Page 16 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)

JW

T he beginning of July brought the kind of crisp mountain morning that reminded me why I’d fallen in love with Colorado all those years ago. I stood on the porch of the cabin that had become my second home, coffee in hand, watching the sunrise paint the peaks of the Elk Mountains.

Five months had passed since I’d first arrived at Roaring Fork Ranch. What I planned as a brief visit to reveal family secrets had become something I never anticipated—a homecoming to a family I’d never known I could have.

I was amazed at how quickly Flynn and Cord’s guest ranch vision had evolved from a dream to a detailed plan during our discussions.

They’d done years of preparation—financial projections, market analysis, site selection, operational frameworks—all the groundwork that typically took newcomers months to even realize it was needed.

What could have been a lengthy development process was accelerated because they’d already laid the foundation.

But with that belonging came questions I wasn’t sure how to answer. Chief among them—what came next?

The trust had been dissolved. Patricia’s children were thriving, connected to each other in ways that exceeded even her most optimistic hopes.

My promise to her had been fulfilled so completely that sometimes I found myself wondering if she’d somehow orchestrated events from beyond to ensure everything worked out exactly as it had.

Mission accomplished. So why did I feel so unsettled about returning to New Mexico?

“You’re up early.” Flynn’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to see her approaching with Rowan strapped to her chest in the carrier, both twins trailing behind her.

“Old habits,” I replied, gesturing toward the sunrise. “The ranch doesn’t sleep in, even when I’d like to.”

“Uncle JW!” Paxon called out, running ahead of his mother. “Mama says we’re going to see fireworks on the mountain!”

“The Independence Day celebration,” Flynn explained as Rooker joined his brother at my side. “It’s Crested Butte’s biggest event of the year. The whole town turns out.”

“I remember from my years living here—the parade down Elk Avenue, food vendors, live music, and fireworks launched from the butte itself.”

Flynn studied my face with that assessing look I’d grown familiar with. “You’re thinking about leaving before then.”

It wasn’t a question. I’d been wrestling with the decision for days, and apparently, my internal conflict was more visible than I’d thought.

“I’ve been away from Sangre Vista for months,” I said. “The staff is capable, but it’s still my responsibility.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“There’s more to it than ranch management.” Flynn shifted Rowan to a more comfortable position. “You’re running.”

The observation stung because it held truth. Not from danger this time, but from something equally unsettling—the growing awareness that I was ready for something more than duty and obligation. Something personal.

The memory of our conversation from a few weeks ago surfaced unbidden.

I’d walked away abruptly when she pressed me about why I’d never had a family of my own, unable to face the painful memories her questions had stirred.

Later, I’d found her and apologized for my rudeness.

Her response had stayed with me. “I just wish we could help you find the same kind of happiness you helped all of us find.” The words had been echoing in my mind ever since.

“I’m not running,” I said. “I’m being practical.”

“Uh-huh.” Flynn’s tone suggested she wasn’t buying my explanation. “When did you say you were planning to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Stay for the Fourth,” she immediately said. “It’s only three days away. You’ve been here this long—what’s three more days?”

Before I could respond, Irish appeared with a travel mug of coffee, looking like a man who’d been dispatched on a mission. “Morning, JW. Beautiful day.”

“Good morning.”

“I’m trying to convince him to stay a few more days. Not to leave before the holiday.”

“The fireworks are really something,” Irish added.

Paxon tugged on my jacket. “Please stay, Uncle JW? We want to watch the fireworks with you.”

“And watch Uncle Holt sing on stage after!” added Rooker.

The simple requests from the twins carried more weight than all of Flynn’s logical arguments. How could I explain to them that staying meant confronting feelings I’d spent decades avoiding?

“Please?” Paxon said, tugging on one sleeve while Rooker pulled on the other.

I looked at their expectant faces, then at Flynn’s knowing smile, and felt my resistance crumble. Three more days. What could it hurt?

“All right,” I said. “I’ll stay.”

The twins cheered while Flynn looked smugly satisfied. “Excellent. You won’t regret it.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but the decision was made.

The three days that followed passed in a blur of preparation and family activities.

The siblings threw themselves into the holiday planning with the same enthusiasm they brought to everything else—multiple conversations about the best spots to watch the parade, debates over which food vendors were essential, and detailed logistics for managing six young children during a day-long celebration, followed by the CB Rice concert, where Holt would be performing with the band.

I found myself drawn into the planning despite my initial reluctance. There was something infectious about their excitement, their obvious love for this particular tradition.

“Crested Butte’s celebration is even better than the Big Apple’s shindigs,” TJ explained as we worked together to pack picnic supplies.

I raised a brow. “That’s quite a statement.”

“You’ll see,” she said with a smile. “This family doesn’t do anything halfway.”

On July 3, the day before the celebration, I walked to the family cemetery on the ranch. It was something I’d been putting off since arriving here, but with my departure now imminent, I couldn’t delay any longer.

Patricia’s grave was easy to find—a simple granite headstone surrounded by columbines, the flower she’d always loved.

I knelt beside the marker, running my fingers over her name etched in stone. Patricia Ann Wheaton. Beloved Mother. The dates seemed impossibly brief for a life that had touched so many people.

“I kept my promise,” I said quietly, feeling slightly foolish for talking to granite but needing to say the words aloud.

“Your children are happy, Happier than either of us dared hope when we were planning all this, peanut.” Funny, I hadn’t thought about my childhood nickname for her in so many years.

A gentle breeze stirred the columbines, and for a moment, I could almost imagine her presence beside me.

“Buck found his home again. Porter found peace with himself. Cord learned about forgiveness. Holt discovered what matters most. And Flynn is exactly the woman you knew she’d become. They’re all married to people who love them completely, and their children…” I paused, overwhelmed by emotion.

“Your grandchildren would have made you so proud. Buckaroo has Buck’s determination and TJ’s warmth.

Luna is thriving after her battle with leukemia and has Holt wrapped around her little finger.

Little Scarlett carries your first daughter’s name and has brought such joy to Holt and Keltie.

Paxon and Rooker are going to be heartbreakers, and, like her mother, little Rowan has your eyes. ”

The words came easier now, years of unspoken thoughts finally finding voice.

“They know about you. About us, about what happened in East Aurora, about the sacrifices you made. They understand why you did what you did, and they’re grateful for the foundation you gave them.”

I stood, brushing dirt from my knees. “Mission accomplished, peanut. Beyond our wildest dreams.”

As I walked back to my cabin, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in decades—completion. The promise that had driven me for thirty years was finally, truly fulfilled.

But with that completion came an unexpected emptiness. What did a man do when his life’s purpose had been achieved?

The next day, we were blessed with perfect weather for outdoor festivities. I’d agreed to meet the family at nine o’clock on Elk Avenue, where they’d claimed a prime spot for watching the parade.

When I arrived, I found controlled chaos. Blankets spread across the sidewalk, folding chairs arranged in neat rows, coolers full of drinks and snacks, and children running in circles with barely contained excitement.

“JW!” Buck called out when he spotted me. “Perfect timing. The parade starts in fifteen minutes.”

I found a spot beside Irish, who was keeping careful watch over Paxon and Rooker as they waved small American flags with enthusiasm that threatened to take out anyone within arm’s reach.

“They’ve been up since six,” Irish said with the weary tone of a father who’d been managing excited toddlers for hours. “I think they’re more wound up about this than Christmas.”

“Fireworks!” Paxon announced, apparently feeling this explained everything.

“Boom!” Rooker shouted, throwing his arms wide for emphasis.

The parade itself was exactly how I remembered it—high school marching bands, local businesses on decorated floats, vintage cars carrying town dignitaries, and enough candy thrown to keep every child in the valley hyperactive for weeks.

But watching it with Patricia’s family added layers of meaning I hadn’t anticipated. This was their community, their tradition. I wasn’t just observing a parade—I was participating in something that mattered to people I cared about.

I was in a conversation with Irish and the twins when Flynn’s voice interrupted us. “Oh, there’s someone I want you to meet,” I heard her say.

I turned my head and looked into gray-green eyes that made my chest tight with recognition.

“Maya?” I whispered.

Her eyes widened, one hand moving to cover her mouth in shock. “JW?” she whispered back.