Page 8 of Roaring Fork Rooker (Roaring Fork Ranch #4)

JW

“ S arah asked me to deliver this to you,” Cora said the next morning when she brought my coffee, then handed me an envelope. I opened it and read the short note inside.

“You’ve been expecting this,” Cora said after I folded it and stuck it in my pocket.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?” she asked without having any idea how loaded those simple words were.

The question I couldn’t answer sat between us. “I’ve been preparing for this for a very long time,” I responded.

Her expression softened. For a moment, I thought she might say more, but instead, she turned and left.

After she was gone, I tried to focus on the ranch business—reviewing the occupancy projections for spring, approving menu changes Alton had suggested, and responding to correspondence that had accumulated over the holidays.

At ten-thirty, I made my way through the main lodge, checking that everything remained in order.

I was about to put on my jacket when the front door opened and Flynn came in.

“I thought we could walk to the chapel together,” she said.

“I’d like that.”

We set out in silence, our footsteps the only sound.

I watched her as we moved along the path.

She carried herself with dignity, so different from what I might have expected, based on the updates I’d received over the years.

Motherhood and marriage had clearly strengthened her—there was a confidence in her movements that spoke of someone who had found her place in the world.

The chapel sat nestled among the pines, its white adobe walls bright against the dark trees. Morning light caught the stained glass windows, throwing patches of color across the snow. I opened the door, and we stepped inside together.

She made her way toward the altar, running her hand along the smooth wooden pews as she passed. I hung back, letting her get comfortable in the space.

This place had been my mother’s refuge when we first came to New Mexico. Where she could hide when the weight of the new identities and old secrets became too much. After she died, I came here to think, to plan, to figure out how to keep the promises I’d made.

Flynn stopped in front of the window where my mother had pressed columbines between the glass. They represented a piece of Colorado she hated to leave behind.

When she turned to face me, we both started talking at once.

“I need to ask you?—”

“There’s something I should?—”

I gestured for her to go ahead. “Please.”

She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye. “Are you the trustee?”

She didn’t need to explain which trust. If I wasn’t—if this was all some strange coincidence—I’d be asking what she meant.

But I was. And after thirty years of keeping secrets, she deserved a straight answer. “I am.”

She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping.

“How long have you suspected?” I asked.

“Part of me knew from the day we got here. But I wasn’t sure until right now,” she said. “The way you looked at me sometimes, like you were seeing someone else. And this gut feeling that you were waiting for us. For me.”

“As I said, I have a lot to tell you.”

Color rose in my cheeks. I’d gotten used to staying in the shadows, watching from a distance. Standing here with her made me feel exposed in a way I hadn’t expected.

She smiled as she pointed at my face.

“You’re blushing,” she said. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. “I guess I am.”

She looked at me differently now, like she was seeing me for the first time. The wall that had gone up between us yesterday came down with my admission. We weren’t adversaries, just two people with a complicated history to sort through.

I felt the pressure of everything else I needed to tell her. I’d been planning this conversation for years, rehearsing what I’d say and how I’d explain it all. But now that we were here, I realized no amount of planning could make this easy.

“Shall we sit?” I asked, motioning to the pews.

We settled facing each other, close enough to talk without raising our voices, but with enough space that neither of us felt crowded.

“Why was my stipulation only a month when my brothers each had to commit a full year?” she asked in a voice stronger than I’d anticipated.

“With you, I only needed to confirm that you and Irish were truly happy together. Once I was certain of that, my plan was to tell you everything.”

She looked puzzled. “But with my brothers?”

“Each stipulation served a different purpose.”

She shook her head. “None of this makes sense. How are you related to my mother? To us?”

“For you to understand, I have to start at the beginning.”

“I’m listening.”

“Fifty years ago, a young woman named Ursula Marquez was working at a restaurant called the Goat, in East Aurora, New York.”

“Right,” Flynn said. “I know about the original.”

“It was owned by Ursula’s parents, Felipe and Ambrosia Marquez. Ursula’s siblings—Pilar and Victor—also worked there.”

“Victor,” she repeated. “Is that Keltie’s father?”

“He is.”

She pressed her fingers to her temples, then stood and moved to the pressed flowers, tracing the outline of the delicate petals with her finger. “They’re from Colorado, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Brought here many years ago.”

“By you?”

“By someone who loved the mountains there.”

She turned to face me, studying my face, searching for something familiar. “How did you know my mother?”

“That’s further ahead in our story. First, you need to understand how it all began, before Patricia entered the picture.”

The mention of her mother’s name made her shiver. The way I said it—with familiarity—told her the relationship had been significant.

“This is…a lot.”

“I know.”

She looked overwhelmed, and I realized I needed to pace this revelation with care. “Perhaps we should continue tomorrow, when you’ve had time to absorb this first piece.”

“No,” she said, turning back to me. “I need to know more. The story you started—about Ursula Marquez. What happened to her?”

“One night while working at the restaurant, Ursula met a man named James D. Rooker Jr.—everyone called him JD. They fell in love and married later that year.”

“What does this have to do with my mother? With the trust?”

“Everything. But to understand it, you need to know what happened next. JD and Ursula had twin sons a year later. James D. Rooker III and John William Rooker.”

Her eyes widened as she processed the initials. “John William. JW—not Javier Wyatt.”

“That’s right. People called me Johnny back then.”

The realization struck her. “Ursula was your mother.”

“Yes.”

“And your brother?”

“Jimmy stayed with our father in East Aurora when we left.” I couldn’t keep the sadness from my voice. “We took different paths.”

She reached for the pew, then sat back down. “When you left? You and your mother and…?”

“Your mother. Patricia.” The name felt heavy on my tongue. “We all left together.”

She stared at me. “You knew my mother.”

“We were more like siblings than aunt and nephew.”

“Aunt and nephew?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes, Patricia was my aunt. My father was her brother.”

The chapel fell silent except for her sharp intake of breath.

“Your mother was pregnant when we left East Aurora. With Buck. JD—my father—tried to force her to end the pregnancy. My mother and I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”

“So you all fled.”

“We had help. Someone with resources who cared about Patricia. Someone who arranged for us to disappear.”

Her hands were trembling now. “Who?”

“Her name was Cena Covert. She was Patricia’s and my father’s aunt and had more money and influence than any of us realized. She orchestrated our journey.”

I watched her process this, seeing the moment when she understood that her entire family history—everything she’d believed about how her parents met, how they ended up in Colorado—had been orchestrated by forces she never knew existed.

“I know that name. Cord talked about her.”

“Yes. It was her estate where he spent his year.”

“My mother didn’t just happen to end up at our ranch in Colorado.”

“No. Cena arranged it. She sent Patricia to stay with someone she trusted.”

“Who?”

“Irma Wheaton. Your father’s mother.”

Her face went white. “My grandmother? She was part of this?”

“Cena and Irma had been friends in college. When Patricia needed somewhere safe to go, Irma agreed to help.”

“So my parents meeting…”

“Wasn’t chance. Though their feelings for each other were real.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Everything was arranged. My mother’s entire life was manipulated.”

“She was eighteen and pregnant. Alone and scared. The people who cared about her did what they thought was best to protect her.”

“Including you.”

“Including me.”

She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen as well. We graduated high school together before we left.”

“And you’ve been watching our family ever since.”

“Not the whole time. When your mother was diagnosed with cancer, she made me promise to look after her children. The trust was her idea—a way to ensure you were all taken care of and that you would know your history when the time was right.”

She stood again, pacing to the altar. “That’s why Cord was sent to East Aurora—to learn about our mother’s past.”

“Yes, that was part of it.”

“But the others…Porter at the Morris Ranch, Holt staying in Crested Butte. Those weren’t about her history, were they?”

“No. Some were about learning Patricia’s story. Others were about healing, about finding what each of you needed.”

“And me? Why here?”

“Because this is where we ended up after leaving Colorado. My mother and I lived in Crested Butte for six years before relocating to New Mexico. This ranch became our home.”

She turned to face me, her eyes showing full understanding. “You’re not just the trustee. You’re my cousin.”

“Yes.”

“Family.”