Page 80 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

A sharp knock interrupted us, and Holt moved away reluctantly, opening the door to Miguel’s apologetic face.

“Sorry. Something you need to see.” He pointed toward a cluster of people hunched over a phone at the bar.

We followed, curious. A regular—Dave or Dan, I could never remember—held his cell up as we approached.

“Look at this.”

The screen showed a social media post from Ben, saying CB Rice would be headlining Luna’s benefit concert.

“Did you know?” I turned to Holt, searching his face.

He looked genuinely surprised. “No. He didn’t mention anything.”

“We’ll sell out in an hour,” Miguel predicted, scrolling through the comments that were posting faster than we could read them.

My brain struggled to process the information. CB Rice played arenas, not small-town benefits. Seconds later, the front door banged open. Stacey from McGill’s burst in, clutching her phone like a winning lottery ticket.

“Have you seen?” Her words tumbled out. “Everyone’s talking about it!”

“Just now,” I managed.

“That’s not all,” she continued breathlessly. “Tickets went on sale four minutes ago. It’s already sold out, and I heard Ben suggested adding a second night.”

“Told you,” said Miguel with a broad smile.

Holt’s hand found the small of my back, steadying me.

“We’re doing a raffle,” Stacey added. “Hardware store’s giving a generator. Ski resort donated season passes. We’ve got slope-side condos, other vacation packages, and gift certificates from everywhere from here to Salida. The list keeps growing.”

My throat constricted. “Why would everyone?—”

“Because we take care of our own,” she said simply. “Gotta run. More calls to make!” She vanished as quickly as she’d appeared.

Holt squeezed my shoulder. “I need to get started,” he said, but instead of heading straight to the stage, he guided me to a quieter corner near the office. “You okay?”

“Processing,” I admitted. “It’s a lot.”

His thumb brushed my cheek, coming away damp. I hadn’t realized I was crying.

When he finally moved toward the stage, I took a seat at the bar. Miguel slid water toward me without asking. The room quieted as Holt adjusted his microphone and tuned his guitar.

“Hey, everybody,” he said, his voice filling the space. “For those who don’t know, Luna came home today.” He paused, fingers hovering over the strings. “I wrote this song for her and her mama, but it seems fitting that I play it for the first time tonight.”

I turned around to face him, barely breathing as he played the opening cords then started to sing. The song told of a unicorn with healing powers who got sick herself. It spoke of stars and invisible strength, of darkness that couldn’t extinguish certain kinds of light. He’d transformed Luna’s ordeal—theneedles, the machines, the fear—into something a child could grasp without terror.

Tears came freely now as he sang the final verse, his eyes finding mine across the room. Through the worst moments of my life, Holt had remained steady. He’d made Luna laugh when nothing else could. He’d become part of our little family.

The music faded, and applause filled the silence. I sat motionless, aware that tomorrow would bring medication schedules, doctor follow-ups, and everything to do with illness management. But tonight, in this moment, I felt more than fear and uncertainty. I felt hope.

Holt’s gaze held mine across the room, a question in his eyes I couldn’t answer aloud yet. As he began his next song, I didn’t look away. Somehow, I knew he understood.

I stayed another hour, letting the bar’s familiar rhythms wash over me. Finally, gathering my resolve, I said good night to Miguel, waved to Holt, and headed home.

I found my father and Luna hidden in a blanket fort that took up half the living room. Flashlights illuminated their faces from below as they read from one of her books.

“Mommy!”Luna called. “Come sit in our fort!”

I crawled through the makeshift entrance, careful not to dislodge the chair supporting one corner.

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