Page 1 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

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KELTIE

Ishould have known something was up the moment the Wheaton siblings huddled together and bolted for the door. But on the twenty-first of December, with the Goat packed wall to wall for our early Christmas bash, I had other concerns—like keeping the bourbon flowing and making sure no one fell off the mechanical bull we’d rented for the night.

Taking over my family’s old bar in this small mountain ski town wasn’t the career path I’d imagined after years of mixing sound for touring bands, but the money my father had promised I’d make would help with Luna’s medical bills.

“Another round for table six,” I told Miguel, my most reliable employee, sliding the empty glasses across the polished wood. The holiday crowd pressed in from every direction, a sea of flannel and denim, cowboy hats and boots. Through the crush, I spotted him again—Holt Wheaton—the local musician who’d been playing regular Thursday- and Saturday-night sets since I reopened. The man was unfairly gorgeous, with intense blue eyes and dark hair that he kept long enough to run fingers through. Not that I was looking. Not with Luna at home withMrs. Lopez, my elderly neighbor who charged half her going rate because she adored my daughter.

His voice, though—that was something else entirely. The first time I heard him sing, I nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks. There was a raw, haunting quality to it that made the hair on my arms stand up. The locals told me he was part of a famous band that toured internationally, but he never mentioned it when he showed up every week, guitar case in hand, asking if the stage was ready.

“Keltie!” One of the waitresses—Jenna, I think—waved frantically from across the room. “We need more napkins!”

As I ducked beneath the bar to grab a stack, my phone buzzed with a text from Mrs. Lopez, confirming Luna was asleep. I allowed myself a small breath of relief. The good nights were becoming more frequent, but I never took them for granted.

I checked the time—three more hours before I could relieve the sitter and hold my little girl close.

I hated being away from my daughter at night, but the stack of her medical bills grew faster than I could pay them down.

I glanced over at Holt again, reminding myself there was no time to fantasize about blue-eyed musicians when my four-year-old needed specialized care I could barely afford.

The Wheaton family had caught my attention earlier, a boisterous group celebrating near the fireplace. I’d recognized Holt immediately, of course, but hadn’t met the others until they approached the bar. The introductions had been casual enough—Cord and his wife, Juni, her parents, and another woman, named Samantha, who came to stand near them.

That’s when everything shifted.

“Hey, Cord,” the one called Juni had said, pointing to a picture on the wall. “And, Sam, did you see this?”

They were all staring at a photo I’d hung, of my father with his sister Ursula outside the original Goat.

“How do you know my aunt Ursula?” I asked, moving toward them.

The older man—Jay, Juni’s father—looked over his daughter’s shoulder. “That looks like the guy I bought our place from.”

My forehead scrunched. “That’s my dad.”

“What’s his name?” Jay asked.

“Victor Marquez.”

The one called Cord muttered something under his breath while his wife spun around, her eyes wide with shock.

“So, uh, anyone wanna fill me in?” I asked, feeling like I’d walked into the middle of a movie.

That’s when Samantha stepped closer. “Pilar Marquez was my grandmother. I’m Samantha.”

The revelation hung in the air between us, a connection neither of us had known existed. I grabbed the bourbon without thinking, lined up shot glasses, and asked who was in. All five raised their hands.

“To the Goat,” I toasted, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.

“To the Goat!” they echoed.

I noticed Holt watching from several feet away, his expression unreadable. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Their intensity wasn’t just for show on stage.

“Did your dad ever mention anything about East Aurora?” Sam asked, leaning across the bar.

I shook my head. “Not really. Only that he and Aunt Ursula ran a place there before I was born.”

“And he never mentioned the Wheaton family? Or the Rookers?”

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