn and Irish were redoing the entire place, updating it, and making it their own.

I hoped that by doing so, the bad memories of our asshole father would be scraped away like old wallpaper.

The walk from my cabin took less than five minutes, but the frigid air stung my lungs with each breath. I paused halfway, taking in the view.

Music drifted from inside as I approached—Flynn’s playlist of indie folk mixed with the clatter of pans and the rumble of conversation. I stomped the snow from my boots on the porch and pushed the door open.

“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.