Page 11 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)
“Yes. She convinced Roscoe that they should take the baby to a hospital in Denver. When the doctors told them it was leukemia…” I shook my head. “When she was eventually able to get away long enough to call us, I could barely understand her through the tears.”
“What did you do? You couldn’t show up at the hospital.”
“No, but my mother could. She posed as a volunteer from a local charity that helped families with their other children when they had a sick child requiring extended care.”
The next image was taken in a hospital room. Ursula sat beside Scarlett’s bed, reading to Buck, who was a little over a year old. He was curled up on my mother’s lap, clutching a stuffed animal.
“My dad had no idea who she was?”
“None. As far as he knew, she was just a kind woman who came during the day to help with Buck so he could stay home and keep the ranch running. The two women were careful to maintain the cover story.”
Flynn examined the hospital photograph, worry creasing her brow. “How long did this go on?”
“They spent three months watching that beautiful little girl fight for her life while they pretended to be strangers.” I rubbed my temples, the memories still heavy.
“I’ve never felt so powerless. I couldn’t visit, couldn’t hold Patricia when she cried, couldn’t do anything but wait for phone calls. ”
“And Scarlett?”
I met her eyes. “She died in December. She was nine months old.”
Flynn wiped tears from her cheeks, taking a moment to compose herself. “How did my parents handle it?”
“Differently. Patricia wanted to talk about Scarlett, to remember her, to keep her memory alive. Roscoe wanted to pretend she’d never existed.” I handed her another letter. “This came a week after the funeral.”
She absorbed the words, growing more disturbed. “She sounds so alone.”
“She was. The drinking that had been concerning before Scarlett’s illness, became much worse after her death. Roscoe was constantly angry—explosive outbursts over minor things. A gate left open, a tool out of place, Buck making too much noise.”
“Did he hurt them?” she asked, her voice dropping.
“Not physically. But the emotional abuse was constant. He’d disappear for hours, coming home drunk and furious at the world. Patricia bore the double burden of loss and protection.”
Flynn folded the letter with shaking hands. “Did she consider leaving?”
“Many times, but then things would get better for a while. So she endured the bad times. One of the things she did was create Scarlett’s Hope Children’s Charity.
The idea came from my mother’s cover story.
It made her realize there was a need to provide support to families with seriously ill children. ”
“You said she endured the bad times. What does that mean?”
“For nearly a year. Those months almost broke her spirit—until everything changed.” A different image came next—Patricia holding a newborn baby, with Roscoe standing beside her, smiling. “Porter was born one year after Scarlett died.”
Flynn looked at the photo. “My dad looks hopeful.”
“The birth of a healthy son seemed to shock Roscoe back to reality. He realized what he was about to lose—not just his wife and Buck, but any chance at the family he’d wanted. He promised her he’d stop drinking and that he’d get help for his anger. They agreed to work on their marriage.”
“Did he keep those promises?”
“For several years, yes. The period after Porter’s birth brought some of their better times together.
But the damage from those dark months after Scarlett’s death…
” I shook my head. “Some wounds never heal. The pattern was established—when troubles arose, Roscoe turned to alcohol and anger instead of relying on his wife.”
I showed her more photos of Patricia with three boys, then four.
“Despite everything, your mom found strength in motherhood. Patricia had this remarkable ability to separate her roles—to give her children the love and stability they needed, even when her marriage was struggling. We maintained our secret contact system throughout this period. She insisted things were manageable between her and Roscoe. They had their difficulties, like any married couple.”
She studied the images. “But you were worried.”
“Sick with it. I wanted to help, but I was trapped by the same circumstances that had brought us to Colorado initially.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I reached for a different folder in the portfolio. “When Holt was still a baby, everything changed. Cena’s investigators told her my father had figured out we might be in Colorado.”
Flynn’s eyes widened. “How? Because of the Goat?”
“We don’t know for certain.”
I handed her an envelope marked “URGENT” in Cena’s distinctive handwriting. “This arrived when Holt was just learning to walk. Cena found out that my father had instructed Jimmy to search for us in Colorado and that he was closing in on Crested Butte.”
She scanned the letter, alarm spreading across her face. “He was asking questions in Gunnison, showing old photographs of you and your mom.” She raised her head. “Did he find you?”
“No, but it was only a matter of time. The valley is a small community—everyone knows everyone. Someone would’ve eventually recognized us.” I leaned forward. “The worst part was realizing what our presence would mean for Patricia.”
Her face went pale. “What did you do?”
“The only thing we could. We ran again. Cena had been preparing for this possibility for years. She had resources in place, new identities ready.”
“Where did you go?”
“Here. To New Mexico. Cena purchased the property through a shell corporation. It was remote, isolated, perfect for disappearing.” I gestured around the library.
“What you see now is the result of more than twenty-five years of building a new life, but when we first arrived, it was just raw land and an old ranch house.”
“You were forced to leave my mom.”
“I made contact before we left. I’ll never forget the sound of her voice when I explained why we had to go.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me she understood. That she’d known that day might come.”
Flynn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What happened next?”
“We disappeared. New names, new identities, no contact with anyone from our past lives. Victor and Ursula sold the Goat to the Rice family, and we vanished. As far as anyone in Crested Butte knew, Mary Marquez and her son JW moved away.”
“Did Jimmy ever find out you’d been there?”
“He came close. Cena’s people reported he’d identified several people who remembered us, but by then, we were long gone.”
She stared into the fire, processing everything. “I have another question.”
“I’m sure you have many. Ask whatever you’d like, and I’ll do my best to answer.”
“The Roaring Fork Trust, I don’t remember seeing anything in the copy the attorney gave us about my mom owning the ranch and my dad getting nothing if they divorced.”
“There were two trusts. The first was the Roaring Fork Ranch Trust. The second, just Roaring Fork.”
“I’d ask, but I’m sure you’ll tell me we’ll get to that part of the story later.”
We both smiled. “You’re right,” I teased.
“You said neither of my parents knew about the original one Cena drew up. Did they ever find out?”
“Yes, your mother did.”
“How?”
“About five years into the marriage, she found a letter from Cena to Irma in a desk drawer when she was looking for ranch receipts. It outlined the entire arrangement.”
“What did she do? Did she confront Irma?”
“She did, but your grandmother was unapologetic—in her mind, she’d saved the ranch and provided Patricia with a home and security.”
Flynn rested against the chair.
“That’s enough for today,” I said like I had yesterday.
She nodded. “But there’s more.”
“Much more.”
After she left, I remained in the library, surrounded by the photographs and letters that told the story of our fractured family. Tomorrow, I would tell her about the years that led to her mother’s death and the creation of the trust that had brought us all together.
But tonight, I would allow myself to feel something I hadn’t felt in thirty years—the possibility that all the running, all the hiding, all the painful choices had been worth it.
I’d kept my promise, and Patricia’s children had found their way in life.
They were closer to each other than they’d ever been, and they were happy.
Nothing was ever perfect, but spending time with Flynn had shown me it was close.