Page 10 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

The Miracles of Hope Children’s Charity website was basic but functional. Founded twenty-two years ago by an anonymous resident whose child had been diagnosed with a rare blood disorder, the organization specifically helped families in Crested Butte with kids facing serious medical conditions.

Luna’s face flashed before me—those big brown eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and that inexplicable feeling that had hit me like a truck when I shook her tiny hand. The certainty that something was wrong remained—a weight in my chest I couldn’t dislodge.

My phone buzzed, Remi’s name flashing on the screen. I’d been expecting this call since yesterday.

“Where the hell are you?” His voice boomed through the speaker, his New York accent thickening with anger. “We had a session booked yesterday. Ben’s been waiting.”

“I can’t do it, Remi,” I said, the words burning my throat on their way out. “I can’t join the tour.”

Silence hung on the line for several seconds.

“Is this your idea of a negotiation tactic?” he finally asked, suspicion creeping into his tone. “Because if you want more money?—”

“It’s not about money,” I cut him off. “It’s a family situation. I can’t leave Crested Butte for the next year.”

“A year?” Remi’s voice rose in pitch. “The tour kicks off in three weeks, Holt. We need you in the studio now.”

“I know the timeline.” I paced the length of my cabin, boots thudding against the wooden floor. “I wish things were different.”

“This is career suicide,” Remi warned. “You know that, right? Opportunities like this don’t come around twice.”

The weight of his words settled in my chest.

“I know,” I said quietly.

“What am I supposed to tell Ben? He considers you part of the family.”

I closed my eyes, realizing I should’ve been the one to tell him. I’d known Ben Rice my whole life, and our families were close. I should’ve had the courtesy to tell him before Remi.

“Let me talk to him. This is personal, man.”

Remi snorted. “Personal? What it is, is bullshit.”

My grip tightened on the phone. “This isn’t your business, Gilbert.”

“I make it my business when someone throws away their shot, Holt. I’ve seen it before. Usually, it’s drugs or alcohol.”

“It’s neither,” I said, frustration building.

“Right,” Remi sighed. “Look, I like you. You’re talented. But I can’t hold this spot. If you can’t commit, we’ll have no choice but to find someone to take your place.”

“I understand. I hope the tour’s a success.”

Remi was quiet for a moment. “You’re making a fucking mistake, Holt.”

“Wouldn’t be my first,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest.

After we hung up, I sat on the edge of my bed, guitar-calloused fingers running through my hair. The silence of thecabin pressed in around me, broken only by the occasional sound of timber settling in the cold.

My gaze fell on the corner where my Gibson usually rested. I needed that guitar—needed its familiar weight in my hands. More than that, I needed to see Keltie again, to understand why her daughter had sparked such a visceral reaction in me.

I grabbed my truck keys and headed out into the snow.

Fifteen minutes later,I parked in front of the Goat, surprised to find the lights off. The “Open” sign was flipped to “Closed,” and the handwritten note taped to the door sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Closed due to family emergency.

I sat in my truck, engine idling, staring at the darkened windows. What kind of emergency? Was it the little girl? The feeling that had sent me running last night was back, stronger now.

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