Page 15 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)

But it wasn’t the business discussions that moved me most—it was the ordinary moments.

Dinner conversations that stretched for hours, filled with laughter and gentle teasing between siblings.

The sound of children’s voices echoing through the house as Paxon and Rooker played with their cousins.

The way the brothers and Flynn checked on each other without being asked and offered help before it was needed.

Meeting their wives and children added new dimensions to my understanding of who these men had become.

TJ’s warmth, humor, and the way she anchored Buck while challenging him to grow.

I watched her tease him about his perfectionist tendencies and saw how she softened his edges without changing his essential strength.

“You should have seen him when he first came back,” TJ told me one evening as we watched Buck teaching the children to play cards. “So rigid, so determined to control everything. It took months for him to remember how to just be human.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now, he knows when to be the boss and when to just be Buck,” she said with obvious affection.

Cici’s fierce independence and compassion were a perfect complement to Porter’s steadiness. I saw how she challenged him to see beyond his own guilt, how her dedication to saving Morris Ranch had shown him what fighting for something truly meant.

“Porter’s the strongest person I know,” Cici confided during one of our conversations. “Not because he doesn’t feel pain, but because he chooses love anyway, every single day.”

Juniper’s presence felt like destiny. Her family, the Chances, had purchased the original Goat in East Aurora from Victor and Ursula all those years ago when we fled to Colorado.

Now, she was married to Cord and running an equine rescue program that embodied the same compassion that had driven my mother and Patricia to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

Meeting Keltie had been particularly meaningful—she was Victor’s daughter, making her my cousin on the Marquez side.

Victor had been like a father to me during those years in Crested Butte, and seeing his daughter married to Patricia’s son felt like the universe completing some cosmic circle.

Even more remarkable, she was now running the Goat—the very restaurant Victor, my mother, and I had built together when we first came to Colorado.

But perhaps the most emotional moment had been seeing Victor himself again.

He’d been living in Crested Butte since Luna’s illness, and when we came face-to-face, decades of separation melted away in an instant.

The man who’d given my mother and me refuge, who’d taught me the restaurant business, who’d been the closest thing to a father I’d known since leaving East Aurora, was there, with tears in his eyes, embracing me like the nephew he thought he’d lost forever.

Our conversations over the following weeks filled in gaps from both our lives.

Victor sharing stories of Keltie’s childhood and of building his life in New Mexico before eventually returning to Colorado.

Me telling him about Sangre Vista, about keeping watch over Patricia’s children, and about the promise I’d made to her.

While we saw him occasionally while my mother was still alive, it had been rare, given we lived on opposite sides of the state.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” I said to Holt one evening as we watched Keltie help Luna with her homework. “You and Keltie finding each other.”

“It was like a gift from heaven,” he murmured. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And when she learned Ursula was your mother, that you and Victor worked together at the Goat…”

“It made everything feel connected,” I finished.

The children accepted me with the easy grace of youth. Paxon and Rooker, already comfortable with me from our time at Sangre Vista, served as ambassadors, introducing me to their cousins and vouching for my credentials as a storyteller and horse expert.

“Uncle JW knows everything about horses,” Paxon announced to five-year-old Luna during one family dinner. “And Mama makes the best hot chocolate.”

“Better than mine?” Keltie asked with mock offense.

“Different,” Rooker clarified diplomatically, earning laughter from the adults.

“Uncle JW says if you believe hard enough, anything’s possible,” three-year-old Buckaroo chimed in with the absolute certainty of childhood.

As the weeks progressed, I found myself integrating into their daily routines.

Saturday-morning pancake breakfasts where everyone gathered in the kitchen, contributing to the organized chaos.

Sunday-afternoon activities where I learned the family’s complicated dynamics and long-standing jokes.

Evening story times where I discovered a talent for spinning tales that held the children spellbound.

“You’re a natural with kids,” Flynn observed one evening after I’d finished a particularly elaborate story about those horses that ran faster than trains.

“I never knew I would be,” I admitted.

My growing comfort with openness instead of the decades of secrecy was perhaps the most profound change. For the first time in my adult life, I could speak freely about my thoughts, my feelings, and my past. I didn’t have to measure every word, calculate every revelation.

One evening in mid-February, as we gathered for Sunday dinner, I found myself overwhelmed by the scene around the extended table. Three generations of Patricia’s family, plus Irish and the other spouses who’d become integral parts of the whole.

“You okay?” Flynn asked quietly, leaning toward me.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. How could I explain that this simple dinner represented everything Patricia had wanted for her children?

“She would have loved this,” Flynn continued, reading my thoughts. “All of us together, loud and messy and happy.”

“She would have,” I agreed.

“Tell us about her,” TJ requested. “What was she like as a young woman?”

So I shared stories I’d never told anyone—Patricia’s laugh that could light up a room, her fierce protection of those she loved.

How she’d defend anyone being picked on at school.

How she’d sneak food from our kitchen to give to classmates who didn’t have lunch money.

How she’d always believed the best of people, even when they let her down.

“She sounds wonderful,” Keltie said softly.

“She was, and she would’ve adored all of you.”

Learning about each brother’s personal journey and growth became a revelation.

Buck’s transformation from a CIA operative to loving husband and father.

Porter’s evolution from guilt-ridden alcoholic to confident partner in the roughstock business.

Cord’s journey from traumatized child to successful businessman who’d found peace with his past. Holt’s growth from restless musician to grounded husband and father who’d discovered that love mattered more than fame.

As February turned to March, discussions began about officially dissolving the trust. The legal framework had served its purpose—bringing the siblings together, revealing family history, and ensuring their financial security.

But it was time to transfer ownership directly to them, to remove the last barriers between them and their inheritance.

“It’s strange,” Cord mused during one of our planning sessions. “For three years, this mysterious trust controlled our lives. Now, it’s just paperwork to file.”

“Good riddance,” muttered Buck.

“Agreed,” Porter said. “Though I have to admit the surprises weren’t all bad.”

“Speak for yourself.” Holt laughed. “I still have nightmares about Six-pack’s phone calls.”

Gregory, my attorney, traveled from New Mexico to handle the legal details. I watched him work with a mixture of satisfaction and melancholy—satisfaction that Patricia’s plan had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, melancholy that this chapter was ending.

“The paperwork is straightforward,” Gregory explained as we gathered in Buck’s office. “Dissolving the trust entity, transferring all assets to the siblings as equal owners, and ensuring the tax implications are properly managed.”

The siblings signed document after document, officially taking control of their inheritance. As each signature was completed, I felt the weight of my guardianship lifting—not disappearing, but transforming into something lighter, warmer.

“It’s done,” Gregory announced after the final documents were signed. “The Roaring Fork Trust is officially dissolved.”

“What are you thinking about?” Flynn asked as the others celebrated.

“Just adjusting,” I said. “I’ve been the trustee for so long, I’m not sure what comes next.”

“What comes next is being family,” she said simply. “No conditions, no obligations, no hidden agendas. Just family.”

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple. And that complicated. And that wonderful.” She smiled.

These people had every right to resent me for the decisions I’d made, the secrets I’d kept, the ways I’d manipulated their lives. Instead, they’d welcomed me with open arms and made me part of something I’d never dared hope for.

One evening in early March, Flynn and I sat together on the enclosed porch after dinner, watching the sunset paint the mountains in shades of gold and pink.

The children were inside with Irish and the brothers, their laughter drifting through the windows like music.

The temperature had finally begun to warm, suggesting that spring might actually arrive in the high country.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Flynn said.

I’d grown comfortable with her questions over the months, but something in her tone suggested this would be different. “Of course.”

“Why didn’t you ever have a family of your own? In all these decades, you must have had opportunities.”

The question I’d hoped to avoid, though I should have known Flynn wouldn’t let it go forever. I studied my hands, searching for words that wouldn’t reveal too much.

“I suppose I was too focused on other obligations,” I said carefully.

“That’s not really an answer.”

She was right. After months of honesty about everything else, evasion felt wrong. But this particular truth carried pain I’d spent decades trying to bury.

“I loved someone once,” I said. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”

Flynn’s demeanor softened. “What happened?”

“Life. Circumstances.” I met her eyes, seeing the gentle persistence there.

“Was it someone you had to leave behind?”

Her probing stirred memories I’d worked hard to suppress.

Images of dark hair catching the sunlight, bright laughter echoing across mountain meadows, stolen moments that felt like everything and nothing all at once.

A love that had to be abandoned when duty called, when protecting Patricia became more important than my own happiness.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“JW—”

“That’s enough for tonight,” I said, standing abruptly. “Some stories are better left untold.”

“I’m sorry,” I heard her say as I walked inside.

“So am I, Flynn.”