Page 47 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

It took me a minute to figure out what he meant. “Oh, Mrs. Lopez? Err, no, not all night, but…”

He winked. “See you soon, darlin’.”

I stood at the door long after his truck disappeared down the street, my fingers absently touching the pendant at my throat. Relief at finally sharing my past with him mingled with the apprehension about what was developing between us. Everything was happening so quickly—the connection, the trust, the feelings I couldn’t deny.

And looming over it all was Luna’s appointment four days from now, in Denver.

14

HOLT

Back at my cabin, I picked up the guitar and began playing a melody that seemed to capture Luna’s bright spirit. The notes flowed, building into a tune that felt both new and somehow familiar, as if I’d known it all along but was only now remembering. I thought of her face when she told me the name she’d chosen for the unicorn Santa gave her—Sparkles. And the absolute conviction in her eyes when she’d explained that the stuffed animal could “keep bad things away.” Children believed in magic because they hadn’t yet learned not to.

Lyrics began taking shape in my mind. A song about a magical creature with healing powers—one who helped sick children feel better, who carried away their fears on rainbow wings. It was sentimental, maybe even a little cheesy, but I couldn’t stop the words from coming.

“Sparkles, with a mane of silver light, watches over children through the darkest night…”

My phone rang, breaking the creative flow. I considered ignoring it, but the caller ID showed Ben Rice’s name.

“Ben,” I answered, setting the guitar aside. “What’s up?”

“Holt! Glad I caught you.” His voice boomed through the speaker. “Listen, I meant what I said yesterday, about the recording studio. How about you come by tomorrow? Check out what we’ve got, maybe lay down a few tracks?”

My interest was piqued, and I sat up straighter. “That’s generous, Ben. I appreciate it.”

“Nothing generous about it. Your songs are good—really good. Like I said, just because you can’t tour, it doesn’t mean we can’t get some recording done. I’ve been thinking about what you said about staying local. What if we recorded an EP? Four or five songs, something to keep your name out there while you’re stuck in CB.”

The offer was tempting—more than tempting.

“I’d like that,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it.

“Great! Come by around noon tomorrow. I’ll show you around, introduce you to our sound engineer. Manny’s good—not Keltie Marquez good—but solid.”

“Thanks again, Ben.”

“See you tomorrow, then. Noon sharp.”

After hanging up, I grabbed my guitar again, but my mind kept circling to the night at the hospital.

As I continued playing, it happened again.

Another vision hit me—this one more intense than before. Luna was in a hospital bed surrounded by machines. Doctors were discussing treatment options while Keltie wept silently.

I gasped, the guitar sliding from my lap and hitting the floor with a discordant clang.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and dialed Gunnison Valley Hospital. When the operator answered, I asked to speak with Dr. Patel.

He came on the line seconds later. “How can I help you?”

“Doctor, it’s Holt Wheaton,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We met yesterday when I picked up medication for Luna Marquez.”

“Yes, of course. Is everything all right? Has Luna’s fever worsened?”

“No, nothing like that,” I assured him quickly. “Actually, I have questions about children with similar symptoms. Purely hypothetical.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I see,” he said, his tone suggesting he understood my true purpose. “Well, hypothetically speaking, recurring fevers in children can have many causes. Most are benign—viral infections, growth phases, even stress.”

“And the more serious causes?” I prompted when he didn’t continue.

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