Roaring fork wrangler ro.., p.1
Roaring Fork Wrangler (Roaring Fork Ranch Book 1), page 1
ROARING FORK ROCKSTAR
ROARING FORK RANCH
BOOK III
HEATHER SLADE
CONTENTS
Roaring Fork Rockstar
1. Keltie
2. Holt
3. Keltie
4. Holt
5. Keltie
6. Holt
7. Keltie
8. Holt
9. Keltie
10. Holt
11. Keltie
12. Holt
13. Keltie
14. Holt
15. Keltie
16. Holt
17. Keltie
18. Holt
19. Keltie
20. Holt
21. Keltie
22. Holt
23. Keltie
24. Holt
25. Keltie
26. Holt
27. Keltie
28. Holt
29. Keltie
30. Holt
Roaring Fork Rooker
About the Author
Also by Heather Slade
ROARING FORK ROCKSTAR
He’s a rock star bound by family legacy.
She’s a single mom fighting for her daughter’s life.
Together they discover love can heal the deepest wounds.
HOLT
I had it all—world tours with CB Rice, my songs on the radio, everything I ever dreamed of. Except now, it’s my turn to fulfill the requirements of a family trust I’d foolishly hoped wouldn’t involve me. If I don’t spend three hundred and sixty-five days straight in my hometown of Crested Butte, Colorado, my siblings and I will lose our inheritance along with our family legacy. What else is the secret trustee forcing me to do? Play gigs in a local bar and donate my earnings to a kids’ charity. It’s not the money I’m worried about; I’m making plenty of that from royalties. Instead, it’s watching my shot at stardom slip away. The only bright spot of playing night after night at the Goat is its owner, Keltie Marquez, who serves up mysteries I can’t resist. Like why the rattling cough of her tiny daughter, whose wild dark curls frame her face like her mama’s do, haunts my dreams.
KELTIE
The last thing I need is Holt Wheaton asking questions about my daughter. He’s supposed to be on tour with CB Rice, not playing at my bar, not looking at my little girl like she holds answers to questions he doesn’t even know to ask. Every time he picks up that guitar, I see pieces of a puzzle that could shatter everything. His family’s past and my daughter’s future are tangled in ways that could break both our hearts—or maybe heal them. If only I could tell him the truth.
1
KELTIE
Ishould have known something was up the moment the Wheaton siblings huddled together and bolted for the door. But on the twenty-first of December, with the Goat packed wall to wall for our early Christmas bash, I had other concerns—like keeping the bourbon flowing and making sure no one fell off the mechanical bull we’d rented for the night.
Taking over my family’s old bar in this small mountain ski town wasn’t the career path I’d imagined after years of mixing sound for touring bands, but the money my father had promised I’d make would help with Luna’s medical bills.
“Another round for table six,” I told Miguel, my most reliable employee, sliding the empty glasses across the polished wood. The holiday crowd pressed in from every direction, a sea of flannel and denim, cowboy hats and boots. Through the crush, I spotted him again—Holt Wheaton—the local musician who’d been playing regular Thursday- and Saturday-night sets since I reopened. The man was unfairly gorgeous, with intense blue eyes and dark hair that he kept long enough to run fingers through. Not that I was looking. Not with Luna at home with Mrs. Lopez, my elderly neighbor who charged half her going rate because she adored my daughter.
His voice, though—that was something else entirely. The first time I heard him sing, I nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks. There was a raw, haunting quality to it that made the hair on my arms stand up. The locals told me he was part of a famous band that toured internationally, but he never mentioned it when he showed up every week, guitar case in hand, asking if the stage was ready.
“Keltie!” One of the waitresses—Jenna, I think—waved frantically from across the room. “We need more napkins!”
As I ducked beneath the bar to grab a stack, my phone buzzed with a text from Mrs. Lopez, confirming Luna was asleep. I allowed myself a small breath of relief. The good nights were becoming more frequent, but I never took them for granted.
I checked the time—three more hours before I could relieve the sitter and hold my little girl close.
I hated being away from my daughter at night, but the stack of her medical bills grew faster than I could pay them down.
I glanced over at Holt again, reminding myself there was no time to fantasize about blue-eyed musicians when my four-year-old needed specialized care I could barely afford.
The Wheaton family had caught my attention earlier, a boisterous group celebrating near the fireplace. I’d recognized Holt immediately, of course, but hadn’t met the others until they approached the bar. The introductions had been casual enough—Cord and his wife, Juni, her parents, and another woman, named Samantha, who came to stand near them.
That’s when everything shifted.
“Hey, Cord,” the one called Juni had said, pointing to a picture on the wall. “And, Sam, did you see this?”
They were all staring at a photo I’d hung, of my father with his sister Ursula outside the original Goat.
“How do you know my aunt Ursula?” I asked, moving toward them.
The older man—Jay, Juni’s father—looked over his daughter’s shoulder. “That looks like the guy I bought our place from.”
My forehead scrunched. “That’s my dad.”
“What’s his name?” Jay asked.
“Victor Marquez.”
The one called Cord muttered something under his breath while his wife spun around, her eyes wide with shock.
“So, uh, anyone wanna fill me in?” I asked, feeling like I’d walked into the middle of a movie.
That’s when Samantha stepped closer. “Pilar Marquez was my grandmother. I’m Samantha.”
The revelation hung in the air between us, a connection neither of us had known existed. I grabbed the bourbon without thinking, lined up shot glasses, and asked who was in. All five raised their hands.
“To the Goat,” I toasted, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.
“To the Goat!” they echoed.
I noticed Holt watching from several feet away, his expression unreadable. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Their intensity wasn’t just for show on stage.
“Did your dad ever mention anything about East Aurora?” Sam asked, leaning across the bar.
I shook my head. “Not really. Only that he and Aunt Ursula ran a place there before I was born.”
“And he never mentioned the Wheaton family? Or the Rookers?”
“No,” I said, trying to recall hearing any random comments about either. “He’s not exactly the reminiscing type.”
Holt approached then, resting his hand on Cord’s shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. I watched them move through the crowd, collecting what I assumed were his other siblings. They gathered near the door, heads bent together in conversation.
“Excuse me,” Cord said, setting his empty glass on the bar. “We need to step outside for a minute.”
Juni looked torn, glancing between her husband and her parents.
“Go,” said Juni’s father. “We’ll be fine.”
I watched them leave, Holt holding the door as the others filed out into the softly falling snow. Something told me they wouldn’t be back—at least not tonight.
“Your father might have the answers we’ve been looking for,” Sam said, handing me a napkin where she’d written her phone number. “Would you mind asking him to give me a call tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I replied, tucking the number into my pocket. “But I’m not promising anything. Dad can be…selective about what he shares.”
Hours later, after Sam and her husband had also left and the bar emptied, I counted out the register while thinking about Luna. Four years old and already braver than most adults I knew. The recurring doctor visits for her unexplained fevers were adding up—meaning I needed to earn a helluva lot of money.
I rolled my shoulders, willing the stress away, then locked the cash in the safe and grabbed my coat.
“You heading out, boss?” Miguel called out.
“Yeah. You good to finish up?”
He stopped sweeping. “Hey, what was that all about earlier? With the photo?”
I shrugged. “Family stuff, I guess. Turns out my dad has more connections to this town than he let on.”
“Mysterious.” Miguel grinned. “Like a telenovela.”
“God, I hope not.” I laughed, though part of me wondered.
Outside, the temperature had dropped to well below freezing. The snow crunched under my boots as I made my way to where I’d parked. Downtown Crested Butte sparkled with Christmas lights, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the beauty of it—the white-peaked butte, visible even in the darkness, the quiet of a small town long since closed up for the night.
I climbed into my truck and turned the key, waiting for the engine to warm. Tomorrow, I’d call my father and demand answers.
As I pulled away from the curb, I caught a glimpse of a tall figure standing under a streetlight across the street—Holt Wheaton, watching as I drove past. Our eyes met for a brief moment before I turned the corner, heading for home. What was he doing, standing out in the cold? Did he need help? What had happened to all his siblings?
I couldn’t stop myself. I spun the truck around and pulled up beside him. “Everything okay?” I asked.
He stepped over and rested his arms on the window I’d lowered. “Favorite time here in town,” he said. “When everything’s quiet enough that you can hear the snow falling.”
“Well, it’s actually my favorite time to be in bed. Err, I mean, asleep.”
He chuckled and stepped away. “You got me there. Being in bed is my favorite thing too—and I don’t mean to sleep,” he added with a wink.
I shook my head, raised the window, and drove the three blocks home, knowing damn well that as soon as I crawled under my covers, I’d fall asleep wondering what sharing my sheets with the rock god Holt Wheaton would be like.
2
HOLT
My stomach knotted as I stared at the text from Six-pack that had arrived at nine this morning.
Meeting at my office, 1:00 PM today. All Wheaton siblings required. No exceptions.
The snow swirled outside my cabin window as I sipped coffee that had gone cold. Less than twelve hours ago, we’d been at the Goat, celebrating Cord’s return from New York and his marriage to Juni. Now, this.
I’d known this day would come. But knowing didn’t make it any easier.
I shook my head, trying to focus on the view outside my window rather than the dread spreading through my chest. The mountains stood indifferent, snow-capped and silent, unconcerned with the games a mysterious LLC was playing with my family.
When I arrived at Six-pack’s office in Gunnison, all my siblings were already gathered in the conference room. Six-pack stood at the head of the table, manila folder in hand, wearing the same expression he’d had when delivering the news to each of my three brothers before me.
“Holt,” Six-pack greeted me. “Seeing as we’re all here, we can begin.” Flynn, the youngest of the five of us and our only sister, and I took the two open seats. Now that she was married, with twin sons, I hoped whatever this asshole was about to tell us would be something required of me, not her.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, hating how my voice sounded. “What impossible task do I need to perform?”
Six-pack adjusted his glasses. “I’ve received instructions from the Roaring Fork Trust LLC regarding the next codicil.”
“Get on with it, Six-pack,” Buck snapped.
“It reads as follows. ‘The Roaring Fork Trust further stipulates that Holt David Wheaton must live in Crested Butte, Colorado, for a period of three hundred and sixty-five days, defined as not being absent from the boundaries of the town for a period longer than forty-eight consecutive hours.’”
I frowned. “That’s it? Stay in CB for a year?” It sounded suspiciously simple after what my brothers had been through.
Six-pack cleared his throat. “There’s more. ‘During this period, he must perform musical sets at local establishments no fewer than three times per week and donate fifty percent of all earnings from these performances to the Miracles of Hope Children’s Charity of Crested Butte, Colorado.’”
It was the same charity that would get everything if I didn’t do what the codicil demanded. I felt my jaw tighten.
“So I’m trapped in town, playing dive bars for a year,” I said flatly.
“That appears to be the requirement, yes,” Six-pack replied.
I laughed, but not because it was funny. “Any specific songs they want me to play? Any venues I have to avoid?”
“The codicil doesn’t specify further details about the performances,” Six-pack said, “only that they must be public, paid engagements and properly documented for verification purposes.”
I stood up, unable to stay seated. The walls felt too close, the air too thin.
“If the terms of the codicil are not met, then the ranch will be sold and the proceeds given to—”
Buck stood like I had. “Shut the fuck up, Six-pack. We know all this shit. Holt doesn’t do as he’s told, we lose everything. Is there anything else we don’t know? Other than who the asshole behind the scenes calling the shots is?”
The attorney—a guy we all went to high school with—shook his head.
“Then, we’re outta here,” Buck added.
“When do I have to start?” I asked, the question sounding strange even to my own ears.
“Immediately,” Six-pack replied. “The clock begins ticking today. You have twelve months.”
I turned and headed for the exit, not trusting myself to say anything more. My hand trembled on the doorknob—not from fear, but from the effort of containing everything churning inside me.
Once outside, I stood by my truck, resting my hands on the hood, trying to steady my breathing.
“You okay?” Cord’s voice came from behind me.
I straightened, not turning around. “Were you a year ago when you found out you had to drive across the country to a place you’d never heard of?”
Cord shook his head. “You know I wasn’t.”
“To tell you the truth, I wish I had to go somewhere.”
“I get it, man.”
We all did. Buck, Porter, Cord, me, and even Flynn. We were powerless against a nameless, faceless trustee who pulled our strings like a puppet master. “Sorry. I know you do. Listen, I need some time.”
I hugged each of my siblings, then got in my truck. It was a thirty-minute drive to the Roaring Fork—a ranch that had been in our family for generations. It was worth millions, and if I didn’t do my part, every penny of it would be gone.
My brothers had done their share. Now, it was all on me.
The envelope in my pocket—the one with CB Rice’s official logo and tour schedule that included forty-eight cities in eighteen countries—felt like a brick. The tour I’d spent my whole life dreaming about, the kind that made songwriters legends, was now something I couldn’t be a part of.
I needed a fucking drink. And I knew exactly where to get one.
“Hey, Holt,” said Keltie when I walked into the Goat. “I didn’t expect you to be here today. Something I can do for you?”
I motioned over to the small stage. “Mind if I play a while?”
Her head cocked for a second. “You’re welcome anytime someone else isn’t on the schedule.”
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“Get you a drink?”
“I’d appreciate it.” I watched her walk away, unable to take my eyes off her. Keltie’s five-foot-seven frame commanded the space behind the bar like she’d been born to it. She’d tucked her flannel shirt into a pair of worn jeans that hugged her curves in all the right places—ample breasts, narrow waist, proportionate hips. The kind of body that made a man’s hands itch to explore.
But it was her eyes that got me. Big, round, and a light brown that looked almost amber under the bar lights. They held secrets—I’d bet my guitar on it. Her wild, curly, dark-brown hair framed her face, a few strands escaping the loose ponytail she’d pulled it into for work.
I couldn’t help but remember our exchange of last night. “Being in bed is my favorite thing too—and I don’t mean to sleep.” I’d winked, and her cheeks had flushed before she raised her window and drove off. That blush had stayed with me all night.
When she returned with my drink, her smile lit up her whole face, transforming her from merely beautiful to breathtaking. Her square-toed cowboy boots clicked against the hardwood floor as she set the glass in front of me.
“There you go. On the house,” she said, seemingly unaware of the effect she had.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling more parched than when I’d walked in, but not for the whiskey in my glass. “But lemme start a tab, Keltie. I’m not going anywhere for a while,” I said, thinking about the codicil’s requirement. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Maybe being stuck here wouldn’t be as bad as I’d thought.
