Page 94 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

My father was already there, chatting with Flynn and TJ. He stood when he spotted us, his arms outstretched for Luna.

“Abuelo, look at my cape!” Luna ran to him, twirling once more.

“Magnificent!” he declared, lifting her into his arms.

“You’re silly.” Luna giggled, patting his cheeks.

I settled into my seat beside my father, scanning the growing crowd. The amphitheater was filling quickly, a sea of faces—some familiar, others strangers, who’d come for the music but were now part of Luna’s extended support network whether they realized it or not.

I looked up and saw Bridger—or Kingston, as Echo called him—walk onto the stage, guitar in hand. The crowd cheered as he adjusted the microphone.

I’d grown to appreciate the man’s quiet strength over the past weeks. While Holt had been my rock through Luna’s treatments, Bridger had stepped in to fill his shifts at the Goat whenever Holt needed to be with us in Gunnison or Denver. He’d never complained, never asked for anything in return.

“Evening, folks,” he said, his deep voice carrying across the amphitheater. “Thank you all for coming out to support Luna Marquez and her brave fight.”

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Luna stood and waved from her seat.

Bridger spotted her and smiled. “There’s our guest of honor. This first song is for you, Luna.”

He played a total of four songs, each with its own haunting quality. When he finished the last one, he acknowledged the audience with a single wave before walking offstage. His understated exit commanded a different kind of respect than flashy performers typically received.

“He’s good,” my father commented, applauding. “Reminds me of the musicians who sang at coffeehouses in New Mexico when I was younger.”

“He is,” I said, searching the side of the stage for any sign of Holt. He was scheduled to play next, and my heart rate picked up at the thought of seeing him perform. Despite having heard him countless times at the Goat, there was something different about tonight—something electric in the air that had nothing to do with the Valentine’s Day hearts decorating the venue.

Luna tugged at my sleeve. “When is Mr. Holt coming out?”

“Very soon, baby,” I promised, squeezing her hand. “Are you enjoying the concert?”

Her smile was wide. “It’s the best day ever!”

My eyes burned at her declaration. After everything she’d endured—the needles, the medications, the endless tests—she still found delight in the music and the crowd. Every moment of joy she experienced felt like a gift.

Holt stepped on stage, wearing dark jeans and a crisp, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His dark hair looked freshly trimmed, and instead of his typical array of jewelry, he wore only a single silver pendant against the white fabric. The crowd’s reaction was deafening. While Bridger had earned respectful appreciation, Holt received full-throated adoration. He grinned at the response, his confidence on stage a stark contrast to Bridger’s quiet intensity.

“Good afternoon, Crested Butte!” he called into the microphone. His eyes scanned the crowd until they found our section, lingering on Luna and me. “Before I start, I want to thank everyone who made this benefit possible. Especially my sister, Flynn, who organized everything, and Ben Rice, who’s headlining tonight.”

More cheers erupted, along with several wolf whistles.

“Most importantly,” Holt continued, his voice softening, “I want to thank Luna Marquez for being the bravest person I know.”

Luna beamed, waving both arms. “Hi, Mr. Holt!”

The audience laughed, charmed by her enthusiasm.

“Hey, Unicorn Girl,” he replied, his smile soft. “I’m going to play a couple of songs I wrote recently,” he announced to the crowd. “This first one is called ‘River Under Moonlight,’ inspired by someone very special.”

My hand flew to the pendant at my throat—the river and moon design he’d given me for Christmas. As he began to play,I recognized the melody we’d recorded at Ben’s studio, but he’d added new verses, new depths to the arrangement.

His voice filled the amphitheater, rich and raw with emotion as he sang about finding unexpected love, about a river finding its course beneath a guiding moon. The metaphor wasn’t subtle, but it was genuine, and I found myself blinking away tears as he sang.

When he finished, the crowd’s response was immediate and overwhelming. Holt acknowledged it before launching into his next song—the one he’d written for Luna about Sparkles and Shimmer. Though the subject matter was whimsical, there was nothing childish about the arrangement. Instead, he’d transformed it into a powerful ballad about courage in the face of fear, about magic found in the darkest places.

I looked down at Luna, mouthing the words, her hand clutching mine as she listened, enraptured.

Holt played a third song—one I hadn’t heard before—about finding family in unexpected places. By the final chorus, I was no longer trying to keep myself from crying. My tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I listened to this man, this incredible human being, put our journey into music.

When the song ended, Holt took a deep breath. “For my final number tonight, I want to share something brand new. I wrote this specifically for this benefit.” He adjusted his position on the stool, his eyes finding mine in the wings. “Keltie, this one’s for you.”

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