Page 8 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

The walk from my cabin took less than five minutes, but the frigid air stung my lungs with each breath. I paused halfway, taking in the view.

Music drifted from inside as I approached—Flynn’s playlist of indie folk mixed with the clatter of pans and the rumble of conversation. I stomped the snow from my boots on the porch and pushed the door open.

“Look what the storm blew in,” Buck called from his position at the stove, spatula in hand.

“Morning,” I replied, heading straight for the coffeepot.

The dining room table was already crowded. Cord and Juni sat side by side, their honeymoon glow still evident despite the early hour. Flynn and Irish’s twins, Paxon and Rooker, babbled in their high chairs while Irish tried to convince them to eat their breakfast rather than wear it. Buckaroo—Buck and TJ’s two-year-old son—smooshed his pancakes with pudgy fingers as TJ wiped syrup from his cheeks while Beau and Sam sat quietly at the end of the table, taking it all in.

“UncaHolt!” Buckaroo squealed when he spotted me, waving syrupy fingers in my direction.

“Hey, little man,” I said, taking a seat.

“Miguel called the house phone, looking for you, this morning,” Flynn said, one eyebrow raised. “Said you left your guitar at the bar last night. That’s not like you.”

Buck glanced in my direction, but I avoided his gaze, focusing instead on pouring maple syrup over my pancakes. Buck had always been able to read me better than the others—a talent that grew more annoying with age.

“Heard a rumor that CB Rice is headed out on tour next year,” he said.

“You heard right.”

Flynn put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Holt.”

I focused on my plate rather than the pity in my baby sister’s gaze. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”

“I hate to butt my nose in, but the stipulations of this trust are highly manipulative,” said Beau, shaking his head.

Given Sam had inherited the estate where Cord was sent last year, which we subsequently found out had been in our mother’s family—and that Sam was our cousin—it didn’t surprise me that Beau had heard the whole story.

A heavy silence fell over the table. Our father had ruled the ranch with an iron fist for forty years. What secrets he’d taken to his grave, we might never know.

“I’m not convinced this was Dad’s doing,” said Cord, clearing his throat. “Something tells me our mom was involved.”

“Mom, who died years before Dad did?” Flynn objected.

“She kept her share of secrets,” Buck countered. “And now, Keltie Marquez, who owns the Goat, has a photograph of her aunt and father from decades ago, and I’m convinced Mom was aware of it, somehow.”

I set down my fork with an unintentional clatter. “Did any of you know of Victor Marquez?”

A chorus of nos answered me.

“I spoke with Keltie yesterday,” Sam said, breaking the momentary silence. “She said she and her daughter are staying here for Christmas. Seems like they’re on their own.”

“She has a daughter?” Juni asked, surprise evident in her voice.

“Luna,” I confirmed without thinking

“She’s four,” Sam added.

Six pairs of eyes turned to me with varying degrees of curiosity.

“I met her last night,” I explained, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “She came to the bar, looking for her mom.”

“Was she alone?” Juni asked.

“No, with an older woman. Her babysitter, I think.”

“Was she okay being in a bar?” TJ wondered aloud. “That’s an odd place for a kid that age.”

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