Page 12 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

Blood-forming tissues?What in the hell did that mean?

“Specifically certain kinds of cancer,” he added before I could ask. His words struck me in the same way it would have if he’d reached out and punched me. My daughter—my bright, beautiful four-year-old—might havecancer.

“I’ve made some calls,” the doctor continued, his voice fading in and out like a bad radio signal as my mind reeled. “There’s an excellent pediatric oncology team at Children’s Hospital in Denver. They can see Luna next week. In the meantime, we’ll stabilize her fever and run additional tests here.”

I was unable to form words.

“Ms. Marquez? Is there someone I can call for you? A family member or friend?”

“No.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “No, thank you. I need a minute.”

“Of course. Luna’s sleeping now. I can ask one of the nurses to step in to give you a few minutes if you’d like.”

I glanced at my daughter, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked beside her. Bunny had been through every fever, every doctor’s visit, every late-night terror. Now, it might be facing something far worse with her.

“I’ll be right back,” I whispered, though she couldn’t hear me.

The walk to the exit felt endless. Nurses and staff blurred past as I moved on autopilot, walking through the automatic doors and out into the frigid December air.

Only when I reached my truck did I finally break. My legs gave way, and my knees hit the frozen asphalt with a dull thud. The tears came without sound at first, then built into gut-wrenching sobs that tore through my chest.

Luna. My baby. My entire world. The thought of losing her was unimaginable. Yet here I was, forced to imagine it.

Would our new insurance cover all these tests? What would happen to the bar while we were in Denver? The questions spiraled, each more overwhelming than the last.

A warm hand touched my shoulder, gentle but firm. I startled, looking up through tear-blurred eyes.

Holt Wheaton crouched beside me, his blue eyes filled with concern. Without a word, he embraced me.

I should have pulled away. I barely knew this man. Instead, I collapsed against his chest, my fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket as the sobs overtook me again. He held me, one hand stroking my hair, the other arm wrapped around me, saying nothing, asking nothing.

When the worst of it finally passed, leaving me hollow and spent, I wiped roughly at my face.

“What are you doing here?” My voice was hoarse from crying.

“I stopped by the Goat, and Miguel told me you brought Luna here.” Holt’s gaze was steady. “I thought you might need…” He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.

Need what? Need him? The thought should have annoyed me, but instead, a treacherous part of me whispered that maybe I did.

He handed me a bandana from his pocket. “Here.”

I took it and wiped my face. “Thanks. I, uh, should go inside.”

“Let me walk you.” He stood, extending his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I took it.

As we passed his truck, Holt stopped. “Hold on a sec.” He reached inside and pulled out his guitar case. “Maybe this will help. You know, kids usually like music.”

The simple gesture—so unexpected, so thoughtful—nearly broke me again.

Inside, Dr. Patel was waiting near the nurses’ station. His eyes flickered between Holt and me.

“Ms. Marquez, you’re here. Good.” He glanced at Holt. “Is this Luna’s father?”

“No,” I said quickly. “He’s a friend.”

Holt extended his hand. “Holt Wheaton. Here for support.”

“I’d like a private word with Ms. Marquez, if you don’t mind,” said Dr Patel.

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