Wide Open Spaces

Colt deliberately shut his eyes, then opened them again. She hadn’t gone away. And she wasn’t alone. A child, a boy Colt guessed to be six or seven years of age, stood with her. The kid wore a too-big cowboy hat that rested on slightly jug ears. Colt grinned. Otherwise, the boy was pretty ordinary. Towheaded and freckle-faced. But the kid’s body language suggested he wasn’t happy to be going out to dinner with his mother.

Colt couldn’t help recalling himself at the same age. Also an only child, he’d loved eating out. Which fortunately the Quinn family did a lot. His dad followed big-money rodeos, and his mom played jazz piano in night clubs. For tip money, she said. Colt wasn’t very old before he guessed the real reason. If a dinner crowd was especially receptive to her tunes, the establishment threw in a meal for the family. Not only did the food beat rodeo hot dogs as a steady diet, but the various club dining rooms’ meals were far superior to those prepared and eaten in the cramped quarters of the cab-over camper in which the three Quinns lived.

That was probably why Colt identified, just a little, with Summer Marsh’s son. A boy whose once-stable world had to be in turmoil. Lord, as an adult Colt knew how it felt to have a well-ordered life thrown into disarray; it’d be doubly hard on a kid.

Mrs. Marsh hadn’t seen him yet. Colt had no idea if she’d recognize him even if they bumped squarely into each other.

An older waitress, not Megan, greeted Summer’s party, grabbing a pair of menus and offering them a table. Colt strained to hear what was being said. “Summer, hi! Sorry to keep you waiting. There’s a wheat-growers meeting going on in the back room. You and Rory attending it tonight?”

Summer slid a steadying hand onto the shoulder of her fidgety son. “I probably should, Helen, especially if they’re discussing winter feed prices. I hadn’t intended to go, though. I wasn’t sure how late the hearing would run. I arrived home from Burns to discover that Rory’s teacher had requested an after-school visit. We’ve just come from there. Since I’ve spent virtually my entire day on the road, I decided we might as well eat in town before heading home.”

“How did the hearing go?” Helen asked as she directed them to the booth right behind Colt.

“Oh, fine, I guess,” Summer murmured absently. “Larkin Crosley is representing me, bless his heart. If the judge hadn’t been pro-ranch and anti-development, who knows how I’d have fared. Even now, the best that can be said is the court gave me a reprieve.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I’ve got six months to come up with money to buy Frank out.”

“Isn’t that good?”

Summer looked dejected. “There’s always a catch, Helen. The buyout’s based on an inflated price set by Ed Adams and his land-rustlers. He’s willing to pay a little over seven and a half million dollars. To keep the Forked Lightning, I’d have to pay Frank 3.8 million,” she said, her voice cracking at the end.

“That’s awful,” Helen commiserated. “What on earth are you going to do?”

Summer didn’t answer. She’d drawn abreast of Colt’s booth, and obviously recognized him, because she stopped abruptly. “Mr., ah…Quinn, isn’t it?” She extended a hand, then stumbled back as Colt rose politely, which crowded her. “That’s correct. And you’re Summer Marsh?”

Colt knew her name perfectly well, but he’d been thrown off guard when she spoke, as he’d been eavesdropping on her conversation with Helen. What he’d overheard concerning the results of the hearing interested him a great deal.

Summer met Colt’s unwavering gaze and felt heat stinging her neck and cheeks—which she found surprising. She’d dealt with men in a man’s world almost all her life. Men twice as tough and imposing as the one standing before her now, taking in every tiny detail from her head to her toes…

“You two know each other?” Helen exclaimed, glancing from one to the other. “Well, isn’t that nice. I hate seeing anyone eat alone.” Without fanfare, the older waitress plunked Summer’s two menus on the table opposite Colt’s coffee mug.

“I’m Rory,” the boy piped up. “Look, Mama. The man has a hat just like mine.” Rory scrambled to the inside of the booth and laid down his smaller version of Colt’s Stetson. “Are you gonna cowboy for us, Mr. Quinn? All our wranglers, ’cept me’n my dad, wear dorky straw hats. Daddy says ranch owners wear felt ones.”

“Rory! Come here. Excuse us, Mr. Quinn. Helen, there’s been a misunderstanding. I met Mr. Quinn for the first time this morning. I wouldn’t dream of horning in on his privacy.”

“It’s Coltrane, or Colt,” he cut in swiftly. “Please, do join me. Helen’s absolutely right. Eating alone holds little appeal.” The words had scarcely left his lips when Colt groaned inwardly, wondering what on earth had made his tongue run away with him? The notebook he’d shoved beneath his hat sat inches away from Summer Marsh’s precocious son. A pad filled with notations on her ex-husband, and even a few on her.

Trying not to appear as panicky as he felt, Colt grabbed the binder and hat, and wedged them into the empty space on his bench seat. “There,” he said, almost too exuberantly, “now you have room to spread out.”

Summer stood there, still looking doubtful, even though Rory bounced up and down on the opposite seat, all the while informing Helen he’d like fried chicken and a glass of milk.

“Do you want the special, Summer?” Helen dug out her order pad. “Pot roast, loaded with carrots and browned potatoes. Elvin outdid himself tonight.”

Capitulating with a sigh, Summer gingerly sank into the booth across from the man who’d invaded her thoughts at inopportune times since their chance meeting. “The special sounds great, Helen. And bring me a carafe of coffee. Strong and black,” she added. “It’s been quite a day.”

Colt let her finish ordering before he turned to Helen. “Megan took my order already. Would you see if you can delay its arrival to match theirs, please? And a carafe of coffee sounds good to me, too.”

“We aim to please.” Helen tittered, patting her hair in place before scurrying off to the kitchen. Summer realized Helen might have twenty years or more on her, but she was no less bowled over by Coltrane Quinn’s charms.

Folding her hands on the table, Summer decided not to be impressed, at least until she learned more about the man. After all, she’d been duped by Frank’s seeming charm.

Sensing she’d erected a wall, Colt concentrated on Rory Marsh. “Have you seen the eagle your mother rescued this morning?”

“Yep. Virgil was putting her in one of our big cages when I went out to tell Mama something.” The boy fiddled with the ribbon trim on his hat band, a guilty expression invading his light brown eyes. “Virgil and Mama were gonna bring the eagle babies out of the gorge this afternoon. But Miss Robbins, my teacher, needed to talk with Mama and me, so the babies gotta stay in their nest alone tonight.”

“They’ll be fine for one night, Rory,” Summer hastened to interject. “Virgil’s too old to be climbing cliffs, anyway. I’ll go fetch them after you leave for school.”

“Virgil said it’ll take two people.”

“Then I’ll free up one of our wranglers.”

Observing the tense byplay between mother and son, Colt wondered how many men the Forked Lightning employed. It’d take quite a few, he imagined, to run such a large spread. Frank, holding forth over at White’s Bar, gave the impression that he alone had run the ranch. While Colt had always had his doubts, until this minute he’d had no proof Frank Marsh was telling whoppers.

“I’ll bet Dad could climb up to that nest in no time and get those baby eagles. After we eat, can we go ask him?” The boy’s face was alight with hope, despite his quivering jaw.

Summer gazed at her son’s upturned face, her own growing several shades paler. “Rory, your father didn’t… He wouldn’t… I can’t…”

Colt watched Summer Marsh struggle to find the right words. He also noticed how hard she rubbed the thumb and forefinger of her right hand around and around the third finger of her left hand. As if used to twisting a ring—her wedding ring, probably. Now the finger was bare. A faint white band stood out from her small, tanned hand.

“Rory, honey. I’ve tried to explain that your dad is no longer involved with the ranch. You have to stop asking me to contact him for every little thing.”

The boy’s dimpled chin dropped to his chest. Tears welled up and spilled over his lower lashes. Suddenly, he climbed to his knees and started pummeling his mother’s arm with wildly swinging fists. “Jenny Parks said Daddy told her pa it’s all your fault he went away. You made him go. You’re mean and I hate you,” he sobbed, striking at Summer until Colt reached across the table and deflected his blows with a flat hand.

Summer, who’d turned ashen, seemed frozen in place. “That’s not true,” she finally said in a barely discernible whisper. Twice she stretched imploring hands toward her son, and twice she pulled them back empty.

Colt wasn’t sure if Rory heard her denial or not. He’d crossed his arms on the table and buried his face. His wiry frame shook with the force of his sobs.

Regaining control after an awkward moment, Summer glanced at the stranger who had intervened on her behalf. “Mr. Quinn, I’m sorry to subject you to what should be a private matter. I’m, uh, recently divorced. Rory’s having difficulty coming to grips with the separation.” Grabbing her lower lip with her teeth, Summer placed her own trembling palms on the table and started to lever herself up.

“It’s Colt, remember,” he urged gently, curling a hand around her wrist. He exerted just enough pressure to keep her seated. “I see Megan heading toward us with our supper. I’m sure you and Rory will both feel better after you’ve eaten.”

Once Colt determined she wasn’t going to bolt, he turned his attention to the boy, whose sobs had abated into shuddering hiccoughs. “Listen, I know you’re upset with your mom, but it’s time to dry your eyes and buck up. The waitress is bringing our food. No cowboy worth his salt lets hurt feelings come between him and hot grub. Come on, sit beside me if you’d like. I’ll move my stuff.”

The boy raised his wheat-blond head and stared at Colt through his tears. “Okay,” he said, scrambling under the table so fast Colt almost didn’t have time to transfer his things. He tossed them haphazardly into the space Rory vacated, trusting Summer Marsh had more on her mind than speculating about the contents of his notebook.

Megan did a double take when she approached the table and saw Rory Marsh snuggled up to a man she’d flirted with earlier. “Summer? I didn’t see you come in. So?” she asked coyly, “is this handsome guy the Forked Lightning’s new manager?”

Summer’s head jerked up. “I manage the Forked Lightning, Megan, and I plan to until Rory takes over. Has someone suggested otherwise?”

The younger woman hiked a shoulder, and nearly lost a drumstick off Rory’s plate as she set it in front of him. Darting an apologetic glance at Colt, she stammered, “Th-those must be rumors floating around White’s. Er, but Frank’s been saying you need a man like him to run the ranch.”

“No, Megan. I ran the Forked Lightning before Frank Marsh ever came along.” Summer dredged up a thin smile. “Could I have horseradish for this roast beef, please?”

Colt unrolled his napkin and watched. He, too, had his doubts about her handling a ranch the size of the Forked Lightning.

Megan dipped her head in deference to her customer, then dashed away. It was Helen who returned with Summer’s horseradish. “How is everything?” she asked, anxiously surveying the trio.

Rory had tucked into his chicken. He paused, letting his mom answer as he took a swig of milk. Colt smiled and continued to cut the meat steaming on his plate.

Summer looked around the table. “Everything appears fine, Helen. Rory and I will be leaving as soon as we finish eating. Could you prepare our check, please?”

“Sure you two won’t save room for Elvin’s deep-dish apple pie? Apples came in fresh today from Hood River.”

“Audrey bought some. I only went into the house briefly this afternoon, but I know the whole place smelled of apples and cinnamon.”

“Well then, enjoy your meals. I’ll leave your check at the register, Summer.”

“You have someone at home who makes you pies?” Colt asked when curiosity got the better of him after several awkward minutes of silence.

“Um, yes. Audrey Olsen. She and her husband, Virgil, came to work on the ranch when my grandfather was alive. Audrey cooked for the main house as well as for the wranglers. She also ran the chuckwagon during roundups. Still would if I’d allow it, despite the fact that she’s getting on in years. Virgil keeps our equipment running. Technically, they’re both past the age to retire, but the Forked Lightning is the only home they’ve known for forty years. When Dad died, I set aside retirement funds for them. I just discovered my husband had them canceled.” Glancing up with a guilty frown, as if she’d revealed more than intended, Summer exhibited a sudden interest in the food on her plate.

For a moment, Colt thought she might cry. She merely blinked several times and scraped the left side of her hair behind her ear. It was something he already noticed she did—a sort of nervous gesture. An emotion akin to empathy wound tight as a watch spring in his stomach. He knew without Summer’s saying it that the faithful old couple would be out of a home when she lost the ranch.

And losing it was inevitable.

Hell, why was he feeling sorry for her? She’d walk away with a chunk of cash large enough to establish another annuity for the Olsens. It probably wasn’t fair that she’d have to fund it alone, but given what he’d learned of Frank Marsh, it was a cinch she wouldn’t get a cent from him.

Colt continued to stare at Summer across the table as one emotion after another dulled the burnished gold of her eyes. He lacked words to lessen her pain, but somehow wished he could offer something to bring back their light.

She shoved her nearly full plate aside and inquired softly as to whether Rory was ready to go. At the same time, Colt stumbled upon the only thing he could think of to offer. “If you need a hand rescuing those stranded eaglets, I’d be glad to drive out in the morning and help.”

“What?” Summer’s head spun around until her frown connected with his hesitant smile.

He shrugged. “You mentioned that Virgil shouldn’t climb cliffs. And you sounded as if it’d be taking your wranglers away from important work. I’m free tomorrow, and I’m a fair mountain climber, if I do say so myself. I haven’t done much lately. But a rescue like that isn’t something you should tackle alone.”

“I, ah, frankly have no idea how to reach the nest. However, I don’t buy for a minute that you’ve got nothing better to do, Mr. Quinn. I hate to question your motive for making this gesture, but I’m afraid I do.”

“Colt or Coltrane, please.” He sawed off another piece of roast beef and forked it up, wishing to heck he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Col…trane.” She dragged out the syllables. “The only other Colt I’ve known was short for Coulter. His mother’s maiden name, if I recall.”

“My mom gets the blame for naming me Coltrane, too,” he said, talking fast. “Except her maiden name was Potts. I should be grateful she was more committed to jazz than to her family. I did run the risk of being named Thelonious, however. After her other jazz idol, Thelonious Monk.”

He laughed at Summer’s obvious confusion, and she noticed how laughter brought attractive laugh creases to his narrow, otherwise serious face. “Jazz,” she repeated slowly. “You’ve lost me. At the risk of sounding unsophisticated, I admit my musical education is stunted. When you spend as much time with cows as I do, about the only music you hear is an occasional harmonica, or a guitar around the night campfires. So…Coltrane is—was—your mother’s jazz idol?”

“Yeah. Avid followers of John Coltrane called him Trane. My dad, a bronc-riding champion in his heyday, thought a son named Colt sounded cooler around the rodeo circuit. Ultimately, he won out. More people know me as Colt.”

“Your parents are…?”

“Dead,” he supplied, the coolness returning to his eyes and his voice. “It happened during a time I’d rather forget.” His capture at the hands of South American rebels. “If you want my help tomorrow, name a time and point me in the general direction of your ranch.” He pushed his own plate back and slid from the booth. Delving into the front pocket of snug-fitting jeans, Colt peeled off ones for a tip and dropped them on the table.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Summer said with honest feeling. “I didn’t mean to pry. My parents are both gone now, too,” she murmured, her tone sad.

Rory, who’d remained silent throughout the exchange, scrambled out of the booth in Colt’s wake. He gazed at Colt raptly, but then turned and addressed his mother. “If Colt’s coming to the ranch to save the baby eagles, can I stay home from school?”

Colt’s eyes, still trained on Summer, saw her power up to refuse. Again wondering why he felt compelled to intervene between mother and son, he quickly set Rory’s Stetson on the boy’s head. “Tell you what, pardner,” Colt drawled. “Nothing’s more important than school. But if we’re successful at rescuing those babies, I’ll just bet your mom will let you feed them when you get home.”

“Can I, Mom?” Rory hopped from boot to boot, apparently oblivious to the sound of his heels clacking on the tile floor.

Amazed at how easily Colt had solved her problem, Summer nevertheless stilled her son’s hyperactive jig, while feeling somewhat disgruntled by this stranger’s easy rapport with him.

Hanging back to watch Colt gather his own hat and a leather binder she’d only just noticed, Summer said rather tartly, “You segued into that so smoothly, Mr. Quinn, it makes me wonder how many children you have of your own.”

Colt yanked his Stetson over his eyebrows, trying to hide his surprise. Or was it simply his wary imagination that made him think Summer Marsh’s question held the tone of a woman personally interested in his answer? “No kids,” he mumbled at last. “I was married once, though,” he added, if for no other reason than to remind himself to carve a deep line in the sand, letting Summer Marsh know his mind didn’t run in that direction. “Once was enough.”

His caustic declaration smacked Summer in the teeth. She fell back a step and let Colt lead the way to the register. Her face grew warm. Goodness, surely he didn’t think she’d been flirting—that she had designs on him?

Marching up beside him, Summer slapped her money down as Megan arrived to cash them out. “One marriage was more than plenty for me, too. I’m not interested in repeating that mistake. Rory’s bus arrives around 7:00 a.m. The Forked Lightning sits at the end of East Valley Road. If you show up at seven, fine. If you don’t, I’ll get along without you.”

The breeze created by her huffy departure almost blew Colt’s hat off his head. He turned to see Rory Marsh’s face pressed to the window. As the boy’s mother tugged on his sleeve, Rory kept waving at Colt, mouthing a litany of goodbyes.

“Summer seemed upset with you. Did I hear you propose to her?” Megan asked, poking her tongue into her cheek as she handed Colt his change.

“What?” Colt dropped his money clip. He bent to retrieve it and came up glaring. “I did no such thing,” he growled. “And if I hear a rumor to that effect at White’s, I’ll know where it came from. Tomorrow I’m helping her rescue the young of that eagle she found wing-shot today. That, for the record, is the extent of my involvement with Mrs. Marsh.” Dropping his cash on the counter next to Summer’s, Colt did a repeat of her exit. The only difference was that he stalked down the street to the bar frequented by her husband, while Summer roared out of the parking lot, headed home.

Well, her home for the next few months, Colt told himself, stiff-arming open the door to White’s.

Great! Just his bad luck that the only person seated at the bar tonight was Frank Marsh.

CHAPTER THREE

COLT SUSPECTED HE STILL looked disgruntled when the bartender came to take his order, because the man made a remark about his mood.

“Women,” Colt muttered, as if that explained everything. “I’ll have a light beer. Preferably one on draft.”

Frank Marsh, who usually sat in a cluster of friends, swung around and studied Colt. Hoisting his glass in salute, Frank said sarcastically, “Must be another poor slob who’s been worked over by his wife or his ex.”

Colt didn’t respond, but sipped his beer and wished he had a cigarette. Smoking was something he’d been deprived of during his jungle confinement. He’d renewed the habit soon after his escape and return to U.S. soil, but had quit voluntarily when his friends dried him out from his brief foray into booze. Only at times like this did he miss having a smokescreen to set up between him and someone as obnoxious as Frank Marsh.

Either Frank had drunk one too many to notice Colt’s attempt to sit by himself or he plain didn’t care. Calling for a refill, Marsh picked up the mug he hadn’t quite finished and eased down several stools to sit next to Colt.

“Buy you a round, buddy? I’ve had a crappy day, and I hate to drink alone.”

“Thanks, but one’s my limit.” Colt caught the bartender’s eye and gave a shake of his head, which the man acknowledged. Glancing at Frank Marsh, Colt decided if Frank wanted to unload—well, then, what the hell. “What made your day so bad?” he asked, knowing it probably had to do with the six-month reprieve Summer had alluded to at the café.

“My fiancée gets back tomorrow. I’ve gotta tell her I’ve been shafted on the sweetest land deal a man could ever hope to stumble across in this lifetime. Jill, that’s my gal, put the package together and sold it to a class-A resort mogul. My ex is trying to wreck the deal. But she won’t succeed if I can help it.”

Frank polished off what was left in his mug and latched on to the full one. Colt thought for a minute that was the beginning and end of Frank’s tale. As he was mulling over whether or not to say more, Frank wiped beer foam from his mouth.

“My ex may figure she pulled a fast one because that bastard judge gave her six months to buy out my share of the ranch. My lawyer calls it a simple snag. But I don’t like snags.”

He stopped talking, pushed up his shirtsleeve and squinted at an expensive watch in the dim light of the bar. “She’ll discover ol’ Frank isn’t that easily suckered.” Dropping his cuff, Frank called to the bartender. “Kenny, what time did I make that phone call? Half an hour ago, wasn’t it? Where in hell are those idiots?”

It didn’t seem to matter that no one answered Frank. He lifted his mug, turned back to Colt and clinked their glasses. “Always pays to have an ace up your sleeve, my friend. To say nothing of a spare woman willing to warm your bed.”

Colt repeated pretty much what he’d said to Summer earlier. “One trip to the altar was all I needed. Besides, men have been shot for having an ace up their sleeve.”

Frank laughed and pounded Colt on the back. It was clear the other man was on the verge of feeling his drink. “I didn’t mention marriage, did I? I wouldn’t have gotten hitched the first time if her old man hadn’t demanded a ring. My bad luck the old cuss lived as long as he did. Crazy fool believed I’d spend the rest of my life humping one woman and breaking my back for the paltry sum you can make raising cattle.”

“I don’t know cattle,” Colt said, wondering how anyone thought this guy was charming. “Raising horses for the rest of my born days—now, that appeals to me.”

“Cows and horses,” Frank spat out. “They’re blights on otherwise usable land. A guy can make a lot more dough selling the same acreage to a developer.”

“You’re talking to the wrong person, chum. I hate urban sprawl. Give me wide open spaces over postage-stamp lots any day.”

Frank slitted his eyes and stared long and hard at Colt, who decided maybe Marsh wasn’t as sloshed as he’d first seemed.