Page 20 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)

ECHO

I stared at the entrance to the outdoor venue where CB Rice’s concert was already underway, watching couples and families stream toward the music and laughter echoing across the field.

My friends would be there, somewhere in the crowd, wondering why I hadn’t shown up as promised.

Misty had been looking forward to this all week, had even bought matching T-shirts for our group.

But I couldn’t make myself walk through those gates. Not tonight. Not when I’d be terrible company, distracted and raw from seeing JW again. Better to disappoint them with my absence than inflict my emotional chaos on what should be a celebration.

Instead, my feet carried me toward the Goat.

The irony wasn’t lost on me—seeking refuge in the one place that held the most painful memories.

I’d tried to avoid this restaurant over the years, finding excuses to eat elsewhere when friends suggested it, choosing other venues for meetings when I could.

But tonight, the thought of being alone in my house with nothing but my spiraling thoughts felt worse than facing ghosts.

The restaurant was packed, busier than I’d seen it in months.

I slipped inside and managed to claim the last empty booth in the back corner, the same spot where JW and I used to sit during my breaks all those years ago.

The server, a young woman I didn’t recognize, looked frazzled but took my order for a glass of wine with a hurried smile.

As she walked away, I took in the familiar space.

The exposed brick walls, the photographs of Crested Butte’s mining days, the old wooden floors that creaked in all the same places.

Victor and Mary had transformed this place from a run-down saloon into something warm and welcoming decades ago.

After they sold it to the Rice family, it had maintained that same character through the years.

Now that Victor had bought it back and his daughter, Keltie, was running it, she’d added her own touches—fresh flowers on every table, local artwork on the walls, a sense of community that made everyone feel at home.

But underneath all those layers of renovation and care, I could still see it as it had been during those magical months when JW and I worked here together. When closing time meant the beginning of our real day, not the end.

My wine arrived, and I took a sip, letting the memories I’d spent so long suppressing surface at last.

After the last customer left and the kitchen was clean, after Victor had counted the till and Mary had finished her inventory, after the other servers had said their good nights, JW would lock the front door and flip the sign to closed.

Then he’d walk to the old jukebox in the corner and feed it quarters, scrolling through the selections until he found something perfect.

Usually, it was country music. George Strait or Garth Brooks or some of the oldies like Patsy Cline. Songs that spoke of love and heartbreak and dreams, melodies that seemed to understand the bittersweet nature of small-town life.

“Dance with me,” he’d say, extending his hand with that smile that made my stomach flip.

And I would. Every time.

The creaky wood plank floors had been perfect for dancing, smooth from decades of wear, but with just enough grip that we wouldn’t slip.

JW would pull me into his arms, and we’d two-step across the empty restaurant, spinning between tables and chairs, laughing when one of us missed a beat or stepped on the other’s feet.

He had an amazing singing voice that, back then, he swore only I’d ever heard. His breath would be warm against my ear when he pulled me close during the slower songs. Sometimes, he’d change the lyrics, making them silly or personal, until I was laughing so hard I could barely keep dancing.

But when a truly slow song came on—something soft and romantic—the laughter would fade. He’d hold me closer, one hand pressed against the small of my back and the other cradling my fingers against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my palm.

Those were the moments when he’d kiss me.

Soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid I might pull away.

Then deeper when I responded, my arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer.

The restaurant would disappear around us, the world narrowing to just the two of us and the certainty that this was where we belonged.

I took another sip, the memory so vivid I could almost hear the music, almost feel his arms around me.

The first time we made love had been after one of those dancing sessions.

A slow Tuesday night in early winter, snow falling outside the windows, the restaurant warm and intimate in the glow of the Edison bulbs.

We’d been dancing to something soft and sweet, maybe “Tennessee Waltz,” when the music ended, and we didn’t step apart.

“Maya,” he’d whispered, my name like a prayer on his lips.

I’d known what he was asking without words.

Had known what my answer would be before he even looked at me with those questioning eyes.

We’d been building toward this moment for weeks, the attraction between us growing stronger every day, held in check only by his obvious respect for my inexperience and our working relationship.

“Yes,” I’d whispered back.

He’d taken my hand and led me to his small cabin on the outskirts of town, a cozy place with a stone fireplace and windows that looked out at the mountains.

We’d made love slowly, tenderly, with a reverence that made me feel precious in ways I’d never imagined possible.

Afterward, I’d lain in his arms, feeling safe and cherished.

“I want this forever,” I’d told him in the darkness, my face pressed against his chest.

“Forever,” he’d agreed, his arms tightening around me. “You and me, Maya.”

Forever had lasted three more months.

Then, without warning or explanation, he was gone. Not just from the restaurant, not just from my life, but from Crested Butte entirely. As if he’d never existed at all.

I forced myself back to the present, blinking away the sting of tears. My wine tasted bitter now, the memories too sharp, too real. This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. Every shadow in this place held ghosts, every creak whispered of what we’d lost.

A flash of movement near the bar caught my attention, and I looked up to see JW emerging from the kitchen, tying an apron around his waist. My breath stuttered. I’d been so lost in the past that I hadn’t even noticed him come in.

He moved behind the bar with the same easy confidence I remembered, pulling beer taps and mixing drinks like he’d never left. Keltie’s earlier expression of being overwhelmed shifted to relief as the two laughed and joked in the midst of the chaos.

I should leave. Finish my drink and walk out before he noticed me sitting here. But I couldn’t stop watching him work, the ways he’d changed, and the ways he’d stayed the same.

He was still strikingly attractive, though silver now threaded through the dark hair I remembered running my fingers through.

His body looked strong and capable, the kind of fitness that came from physical work rather than gyms. When he reached for bottles on the top shelf, his shirt pulled tight across shoulders that seemed broader than I remembered.

The years had been kind to him. Whatever life he’d built after leaving here had agreed with him, and I wondered about the details I’d never know. Where he’d gone, what he’d done, whether he’d found someone else to dance with in empty restaurants.

He looked up from the beer he was pouring, and for a moment, our eyes met across the crowded room. I averted my gaze quickly, warmth flooding my face, but not before I saw recognition flicker in his expression.

I forced myself to focus on my drink, on the conversation at the table next to mine, on anything except the way my heartbeat had changed when our eyes connected.

This was what I’d told him I couldn’t do.

I couldn’t pretend his presence didn’t affect me, couldn’t act like seeing him didn’t bring back emotions I’d worked so hard to forget.

But, God, help me, I couldn’t stop stealing looks in his direction. Every few minutes, I’d risk another peek.

As I stared out the window, my mind drifted again. Remembering how it felt when his naked body pressed against mine. Heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol coursed through me.

I’d loved making love with him. Loved the way he touched me like I was precious, the way he’d learned my body with patient exploration until he knew how to make me gasp and arch beneath him. We’d been so good together, so perfectly matched in desire and tenderness.

My eyes opened wide, and I reached for the glass of ice water that had materialized on my table when I wasn’t paying attention. I had to stop this. Whatever we’d had was in the past, buried so deep it should stay dead.

A server appeared at my elbow with another glass, and I looked up in surprise.

“From the gentleman at the bar,” she said with a smile. “He said it’s on the house.”

I glanced toward the bar, and my eyes met JW’s. Without thinking, I smiled—just a small curve of my lips, nothing more than courtesy. But his whole face seemed to brighten in response, and warmth spread through my chest that I could not afford to feel.

I looked away quickly, focusing on the new drink as if it held the secrets of the universe.

This was dangerous territory, this easy slide back into the connection that had once felt as natural as breathing.

He’d bought me a drink. I’d smiled. Such seemingly simple gestures, but they were anything but.

When I looked up again, he was walking toward the door, his apron left behind. Disappointment settled in my chest like a stone, which made no sense at all. I’d told him I couldn’t do this, that seeing him was too painful. He was respecting my wishes, giving me the space I’d demanded.