Page 6 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)

JW

T he first week of January brought a comfortable routine.

The weather report showed clear skies for the next three days, followed by another winter storm approaching.

Nothing severe, but enough snow to keep outdoor activities limited.

I made a mental note to suggest indoor alternatives when I saw Flynn and her family later.

By eight-thirty, the guests had arrived at the lodge for breakfast. The twins burst through the entrance with their usual enthusiasm, while Irish followed with Rowan secured in her carrier. Flynn walked beside him, looking more rested than she had since their arrival.

“Good morning,” I greeted them as they gathered around the large table near the fireplace. “Sleep well?”

Irish’s brow furrowed. “The twins were up at five-thirty, checking to see if more snow had fallen overnight.”

“It didn’t,” Paxon commented, looking up from his inspection of a cinnamon roll.

“Just a dusting,” I replied. “But enough to refresh the trails if you’d like to explore today.”

The boys cheered while Flynn and Irish exchanged glances.

“I’d be happy to accompany you,” I offered. “There’s a trail that leads to an overlook with spectacular views. Easy enough for small legs, but interesting for adults too.”

“That sounds perfect,” Flynn said. “The boys need to burn off energy, and frankly, we need them to.”

While we ate, I was drawn into a conversation about their life in Colorado.

Flynn described their ranch with obvious affection, while Irish shared stories of learning to work cattle after years in the intelligence field.

The twins interjected with their own observations about the horses, the snow, and the vast differences between their home and here.

“Mama misses it,” said Rooker, looking up at her.

She shrugged a shoulder. “Honestly, I thought I would more than I do. Don’t get me wrong—I miss my brothers and their families. But…” She trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“What is it?” I pressed gently.

She raised her head, and her eyes bored into mine. For the second time, I waited for her direct question. Also for the second time, she didn’t ask it.

After the meal, we prepared for the hiking excursion. The twins required substantial bundling—layers of clothing, warm hats, waterproof gloves. Flynn secured Rowan in a specialized carrier that would allow her to accompany us while staying warm.

The trail I’d chosen wound through stands of aspen and pine, climbing toward a rocky outcrop that offered panoramic views of the Sangre de Cristo range.

The twins ran ahead and doubled back along the trail, while Irish kept watch and maintained conversation with Flynn and me.

When we reached the overlook, the twins were awed by the vista stretching before us. Flynn stood at the edge of the safe viewing area, Rowan alert in her arms, both mother and daughter absorbing the landscape.

“It’s overwhelming,” Flynn said softly. “The scale of it.”

“Your first time seeing the Sangre de Cristos?” I asked.

“Yes, but…” She shook her head. This time, I didn’t press her to say more.

Irish approached with the twins, who had discovered a patch of snow perfect for making snowballs. “Watch yourselves there, boys. We don’t want to start a war we can’t finish.”

“Can we throw them at Mr. JW?” Rooker asked hopefully.

“Only if Mr. JW agrees to a fair fight,” Flynn replied with a laugh.

What followed was an impromptu snowball battle that left all of us laughing and covered in snow. The twins proved accurate for their age, while Flynn juggled Rowan and snowball construction with impressive dexterity.

For thirty minutes, we were a family enjoying a winter afternoon together. The complexity of my role, the weight of revelations yet to come, faded into the background. This was what I’d hoped for—moments of pure joy, unencumbered by the burdens of the past.

On our return, the twins peppered me with questions about wildlife and weather.

“Maybe tomorrow, we could visit a different part of the ranch,” I suggested as we approached the main building. “There’s an old cabin that might interest you—part of the original homestead.”

Flynn’s eyes lit with curiosity. “How old?”

“Built in the 1880s. It’s been preserved as a historical site. The children might enjoy seeing how families lived back then.”

“Educational and fun,” Irish observed. “Sounds ideal.”

That evening, I called my attorney from my office.

“Flynn has been asking questions,” I reported. “She’s intuiting connections she shouldn’t be able to make. Her instincts are remarkable.”

“Perhaps it’s time to tell her the truth,” said Gregory. The man was my friend as much as my lawyer.

“She’s not ready. Neither am I.”

“JW, you’ve been preparing for this conversation for three decades. At what point will you be ready?”

The question hung in the air after I ended the call. Gregory was right—I’d been preparing for years, yet now that the moment approached, I felt increasingly uncertain about how to proceed.

The next morning brought another clear day, perfect for exploring the historical cabin I’d mentioned. The twins were excited about the prospect of seeing an “old house,” while Flynn and Irish seemed interested in learning more about the ranch’s history.

The cabin sat in a meadow about two miles from the main lodge, accessible by a well-maintained trail that wound through dense forest. Built from local timber and stone, it represented the kind of homestead that had dotted this region in the late 1800s.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Flynn observed as we approached the single-room structure.

“Families were tougher back then,” I replied, unlocking the heavy wooden door. “Or maybe they just needed less space when survival was the priority.”

Inside, the cabin had been preserved with period furnishings—rough-hewn furniture, cast-iron cookware, simple tools for daily living. The twins explored with fascination, touching everything they were allowed to handle.

“This is how people lived?” Paxon asked, examining a hand-carved wooden bowl.

“For many families, yes,” I said. “They built what they needed with materials they could find.”

Flynn studied a framed photograph hanging on the wall—a sepia-toned image of a family standing in front of the cabin. “Are these the original homesteaders?”

“The Mendoza family,” I confirmed. “They worked this land for nearly thirty years before selling it.”

She leaned closer to examine the photograph. “The woman looks so young to have all those children.”

“Life moved at a different pace then. People married young, started families early.”

“And often died young too,” Irish added grimly, reading a placard about frontier mortality rates.

As we explored the cabin’s single room, I watched Flynn absorb the details—the handmade quilts, the simple furniture, the practical tools for frontier living.

She had the same intense focus I’d noticed when she studied the photographs in the lodge, as if she were trying to extract meaning beyond what was visible.

“Were there many homesteads like this in the area?” she asked.

“Dozens. Most are gone now—either collapsed or removed. This one survived because it was built well and later owners chose to preserve it.”

“Lucky for us,” Flynn said, running her hand along the smooth surface of a wooden table.

The twins had discovered a collection of antique toys in a wooden chest—carved animals, a primitive doll, wooden blocks worn smooth by generations of small hands. Their delight in these simple objects reminded me why I’d wanted to share this place with them.

“Can we take some pictures?” Flynn asked, pulling out her camera.

“Of course.”

She photographed the twins with the antique toys, captured Irish examining the cabin’s construction, and took several shots of the interior details. But I noticed she also photographed the family portrait on the wall, studying it through her camera lens as if searching for something.

On the walk back to the lodge, Flynn asked more questions about the area’s history—the ranch’s previous owners, changes in land use, connections to the broader region.

Her inquiries were intelligent and persistent, though she maintained a casual tone that suggested simple curiosity rather than a focused investigation.

Irish, I noticed, contributed less to these conversations, but his attention remained sharp.

That afternoon, while the family rested at their cabin, I reviewed the historical documents I’d assembled over the years. Property records, family histories, photographs spanning decades—all organized and preserved. Soon, I would need to share these with Flynn, but not yet.

The number of storms approaching one after the other would likely confine everyone indoors for several days. Perhaps that would provide the right opportunity for deeper conversations, when the isolation would create a natural intimacy for difficult revelations.

My phone rang with a call from Jim, reporting the evening security check.

“All quiet?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. Though I noticed Mrs. Warrick spent considerable time on her phone this afternoon. Long conversation with someone.”

“Family, probably. She’s been away from home longer than usual.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We still have two and a half weeks left here,” Flynn said when the family joined me for dinner. “Though it feels like we’ve been here much longer.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Definitely in a good way,” Flynn confirmed. “And thank you for today. The historical cabin, the hike yesterday. We all enjoyed it very much.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I replied honestly.

“Still, I want you to know it’s appreciated.” She paused, considering her next words. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you seem like someone who doesn’t have much family of your own.”

The observation struck closer to home than I was prepared for. “What makes you say that?”

“The way you watch us sometimes. Like you’re absorbing what a family looks like, storing up the memories.”

“You’re very observant.”

“Occupational hazard of being the youngest in a large family. You learn to read people’s expressions.”

Before I could respond, Irish appeared with the children, ready to depart. Flynn squeezed my arm gently before joining her husband and kids for the walk back to Pueblo Moon.

Later, when sleep eluded me, I reflected on Flynn’s perceptive words. Her insight into my behavior suggested she was beginning to piece together more than I’d realized. The conversation I’d been avoiding was approaching, whether I was ready or not.