Page 7 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

“I’ll be in touch,” she promised, sliding her phone into her pocket. “Take care of that little girl. She’s precious.”

After she left, I found myself drawn to the photo of my father and Aunt Ursula outside the original Goat, which had started this whole chain of events. They looked young and hopeful, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, proud of their new venture.

Luna’s small voice interrupted my thoughts. “Mommy, I’m tired.”

I turned to find her standing beside me, coloring book clutched to her chest, her eyes heavy with fatigue. The burst of energy from earlier had clearly worn off.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” I said, brushing her flushed cheek with my fingertips. Definitely still warm.

I signaled to Miguel across the bar. “Luna’s not feeling great. Can you handle closing up tonight?”

“No problem, boss.” He gave Luna a gentle smile. “Feel better,pequeña.”

I gathered her things and my own, making sure to remind Miguel to lock Holt’s guitar before he left.

The temperature had dropped steadily since sunset, and the night air was biting cold when we stepped outside. Luna shivered against me despite her wool coat, and I picked her up and carried her to my truck.

While I waited for it to warm up after I started the engine, I wondered again what had happened with Holt. The way Mrs. Lopez described it—like he’d seen a ghost—made me uneasy in ways I couldn’t explain.

While the drive to our house took less than five minutes, Luna fell asleep in her booster seat, her breathing soft and even. I carried her inside, straight upstairs, and gently laid her on the bed. The digital thermometer confirmed what I already knew: 100.4°F. Not high enough for the emergency room, but another in the pattern of unexplained fevers that had plagued her for months.

I measured out the children’s Tylenol, coaxing her to swallow it before changing her into pajamas. Her favorite stuffed rabbit—aptly named Bunny—was clutched tightly in her arms as she drifted to sleep.

Instead of going to my own room, I crawled into bed beside her, one hand resting lightly on her chest to feel the reassuring rise and fall of her breathing. Tomorrow, I’d call her doctor and see if I could bring her in.

As I watched Luna sleep, my mind wandered to how we’d ended up here. Five years ago, my world had been soundboards and cables, working as a sound engineer for touring bands. I’d been good at my job—damn good.

CB Rice’s European tour was the highlight of my career. That’s where I’d met Remi Gilbert, the band’s manager—tall, charming, with an affected accent that made everything sound important. Our romance had been intense and fast. Then I missed my period. Twice.

When I told him I was pregnant, his expression had shifted from shock to cold dismissal in seconds. “It isn’t mine,” he’d said flatly. Just like that, I was off the tour, my replacement arriving before I’d even packed my equipment.

After returning to my father’s place in New Mexico, I’d built a new life, saving every penny for Luna’s arrival. Eventually, I moved to Albuquerque, where there were more jobs and better childcare. Then, eight months ago, Dad called about buying the Goat. I’d been skeptical—I had no interest in a small Colorado ski town I’d never visited. But the profit potential could help with Luna’s mounting medical bills.

Since the move, Luna’s health had deteriorated further. The costs without Colorado’s health insurance had been staggering, and instead of getting better, she’d gotten worse.

My baby girl stirred beside me, her breathing changing rhythm. I stroked her hair, humming softly until she settled again.

Tomorrow, I’d call my father and tell him about Sam, his niece. Then, I’d contact Luna’s doctor’s office to make an urgentappointment. And I’d reach out to Holt, if only to tell him his guitar was safe.

But tonight, I listened to the winter wind whistling outside our window and tried not to think about the blue eyes watching me from across the bar or the strange certainty that, somehow, everything in my life was about to change.

4

HOLT

The digital clock on my nightstand read a few minutes before eight. Outside my window, snow drifted down in thick, lazy flakes, blanketing the Roaring Fork Ranch in unblemished white.

“Shit,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair as last night’s events flooded my memory.

Luna. Keltie’s daughter. Those enormous brown eyes that had looked right through me, and the overwhelming sense that something was wrong with her. The feeling had hit me so hard I’d bolted from the Goat without even grabbing my guitar.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor cold beneath my bare feet. The cabin felt emptier without the Gibson propped in its usual corner.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, checking for messages. Nothing new from Remi, which surprised me since, previously, he was relentless in trying to reach me.

After a quick shower, I pulled jeans and a flannel shirt on, then laced up my boots. The main house would be bustling by now. Sunday morning breakfast was a new Wheaton traditionsince Flynn and her husband, Irish, had moved in with their twins.

For the last couple of years, as the rest of us moved out, we’d wondered if anyone would ever live there again. The best part was that Flynn and Irish were redoing the entire place, updating it, and making it their own. I hoped that by doing so, the bad memories of our asshole father would be scraped away like old wallpaper.

---