Page 55 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

“Mornin’,” Cord said, glancing up from what looked like breeding records for our stock.

Bridger raised one hand in greeting, his steady green eyes landing on mine for a moment that felt too long. At six-foot-five, he was taller than both my brother and me, his imposing frame belying his quiet nature. In the three years he’d been managing the Roaring Fork, I’d never heard him waste a word. When Bridger spoke, people listened, mainly because they weren’t sure when he might again.

“You look like shit,” said Cord, frowning at the dark hollows beneath my eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I muttered, moving past them to the tack room. “Thought I’d take Stang out for a ride. Either of you interested?”

Bridger and Cord exchanged a look, and Cord shrugged. “Why not? It’s been a while since the three of us rode together.”

Twenty minutes later, we were on our way out of the barn. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against packed snow and occasional equine snorts broke the winter stillness. We followed the trail winding toward the eastern ridge, where the vista extended for miles across the valley.

Stang picked his way carefully along the path, sure-footed despite the slippery conditions. Ahead of me, Cord rode his paint gelding, Midnight, with the easy confidence of someone born to the saddle. Bridger led the way on Thunder, a massive black stallion that matched his demeanor.

We rode in silence until we reached the ridge. When we stopped, Cord twisted in his saddle to look at me. “You gonna tell us what’s eating at you, or are we supposed to guess?”

I sighed, my breath forming puffs in the frigid air. “Just got things on my mind.”

“Things like a bar owner and her daughter?” Cord’s voice held no judgment, only curiosity.

“Partly,” I admitted, turning Stang to take in the vista spread out below us. From here, the distant ranch buildings looked like toys, and I could see smoke curl from the main house’s chimneys. “But there’s other stuff too.”

Cord dismounted, letting Midnight’s reins hang loose as the horse dropped his head to sniff at the ground. Bridger followed suit, his expression unreadable as always, although he appeared more interested in our conversation than he sometimes did.

I hesitated, considering how much to share. These were the two of the men I trusted most—along with Buck and Porter—yet what I needed to say sounded delusional even to me.

“I’ve been having these… dreams,” I began awkwardly, getting off my horse too. “Or visions, I guess you could call them.”

Cord’s eyebrows rose. “What kind of visions?”

“About Mom.” The words felt thick in my throat. “She’s in a hospital, holding a baby. Last night, Dad was there too—standing outside the window, crying.”

My brother’s expression shifted to one of concern. “A baby? Flynn?”

I shook my head. “No, not Flynn. A smaller baby, sickly looking. Hooked up to machines.”

Saying it aloud made it sound even more absurd. But the dream had felt real—more memory than fantasy.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had… feelings about things,” I admitted, looking out over the valley rather than at my companions. “When Mom got sick, I knew. Before anyone told me, before the doctors even diagnosed her.”

“You never mentioned that,” Cord said quietly.

“How do you tell people something like that? ‘Hey, by the way, I get these premonitions sometimes.’” I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. “Sounds crazy.”

“Not necessarily.” To my surprise, it was Bridger who spoke. “Native Americans believe there are people who are born with a spiritual sensitivity—the ability to see beyond what others can.”

Cord and I both turned to look at him.

“My grandmother used to talk about it,” he continued, his eyes on the distant mountains. “She said certain folks have different eyes for seeing.”

“Thanks, man,” I said, genuinely touched by his attempt to normalize what I was experiencing. “Still feels pretty messed up.”

“So, what do you think these dreams about Mom and the baby mean?” Cord asked.

I removed my hat and ran a hand through my hair. After the night Keltie and I almost let things go too far, I’d given her space—not wanting to crowd her, to push for more than she was ready to give. But the separation was making me restless, worried. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re stress dreams. There’s ahelluvalot going on.”

“I, err, don’t know if you’ve heard, but Sam’s going to Denver with Luna and Keltie tomorrow. For the appointment,” said Cord.

“Seriously?” I said, unable to mask my hurt. “I was supposed to go with her.”

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