Page 4 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)
The stable visit proved to be everything the twins had hoped for and more.
Rick had selected three of our gentlest horses for the introduction, and the boys were enthralled by their size and softness.
Even the baby seemed fascinated by the animals, reaching out from Irish’s arms toward the velvet noses that snuffled at her tiny hands.
“They’re so big!” Paxon whispered in awe.
“But gentle,” I added, steadying him as he stretched to reach higher. “Horses can sense when someone has a kind heart.”
Flynn stood nearby, camera in hand, capturing the wonder on her sons’ faces. “This is what they needed,” she said quietly. “After being cooped up in the car for so long yesterday.”
The afternoon’s farolito -making session took place in the lodge’s sunroom, where Lisa had arranged supplies and workstations appropriate for small hands. The twins threw themselves into the project with enthusiasm, though more sand ended up on the floor than in the bags.
“Like this, Mama?” Rooker held up a lumpy bag that bore little resemblance to the demonstration model.
“Perfect,” Flynn assured him, helping steady his hands as he scooped sand.
Irish documented the process with videos while managing the baby, who had become more social throughout the day. She babbled and cooed, content to observe the activity around her.
As dusk approached, we lit our creations along the pathways leading to the chapel and around the main lodge. The effect was magical—dozens of flickering lights glowing in the darkness, creating a constellation of warmth against the snow.
“It’s amazing,” Flynn breathed, standing on the lodge’s porch with Rowan bundled in her arms. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“In old times,” I explained as we watched the lights flicker, “travelers could follow these lights to find shelter and safety. They represented hope and welcome for those far from home.”
Flynn glanced at me. “Like us,” she said softly.
“Like anyone seeking something new,” I agreed.
Christmas Eve dinner surpassed even the previous evening’s success.
I’d suggested we eat at six rather than seven, which Flynn said she appreciated.
Alton had outdone himself with a feast that honored both traditional holiday foods and the children’s preferences.
The twins behaved well, worn out from their day of adventures, while the baby slept in her carrier beside the table.
As the meal concluded, I retrieved the wooden animals Tomás had crafted—a horse for each twin and a small rattle for the baby, all carved from local pine and polished to silky smoothness.
“For us?” Paxon asked, eyes wide as he examined the detailed carving.
“To remember your Christmas Eve at Sangre Vista,” I said.
Flynn’s eyes glistened as she watched her sons’ delight. “This is too generous. You’ve done so much.”
“Children should have magic at Christmas,” I replied.
After the family retired to their cabin, I remained in the lodge. The evening had been everything I hoped—warm, genuine, filled with the kind of joy that made the hospitality business worthwhile.
Christmas Day dawned clear and cold, just like the day before.
The family appeared for breakfast, looking rested and happy, the twins chattering about their wooden animals and asking endless questions about the horses they’d met the day before.
“Santa found us!” Rooker announced as they settled at their table. “He left presents in our cabin!”
“Did he, now?” I feigned surprise. “Even here in New Mexico?”
“Mama said he has gips ,” Paxon explained seriously, earning chuckles from his parents.
“GPS,” Irish murmured.
After breakfast, we bundled up for a sleigh ride around the property. Rick had prepared the large sleigh with extra blankets and heating pads, and Kit and Carson stepped proudly in their holiday harnesses, bells jingling with each movement.
The twins were enchanted by the experience, their laughter echoing across the snowy landscape as we glided through groves of aspen and pine. Flynn and Irish sat close together, the baby warm between them.
“This is perfect,” she said as we paused at an overlook that offered panoramic views of the Sangre de Cristo range. “Thank you for making this Christmas so special for us.”
“My pleasure,” I replied, meaning every word.
The remainder of the holiday passed in an easy rhythm—quiet time by the fire while the twins played with their new toys, and gentle conversation that felt more like visiting with old friends than hosting guests.
As evening approached, Flynn lingered on the lodge’s porch, looking out at the mountains silhouetted against the twilight sky.
“This place is special,” I overheard her say when Irish and the boys joined her. “I wonder when we’ll find out why we’re here.”
“You could always ask,” he suggested.
“I don’t want to be rude.”
He chuckled. “Sweetheart, two days ago, Six-pack told you that the trust’s codicil said you had to leave your home right before Christmas and spend a month in New Mexico. You’re entitled to ask why.”
She murmured her agreement as they left and walked in the direction of Pueblo Moon.
Irish was right, but for now, their reason for being here would remain my burden alone to carry.