Page 21 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)

So why did I feel bereft as I watched him leave without saying goodbye?

Through the window, I watched him climb into a truck parked across the street. The engine started, the headlights cut through the evening dusk, and then he was gone. Only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath.

I finished my wine with more haste than wisdom and gathered my purse. The restaurant had emptied considerably, but the bar was still full.

I waved at Keltie as I made my way to the same door JW had left through.

Her smile was warm when she came around to say hello. “Echo! I didn’t even see you come in. How was your evening?”

I gave her a quick hug. “I knew you were busy. How are you? How’s Luna?”

“The happiest little girl in the world.” She hugged me once more. Tighter. We’d been through a lot together as her daughter fought against leukemia. Her continued remission was something I still prayed for every day.

“Tell her Miss Echo said hello.” I waved behind me and stepped out into the cool mountain air.

My house was only two blocks away, past other Victorian cottages with their welcoming porch lights and the community gardens where neighbors grew vegetables and flowers side by side.

Normal sights in a normal town where I’d built a normal life.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

My house sat on a quiet street, a small craftsman bungalow with a garden I’d spent years perfecting.

Inside, the familiar surroundings that usually brought me peace—books stacked on the coffee table, a mug in the sink from my morning coffee, the cozy accumulation of a life lived alone but not lonely—felt hollow tonight. The silence oppressive.

I poured a glass of water and sat at my kitchen table, forcing myself to think clearly through the alcohol and the emotional chaos of the day.

Even if I wanted to spend time with JW—which I absolutely did not—it was impossible.

Too much had happened after he left, too many decisions made and consequences lived with.

If I told him what my life had been like then, the choices I’d been forced to make, whatever fragile connection we might rebuild would crumble into nothing.

It wasn’t about protecting myself. It never had been. It had always been about protecting everyone else.

When I finally crawled into bed, sleep eluded me.

My mind replayed the day’s events in an endless loop.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw JW’s face in the crowd during the parade, the shock of recognition that had shaken us both.

The way he’d spoken my name, gentle and hesitant.

The hurt in his eyes when I’d fled from him at the river.

Dreams came in fragments when I finally dozed—dancing as strong arms held me close, whispered promises of forever that turned into dust.

By six, I’d given up on rest. I showered and dressed, needing the comfort of familiar habits. Whatever emotional chaos JW’s return had triggered, I couldn’t let it affect my work. The children and families who depended on Miracles of Hope deserved better than a director distracted by her past.

I walked to the coffee shop as I did every day, the mountain air crisp with birdsong mixing with the distant hum of early traffic. The bell chimed as I entered, and my steps faltered.

JW sat at a table near the window, reading what looked like the local newspaper, a steaming mug beside his elbow.

The sound of the bell made him look up, and our eyes met briefly.

He’d dressed casually in jeans and a button-down shirt that brought out the green in his eyes.

I saw him hesitate, as if debating whether to acknowledge me.

I looked away quickly, my hands unsteady as I approached the counter. The barista called out my usual order before I’d even asked, saving me from having to speak. My fingers fumbled with my wallet as I paid, hyperaware of JW’s presence across the room.

“Thank you,” I managed.

“Have a good day, Maya.” I heard as I approached the door. It was a simple courtesy, but spoken in JW’s voice, it felt like more.

“You too,” I said, hurrying out in the direction of my office, coffee sloshing in my cup.

Would every encounter feel this charged? This was a small town—now that we’d come face-to-face, recognized each other, we were bound to meet up again. I needed to develop better coping mechanisms than unsteady hands and shallow breathing.

The weekend brought no respite. Saturday’s farmer’s market proved my concerns were justified. I was selecting peaches from a stand when I spotted JW examining tomatoes two stalls down.

I paid for my fruit and rushed toward my car, but not before catching his eye across the market.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and despite myself, I returned the gesture.

Just politeness between old acquaintances who happened to live in the same small town.

But tension coiled in my stomach as I drove home.

The encounters continued through the week, each one seeming coincidental but leaving me rattled—JW at the grocery store, outside the post office, walking down the opposite side of Elk Avenue.

Wednesday brought the most challenging test yet. I was meeting Misty and Dr. Cressman at the Goat to discuss the hospital’s partnership with our foundation when I spotted JW having lunch alone at the table near the back where I’d been sitting the night of the fourth.

He didn’t approach our table, didn’t interrupt our conversation. Just ate his meal quietly, nodded politely when our eyes met, and left before we did. But I was distracted the entire time, catching myself stealing looks in his direction.

“You seem jumpy,” Misty observed as we walked to our cars. “Is work overwhelming you?”

“Just the usual summer chaos,” I deflected, forcing a smile. “Too many cases, not enough hours in the day.”

She didn’t look convinced but let it go. What could I tell her? That seeing my former lover—if that inadequate term even applied to what we’d been—was slowly dismantling the equilibrium I’d built my life around?

The week wore on with increasing strain.

I began changing my routines, taking different routes to avoid potential encounters.

The coffee shop became off-limits. I shopped for groceries at odd hours, but I couldn’t avoid the bank, and on Friday morning, we met up again.

He’d walked in right before me and was already in line.

He turned when the door chimed, and his face brightened.

“Maya…er…Echo.” He stepped aside, gesturing for me to go ahead of him in line. “Please.”

“That’s not necessary,” I protested, but he was already moving to let me pass.

“I insist. I’m not in any hurry.”

The casual kindness undid me more than dramatic gestures might have. This was the JW I remembered—considerate without fanfare, thoughtful in small ways that mattered.

“Have a good weekend,” he said as I passed him on my way out.

That afternoon, I drove to the Slate River, seeking the solitude and clarity that mountain water had always provided. Most people were still at work, so the trail was empty. I settled on the boulder where I’d sat after the parade, letting the sound of rushing water calm my racing thoughts.

I was so lost in meditation that I didn’t notice him approaching until I heard him speak. “I hoped I might find you here.”

When I opened my eyes, JW was standing at the edge of the clearing, with his hands in his pockets.

“This used to be our place,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.

“It could still be.” He moved closer, but remained a couple of feet away, respecting the invisible boundary I’d drawn around myself. “If you’d let it.”

“JW—” I started, then stopped. What could I say? That seeing him kept rattling me? That I thought about him more than I should, remembered things I’d sworn to forget?

“I heard what you said the other day.” His voice was gentle. “But I can’t stop hoping your feelings might change.”

“Why?” The question burst out of me, raw with weeks of confusion. “You left. Why are you here now? What do you want from me?”

“Because I never stopped thinking about you.” The admission hung between us, stark and honest. “Not for a single day in all these years.”

“You know nothing about me,” I whispered. “We’re different people now.”

He took a step closer. “Let me get to know you again.”

The request terrified me more than anger or demands might have. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t trying to force his way back into my life. He was just asking to know me.

“I can’t.” The words came out broken, heavy with what I couldn’t explain.

“Why not?”

Because there were things I could never share. Because letting him back in would mean risking what I’d built on the foundation of his absence.

When I shook my head, he studied me.

“Please, Maya. It doesn’t have to be complicated. We would meet for coffee sometime. Maybe have a conversation that lasts longer than thirty seconds.”

“I need time,” I said.

“I’ll wait. As long as you need.”

He started to walk away, then paused. “I’m sorry for leaving the way I did, for not explaining. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know.”

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the sound of rushing water and the terrible knowledge that my defenses were deteriorating. Every encounter, every polite exchange, every moment of casual kindness was wearing away at the barriers I’d built around my heart.

What scared me wasn’t that he might give up and leave again. More, it was that I was weakening, that I might not be strong enough to withstand the pull of what we’d once been.

If I gave in, I’d have to tell him all the things I knew I never could.