Wide Open Spaces (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Fox, Roz Denny

  “Mrs. Marsh, I presume?” snapped a hawk-nosed man seated at the head of the table. “Your lawyer, Mr. Crosley, should have informed you that it’s bad policy to be late. I’m Judge Atherton. I believe you know everyone else present at this informal hearing. The purpose today is to divide the physical property owned jointly by you and Mr. Marsh. Take a seat next to Mr. Crosley, please, and let’s begin.”

  Larkin Crosley lifted his bulk from his chair with some effort. With a palsied hand, he pulled out another on his right. Summer sighed, wishing she could have afforded better counsel. Larkin had been her grandfather’s attorney, and her father’s, as well. She suspected that, at eighty-seven, he was past his prime. She knew he was hard of hearing.

  She’d barely claimed her seat when the judge spoke again. “I assume you’re all aware that Oregon is an equitable distribution state. In case you aren’t, that means all tangible and intangible property owned by either or both spouses is subject to division by the court. This includes any gifts and inheritances, as well as property acquired prior to and during the marriage.”

  Summer’s heart skidded toward her stomach, where it lodged. Larkin had explained the community property law. But falling from Judge Atherton’s impassive lips, the edict sounded far more ominous. Final. The Forked Lightning needed every acre, plus all the government grazing land Summer currently leased, to support a herd of the size she had to run to make a profit.

  Add Atherton’s cold decree to Frank’s smirk, and Summer felt her hands turn to ice. But she’d promised herself she wouldn’t lash out under any circumstances. Frank had hurt and humiliated her and that was all she intended to allow.

  His lawyer, Perry Blake, was senior partner of a prestigious law firm in Burns, the largest city near Callanton. Theirs was a rural community named for Ben Callan, Summer’s own great-grandfather.

  Perry popped the lid on his expensive leather briefcase and removed stapled copies of a typed report attached to a map. He passed one to the judge and another to Larkin. “The holdings in question are outlined in red, Your Honor. It amounts to roughly ten thousand acres. Most is undeveloped. There’s a past-its-prime farmhouse, a few cottages, three outbuildings and a barn set on a fenced ten-acre pasture. My client wishes the entire properties to be sold to the highest bidder, so that his half of the settlement is all in cash. We accept that the court will then divide the proceeds equally between my client and the former Mrs. Marsh.”

  The knot in Summer’s midsection grew tighter as she broke her promise to herself. “That house you’re calling ‘past its prime’ was built by my great-grandfather, Ben Callan, when Oregon was still a territory. My great-grandmother stood off marauding Nez Perce and Umatilla Indians for three days while she was eight months pregnant with Ben Junior. My dad, Bart, was born in that house, as was I and also my son. Rory deserves the right to raise his sons there, Frank. You know it’s what my dad intended.”

  “For God’s sake, Summer. If you invest your portion of the money from the sale, Rory can live in a frigging castle if he wants.”

  Judge Atherton rapped his knuckles on the table. “I think it’s safe to say that if you two agreed as to the dissolution of this property, we wouldn’t be here today.” He gazed over his half glasses. “Mrs. Marsh, since the property in question obviously has greater significance for you than for Mr. Marsh, the simplest way to resolve this situation is for you to buy out his interest.”

  Frank and his lawyer exchanged a look Summer couldn’t read until Perry Blake rushed to say, “Your Honor, my client has a buyer willing to write a check tomorrow for 7.6 million dollars. But if the former Mrs. Marsh can give her ex-husband half that amount today, then your solution works for us.”

  Stunned by the dollar figure Perry Blake bandied about, Summer had no doubt that her face reflected her shock.

  Larkin Crosley roused for the first time, asking Summer to repeat what had been said. Which she did, in a shaky voice. The old lawyer shook his shaggy white head. “The majority of that land is rough, Your Honor, good for little but grazing. All the really big ranchers have been driven out due to government restrictions on land use. I’d like to ask Mr. Blake who is willing to invest so heavily.”

  They didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Even before Larkin finished speaking, Frank Marsh turned to Blake and muttered, “Perry, what in hell are you doing? You know how hard Jill worked to secure this deal with Edward Adams. If I deal directly with Summer, Jill loses her commission.”

  Summer understood everything now. Edward Adams and Associates financed and operated large resorts. It wouldn’t surprise Summer if they’d offered Frank a management role as part of the package. And Jill Gardner, a dynamic young Realtor in the area, was Frank’s latest girlfriend. Only after he filed for divorce had Summer discovered how many dalliances he’d had before Jill. People in Callanton—her friends and neighbors—had known. To Summer, that was the most humiliating aspect of this entire ordeal. The truths surrounding her sham of a marriage were unfolding in bits and pieces as townsfolk she’d known all her life chose to line up behind her or behind Frank.

  Frank Marsh was a former cattle tallyman, whose job was to count and record cattle at the local stockyard. He’d finessed his way into Bart Callan’s circle of friends around the time her father was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—better known as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease. Summer hadn’t understood until later that Frank’s sudden interest in her coincided with Bart’s seeking a husband for his only child. A daughter he’d raised alone from age nine—after his wife, Lucy, succumbed to a stubborn bacterial pneumonia. And Bart Callan, ravaged by illness and worry about leaving Summer alone to run the ranch, failed to see how long she’d actually been at the helm. It was too bad the picture hadn’t taken shape for Summer before her marriage to the man her father chose for her. Then it was too late. Except…she had Rory. Everything Summer did from now on would be for him.

  “Mrs. Marsh? Are you with us?”

  Summer blinked at the judge, realizing belatedly that he must have spoken to her more than once. “I… uh…I’m sorry, Your Honor. I’m afraid the amount of money Mr. Blake mentioned confused me.” She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “I thought he said seven million dollars. Did I hear wrong? My great-granddad homesteaded the first hundred and sixty acres of the Forked Lightning. His wife claimed adjacent land and they bought the rest for fifty cents an acre, I think.”

  “Come on, Summer,” Frank chided in a charming voice—for the sake of the judge, no doubt. “I’ve told you time and again the land is worth far more than those cows of yours can bring in. Would you climb off your high horse long enough to listen? Maybe then you’ll give me credit for knowing more than your precious dad. Bart refused to even discuss how much the ranch would bring if we sold the land.”

  Grinding her back teeth, Summer barely held her anger in check.

  “Dammit, I hate it when you clam up, and you do that on purpose.” No longer charming, Frank delivered her an angry look. “I told Perry you haven’t got a clue that we’ve entered a new millennium. Hell, you don’t even know how to dress for a meeting like this. Your blouse—are you trying to embarrass me, showing up looking like you’ve been wrestling steers?”

  “An eagle, Frank. I wrestled a full-grown eagle into the trailer. It was shot by some of your city pals, out for sport. Sorry I’m not up to your fashion standards,” she said contemptuously. “With luck, Doc Holder will save the bird so she can raise her young. They’re an endangered species, Frank. And according to you, so are women like me.” Her hazel eyes glittered in the heat of the moment.

  The judge rapped again. “Shall we leave personalities aside? We’re here to discuss property. Mr. Marsh…since the divorce, what do you do?” The judge studied a paper.

  “Do?” Frank seemed taken aback.

  “Yes,” Atherton returned mildly. “Do, as in work. As in…occupation?”

  Frank adjusted the padded shoulders of his designer
suit. Face florid, he fingered the knot on his silk tie.

  “That question appears to have stumped you.” The judge thumbed through a copy of the divorce decree. “It says…Judge Davis ordered Mrs. Marsh to pay you two thousand dollars a month in support. And although you apparently share custody of a minor child, Mrs. Marsh is charged with paying one hundred percent of his care?” Atherton glanced up, pinning Frank with the forthright question.

  Summer closed her eyes. Until fall roundup, she had barely enough in the ranch emergency account to pay Frank the required monthly stipend. And if beef prices dropped a cent a pound as was rumored, her ledgers would be riding a fine line between the black and the red until well after spring calving. Was this judge going to raise the amount she had to pay Frank?

  “Your Honor,” Perry Blake interrupted, looking uneasy. “Surely you realize the Forked Lightning Ranch provided my client’s only income. Mr. Marsh left a good job to marry the ex-Mrs. Marsh. However, Mr. Adams’s development company has offered him a management position once the resort is built. A facility of this size— I can get you a prospectus if you’d like—will put many of the valley’s unemployed to work again. But that’s all in the future, of course.”

  Summer kept her expression impassive, although her heart plummeted to her feet. Her suspicion had been correct. There was a high-paying job at stake, in addition to whatever Frank—and Jill—would make from the sale. The judge ignored Perry. “Mr. Marsh, I’m very familiar with my county. The address you currently list commands the highest rent around. Do you have a source of income not named in this brief?”

  Frank blanched, and deferred the query to his attorney.

  This time Blake shifted uncomfortably. “Your Honor, Mr. Marsh…uh…resides with his fiancée. She’s one of the area’s top Realtors. It’s her address you have there.”

  “Fiancée?” Atherton rocked in his chair and toyed with his pencil. “So, is Ms. Gardner present during your son’s visitations?”

  Summer stiffened suddenly. Frank hadn’t asked to visit with Rory since the divorce. She’d left messages on his voice mail, begging him to call Rory, who still felt confused and angry at her over his dad’s departure from home. Thus far, her messages had been ignored.

  “Jill collects antiques,” Frank blurted, cracking his knuckles.

  Everyone at the table, including Frank’s own attorney, seemed unable to make a connection.

  “They’re expensive,” Frank said. “Jill’s condo isn’t an appropriate place for a boy used to cavorting outside. But after this deal goes through and Jill and I marry, we’re going to build a much larger home. Then Rory will have a room of his own,” Frank finished lamely as all eyes remained fixed on him.

  Judge Atherton rolled a pencil between his palms. He finally pulled a yellow legal pad from under the pile of papers and began to scribble notes. After jotting several sentences, he stopped, capped his pen and sent Frank and his attorney a frosty glare. “I’ve reached a decision.”

  Everyone except Larkin Crosley leaned in to hear. Crosley didn’t move until Summer tugged him forward, quietly repeating Atherton’s words.

  The judge laced his hands together over a buttoned vest. “I’m allowing Mrs. Marsh six months to try and come up with the $3.8 million dollars it will take to buy out Mr. Marsh’s interest in this property.” He tapped a bony finger on the map Perry had passed around. “I’ll have the court secretary set a new date to meet again in April. You’ll all be notified as to when and where we’ll reconvene. At the April meeting, I’ll check Mrs. Marsh’s progress and either render a final decision, or revisit options set forth by the lower court. Until then, this hearing is adjourned.” Rising, he made a neat stack of his papers and picked them up before leaving.

  Numb with joy and yet partially filled with dread, Summer tried to explain to Larkin the reprieve Atherton had decreed.

  She’d barely gotten a word out when Frank bounded up, knocking over his chair. “April? What in hell am I supposed to do for six months?”

  The judge, who’d reached the door to his private chambers, turned. “If that’s an honest question, Mr. Marsh, my suggestion is get a job. And set regular visits with your son. Money can’t replace a man’s bond with his children.” With that, Atherton disappeared.

  Frank immediately turned his wrath on Summer. “You. You got to the crazy old coot.” He shook a forefinger in her face.

  “That’s absurd, Frank. I’ve never laid eyes on the judge.”

  Perry Blake gripped Frank’s arm. “Take it easy. Shouting won’t change the verdict. Six months isn’t so long. Adams will understand a slight delay. You can’t possibly think Summer could raise that kind of money, even if she had six years. Come on,” he muttered in an undertone. “Let’s go have a drink, and draft a letter to Ed.”

  Frank shook off his lawyer’s hand. Once again he rearranged his jacket. “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me, Summer. There are other courts and other judges. Other ways to force your hand.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Frank. Because of your infidelities, I’ve endured total humiliation in a town my great-grandfather built. Your idle threats roll off me like water off a slicker.”

  “Idle?” His smile turned cold. “To come up with anywhere near your half of seven million, you’d have to sell every cow on the ranch…including strays. And that’s assuming you can manage to get them to market on your own.”

  “What do you mean, on my own? I have the same crew I’ve always had.”

  Tossing back a lock of blond hair, Frank merely clenched his fists and stalked from the room.

  She reached around Larkin, snagging Perry’s sleeve. “I won’t underestimate Frank again,” she told him. “It’s taken me a while to realize he’s capable of double dealing. But if there’s so much as a hint of trouble on the Forked Lightning, I’ll know who to look for.”

  “Now, Summer. Frank’s understandably upset. He obviously hasn’t stopped to calculate how many steers you’d have to sell to make three and a half million bucks. Even if—by some freak accident—selling your beef brings that amount, you won’t have the capital to rebuild a herd. Within a year you’d be bankrupt and the land would be auctioned. Either way, Ed Adams will get the Forked Lightning.” Patting her hand, Perry pasted on a phony smile, closed his briefcase and followed his client out.

  Stunned by a statement she feared was true, Summer sank back into the chair, the fight drained out of her.

  Larkin Crosley grimaced. “Bart would hate the SOB Frank has become. If I’d had any inkling, I’d have urged your dad to put the Forked Lightning in a blind trust for Rory.”

  Summer dredged up a wan smile. “Dad would never have admitted to being wrong about Frank. And even if I’d known he was screwing around on me from the time I was pregnant with Rory, I wouldn’t have told Dad. Don’t worry about might-have-beens, Larkin.”

  “I wish I had money put aside to help you beat that rat at his own game, Summer. Perhaps Bruce Dunlap at the bank—”

  A shake of her head cut him off. “I’m still paying on a farm loan I took out three years ago to buy feed over that really hard winter.”

  “Another bank here in Burns, then?”

  “Perhaps.” She didn’t sound hopeful. “Well, there’s no sense sitting around here. Before I head home, I’ll stop at a few banks and pick up their loan applications.”

  “Will that prevent you from getting home in time to meet Rory’s bus?” Crosley shoved back his sleeve and checked his watch.

  “I asked Audrey to fill in today. I had no idea how long the hearing would run. Turns out it’s a good thing I did ask, what with going to banks and swinging by Doc Holder’s. He said if the eagle recovered sufficiently, I could take her home. I think she has a nest in the gorge. Maybe Rory would like to help me try and spot a papa eagle. If, as I suspect, he’s dead, I’ll have to fetch the babies down tomorrow.”

  “So you weren’t kidding about the eagle?”

  “You know I never kid a
bout injured wildlife. They’re threatened now from all the strangers who flock into our area, acting like big game hunters. How can anyone who’s ever lived here sell out to developers? Those corporations create huge resorts—or chop the land into little pieces for vacation properties. They’ll overrun the mountain and the valley with folks who don’t give a damn about the environment.”

  Crosley shrugged. “It’s happening all around us. Kids inherit the family ranch and equate their inheritance to dollars and cents.”

  “I inherited not only the land, but its spirit, too.”

  “Summer, the soil is in your heart and blood like it was in your daddy’s and grand-daddy’s. Others, strangers, don’t necessarily see what you see.”

  “I know you’re right…but—” She broke off midsentence and stood. “Speaking of strangers, a man by the name of Coltrane Quinn pitched in and helped with the eagle at Myron’s. I vaguely remember seeing a horse trailer, and Quinn had the look of a rancher. Have you heard of any places around Callanton changing hands?”

  “Nope.” The old man scratched his head. “Can’t say I have. Maybe he’s just passing through. Pendleton Roundup is coming up.”

  “That was last month, Larkin. School’s started already.” Summer hid a smile when the old lawyer dragged out his pocket calendar to check the date.

  “Huh, you’re right. Time gets away from me,” he said. “Well, if your Good Samaritan wasn’t rodeo-bound, I don’t know. A drifter, maybe? We get plenty of those. Best keep your distance, Summer.”

  She nodded. But she couldn’t so easily dismiss the image of Coltrane Quinn. The man dressed like a working cowboy. Not flashy like a rodeo chaser. His serious gray eyes reminded her of clouds that rolled in over the gorge right before a rain. His arms, when she’d grabbed for the eagle, had been solid as iron. The man was no weekend wrangler.

  He had a cowlick in the center front of his dark hair that reminded her of Rory’s, although Rory was blond. Quinn’s hair had been walnut-brown. All in all, he’d presented an intriguing picture.