Page 5 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

“I’m Luna. My mommy owns this bar.” I should’ve known she was related to Keltie. Like her mama’s, the girl’s dark curls were wild around her face and her brown doe eyes bored into mine as if she could read my every thought.

“Vete para adentro ahora, pequeñina,”said the older woman with her, who I didn’t recognize. Since I spoke Spanish fairly well, I knew she’d said something like, “Go inside now, little one.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Wheaton,” Luna said, holding her hand out for me to shake. It was tiny and fragile when I grasped it. But worse, the feeling that had sent me outside in the first place intensified. Something was wrong with her, something bad. I was as certain of it as I was of my own name.

3

KELTIE

The rear door swung open, and I spotted Luna with Mrs. Lopez. My stomach dropped. It was a few minutes after seven—right when I’d expect my daughter to be having dinner at home, not at the bar.

“Luna? Is everything okay?” I hurried toward them, concern rising in my chest.

“Mommy!” Luna brightened when she saw me, breaking away from Mrs. Lopez to wrap her arms around my legs. “I met Mr. Wheaton! He’s super tall, and he has long hair like we do!”

I shot a questioning look at Mrs. Lopez, who shrugged apologetically. “She insisted on seeing you tonight. Said she couldn’t sleep without a good-night kiss.”

“Where is Mr. Wheaton now?” I asked, looking past them.

“He left,” Mrs. Lopez said. “Seemed in a hurry after we bumped into him. Almost like he’d seen a ghost.”

I knelt down, bringing myself to Luna’s level. Her flushed cheeks and unusual energy worried me, especially considering how tired she’d been this morning.

“He was nice, Mommy,” Luna continued.

I pulled my daughter close for a hug, pressing my lips to her forehead. The warmth radiating from her skin confirmed my fears—another spike. Not emergency-room hot, but definitely higher than normal.

Mrs. Lopez caught my eye and tilted her head. “She seemed tired earlier, but perked up outside,” she said with concern.

“Thanks for bringing her,” I replied softly, squeezing the older woman’s hand. “I’ve got her now.”

After Mrs. Lopez left, I guided Luna to a corner table with a clear view of the bar. “Do you feel like coloring while Mommy finishes work?” I suggested, pulling out the activity books and colored pencils I kept stashed under the counter for nights exactly like this.

“Can I have apple juice?” Luna asked, already reaching for her favorite purple pencil.

“Of course, baby.” I kissed the top of her head, trying to ignore how my hands shook as I poured her juice into a plastic cup with a lid.

I looked over at the stage, where Holt’s guitar still rested on its stand, abandoned. When he’d rushed out earlier, I assumed he’d be back. Now, customers were asking what had happened to the music. I’d have to put something on the sound system to fill the silence.

I found it strange that Holt had left his prized guitar behind. In the month I’d known him, he treated that guitar like it was made of gold—never letting it out of his sight. Something had clearly rattled him enough to make him forget it entirely.

Miguel approached as I was setting up a playlist on the sound system. “Where’d our entertainment go?” he asked, motioning toward the empty stage.

“No idea,” I said, selecting a mix of country and classic rock that would keep the crowd happy.

“That’s weird. First time I’ve seen Holt Wheaton bail on a gig.” Miguel’s brow furrowed. “And definitely the first time I’ve seen him leave his Gibby behind.”

“I know,” I agreed, glancing over at my little girl, who was contentedly coloring at her table. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on the bar for a minute? I need to check on Luna.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

I made my way across the crowded floor, saying hello to regulars as I passed. The Goat was filling up fast—Sunday nights were always popular, especially at this time of year.

Luna didn’t look up as I approached, absorbed in her artwork. I slid into the chair beside her, watching as she colored an animal purple with green spots.

“That’s a beautiful horse,” I said, gently brushing a curl from her forehead. Still warm.

“It’s not a horse, Mommy,” she corrected with the exaggerated patience four-year-olds reserve for clueless adults. “It’s a unicorn. See the horn?” She pointed to what I’d taken for an ear.

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