Wide Open Spaces (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Fox, Roz Denny

  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. A
nd 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 sucke
red.” 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.

  “If that’s how you feel, dude, my advice is to push on to someplace like Montana. My fiancée is a real estate guru. According to surveys she’s seen, the U.S. population will double in the next century. Raw land’s where real money’s gonna be made. You can climb on the bandwagon or go down under its wheels.” As he gazed over Colt’s shoulder, Frank’s tense lips split into a big grin.