Wide Open Spaces (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Fox, Roz Denny

  “So soon? I thought it’d take him a couple of days to get a flight out.” Colt estimated that he was roughly two hundred miles from the airport. Obviously he wouldn’t be of any help to Summer tomorrow. He had to figure on a three-to four-hour drive each way. And that was if he didn’t get stuck behind any trucks hauling wheat to the granaries that dotted the two-lane highway between Callanton and the Idaho border. Most of the winding road was two-lane, making passing precarious. He hoped Summer would understand. If she wanted that extra pair of hands, Colt needed to pick Trace up.

  “Tell him to look for me at the gate. If I’m not there, I’ll meet him in baggage claim. And Marc, if you talk to Marley, tell him to speed this deal up.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because what we’re doing here goes beyond our usual negotiations. It smacks of deceit.”

  “How’s that, Coltrane? The final amount will be greater than what the Marshes would get from Adams. And as always, when SOS buys, the land remains as is—saved from high-rise condos, concrete tennis courts and golf courses that suck dry all the natural water resources.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Kenyon. I know all that. This deal still bothers me. Oh, hell. Forget I said anything,” Colt snapped. “Goodbye.”

  “Wait. You didn’t sound this way on your last job. What gives?”

  “Frank Marsh is the one demanding the sale. His wife’s in a jam similar to the one I landed in with Monica. Shafted, in other words. I was wondering…has SOS ever partnered with a woman?”

  “As interim manager, you mean? Not that I know of. Marley always delivers the acquired land to the government for wildlife preserves or national parks. Why?”

  “Have you ever run across a co-owner who didn’t want to sell?”

  “Nope. Most of them can’t wait to get out once they’ve seen the color of our money. Especially the ones who were reluctant to sell to developers.”

  “Huh. Well, nobody ever said ranching was an easy life.”

  Marc laughed. “True enough. And frankly, we’re not paid to worry, only to save the land for future generations. Well, Coltrane, I’ve gotta go.”

  Colt signed off. He climbed into bed an hour later and fell asleep anticipating what it would feel like to dive back into ranching. He was actually kind of excited about the prospect of twenty-hour workdays. He dreamed of the sun on his back and the wind in his face. And what it’d be like working shoulder to shoulder with Summer Marsh.

  When he jolted awake before dawn, in a state he hadn’t suffered since before his years in the rebel prison, Colt knew his dream had drifted off course. It wasn’t working with Summer that he’d been picturing right before his alarm went off. He’d been a lot more intimately involved.

  A cold shower took care of his immediate problem. The larger question—how many cold showers could he manage on a roundup? Damn, he needed to put a clamp on his wayward dreams. There were far more suitable women to fantasize about.

  Yeah? Name one.

  Fact was, Colt couldn’t. After Monica, he’d sworn off women. Until now, living like a self-imposed monk hadn’t been so bad. The memory of how he’d felt when he finally got home after years of picturing a reunion with his wife, only to be greeted by her treachery, had made Coltrane gun-shy.

  He spared a few minutes thinking about the way things had changed. As a kid, he’d lived in a small rural town where monogamy was the norm. Marriage, while not uppermost on his mind growing up, had always figured in his future plans. What he’d seen and heard about the current dating scene from his single friends didn’t appeal to Colt. What was the point of “playing the field”? He’d much prefer to come home to the same woman after a satisfying day’s work. He had no interest in reinventing himself every few nights, which was what his friends did by hopping from bed to bed.

  Marc was a prime example. He griped about an unnoticeable receding hairline. The guy spent big bucks on any and every new product promising to grow hair. His dentist loved him, as well he should. Marc paid for the man’s yearly getaway to the Bahamas! First with the braces he decided he needed at thirty-three. Then by coating his teeth in porcelain or whatever the latest method of ensuring a Hollywood smile.

  Marc, Mossberger and Gabe all worried about how dates rated their sexual performance. A subject they discussed each time the old gang met. Colt asked why they didn’t each pick one woman and settle down.

  “Routine, man,” Gabe had scoffed. “Waiting for the right one,” Mossberger had added. Oh, yeah. Ms. Perfect might be the very next bombshell to cross their line of vision. They were all looking for a fashion model, a woman who enhanced their own reputations.

  Well, Monica had been easy on the eyes. The guys just didn’t understand that beauty alone didn’t cut it. If Monica had given a damn about anything but his net worth, she would’ve had the decency to take Colt’s calls after the detective he hired had tracked her down. His pals knew his story, yet they all continued to seek out high-maintenance women.

  Grimacing at their idiocy, Colt collected his bags and checked out of the motel.

  The sun had inched into the saddle between Sheepshead Mountain and the rest of the Crooked Creek range by the time he parked his horse trailer beside Summer’s barn.

  He expected to find Virgil mucking out stalls in the barn. Instead, he found Summer hard at work there.

  She glanced up, clearly startled when he shoved open a creaky door.

  “Colt!” She whirled so fast she lost the hay piled on her pitchfork. “I didn’t expect to see you this early.” Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to see you at all. I was pretty sure you’d get back to town and have second thoughts.”

  Colt removed his Stetson, letting his eyes adjust to the low light in the barn as he took a moment to study his new boss. Today her hair was scraped away from her oval face and stuck at odd angles into two pigtails. She wore a navy blue baseball cap that read Cowgirls Rule, and a lighter blue shirt declaring Cowgirls Rule, Cowboys Obey. Blue jeans, worn white at the knees, were belted around her slim waist by a length of old rawhide. Serviceable, flat-heeled boots and cowhide gloves completed her working woman’s attire. She looked beautiful, yet at the same time like a fresh-faced kid.

  Probably the pigtails, Colt decided, doing his best to suppress a grin. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “I left here last night under the impression that we’d struck a bargain. I have Spirit in my horse trailer. I’m expecting three more horses to show up later in the week. Where shall I put them? Where’s Virgil? Why are you breaking your back mucking stalls?”

  She stripped off a glove, took a big kerchief out of her back pocket and mopped her face. “Virgil is tinkering with the combine. We have several fields of ripe grain that need cutting and trucking to the co-op. After that, there’s hay to bale. Thank goodness Joe and Mike finished cutting and storing the sorghum in our silo before they took a hike.”

  “Are you saying all of that has to be done before we start roundup?”

  She nodded hesitantly. “I’m afraid to let the grain wait until afterward. I know the almanac says we won’t have snow before mid-December. But there’s a local man who’s uncannily correct in predicting weather. He insists it’ll snow in November.”

  “That’s not good news.” Colt slapped his hat against his thigh. “I haven’t run a combine or hydraulic baler since high school. My friend, Tracey, has had more recent experience. Speaking of Trace, he lands in Boise this afternoon. I came by to let you know it’ll take me most of the day to collect him from the airport.”

  “Boise?” Her face lit briefly. “Dad and I used to go there once a year. I haven’t been since he took sick. After…well, Frank went alone. For a week or more at a ti—” She broke off midsentence, staring down at hands clasping the pitchfork tightly.

  Colt saw a wistful expression cross her face. “So, come with me today,” he said, surprising himself. “After we meet Trace’s plane, we could go downtown and find somewhe
re nice to eat. It’ll give you a chance to interview Trace. If you have any personal shopping to do, he and I can run out to my condo—the place I call home when I’m not traveling. I should at least check my mail. It’d be a simple matter to swing by the mall and pick you up again on our way out of town.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t play hooky from work.” But she was tempted. She had a strange hankering to see where Colt hung his hat. “I, uh, lost a day at court and another rescuing the eaglets. Thanks for inviting me, though. I’ll take your word on Tracey.” She laughed. “At this point, I’ll hire anybody who can sit on a horse without falling off.”

  Colt should have felt relieved over her refusal of his spur-of-the-moment invitation. He didn’t. Disappointment stabbed through him. “If you’re sure,” he finally said, still hoping to coax her.

  When Summer continued to shake her head, he capitulated with a shrug. “Okay, then, I’d better dump my gear someplace and take off.”

  “Here I am, acting as if we have all the time in the world! Choose any of these vacant stalls for Spirit. Hang your saddle and tack there.” She pointed behind him. “Park your horse trailer behind the shed. Oh, and leave your suitcases on the porch. Audrey and I will see that they get into Mike’s old cabin. We’re going to clean it later. I’m giving Trace the smaller cottage. Joe and Bill shared it. Hank had a room in town.”

  “Don’t go to a lot of trouble cleaning up. Mostly Trace and I will be working outdoors. We’ll bunk outside during roundup.” Colt didn’t care for the idea of Summer scrubbing his shower. Actually, what made him uncomfortable was a fleeting vision of them sharing one. Of her scrubbing his back. Of what was sure to follow.

  “Nonsense.” She waved him off. “It’s all part of the service when one wrangler moseys on and another joins the crew. Each cabin has a kitchenette where you can fix breakfast and supper. Audrey provides sack lunches for field hands. The men and I take turns cooking during roundup. Simple, stick-to-the-ribs fare.”

  A swift mental shake set Colt on track again. She’d neatly let him know she was the boss and he an employee. Temporary at that. A cold, hard fact he should have remembered for himself. He ought to be happy he wasn’t expected to sit at a dinner table with her. After last night, he’d just assumed…

  Oops, erase what he’d assumed. Obviously he’d over-stepped his bounds. At least in his imagination.

  Donning his hat again, Colt strode toward the door. “What time and where shall Trace and I be tomorrow? We’ll stop at a market and buy grub on the way here from the airport. Since we’ll be late tonight, you should point out which cabin is which before I leave.”

  “Certainly. You can see their roofs, behind Virgil and Audrey’s house. Your cabin’s the one closest to the main house. Your friend’s is next to that long building. That’s the old bunkhouse. When Dad was alive, we employed a foreman, a cook and a full complement of field and ranch hands. Frank fired… He didn’t—wasn’t much—he, uh…we let all but four men go.”

  Once again Colt detected a longing for the way things had been on the Forked Lightning before her marriage. Too late, Colt wondered if he should have asked why Frank hadn’t adequately filled her dad’s shoes. A logical question from someone about to hire on. But not from someone who’d already investigated the situation.

  Colt knew from eavesdropping at White’s Bar that Frank claimed all credit for the Forked Lightning’s success. But as Colt pieced together the things said by Summer’s supporters, with tidbits she occasionally let slip, a different picture had emerged. What he itched to learn was why in hell she’d married Marsh to begin with.

  That’s none of your business, pal.

  Colt let the opportunity to ask questions slip away. “I see the cabins,” he said from the doorway. “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I only need a few minutes to stable Spirit and unhitch my trailer. After that, I’ll be on my way.” He felt the jolt as the barn door rapped his boot heels.

  Summer moved deeper into the barn’s interior. She began spreading clean hay in the stalls she’d already scrubbed, and tried to blot out all thoughts of her new employee.

  By her next break, he was gone. Leaning on the handle of her pitchfork, she vividly recalled the way he’d looked standing there in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sunlight. Coltrane Quinn caused a flutter of feminine interest inside her every time she got within ten feet of him. Thankfully, along with that strong attraction, there was a certain caution. She’d spent half the night pondering whether or not her wariness had to do with Frank’s careless treatment of her. Or was she cautious because of the way Colt’s expressive gray eyes shifted away from her at times? As if he was holding something in, or hiding something from her.

  Audrey made no bones about considering him a blessing from heaven. Summer wanted so badly to believe in her old friend’s instincts. But blessings hadn’t exactly rained on her head during the past few years.

  Glancing at her watch, Summer sighed. Time to wake Rory and get him ready for school. Today it might not be such a daunting experience, since he was dying to show off his new belt and buckle to his school friends.

  Stabbing the pitchfork into a loose pile of hay, Summer hurried into the house, all the while reflecting that Rory was her one true blessing. Even if Colt Quinn turned out to be the world’s biggest liar outside of Frank, he’d made Rory exceedingly happy last night. Beyond that, she’d assess the man one day at a time. Her dad had always said a man should be judged by his good works. In helping rescue the eaglets, to say nothing of saving her skin, Coltrane Quinn had already earned a huge checkmark in his column. The thoughtfulness he’d displayed in replacing Audrey’s knitting basket chalked up another. Add to that Rory’s glee—the closest he’d come to acting normal since Frank’s stormy exit—and Quinn had racked up brownie points quicker than fleas departed a sheep-dipped dog.

  Summer tried hard not to include the gift Colt had given her. Frank never bought on impulse, or that had been her excuse for him whenever friends in town showed off baubles their husbands gave them. The real truth struck her during her first divorce hearing. Summer had been shocked to hear their accountant itemize Frank’s expenditures on jewelry and lingerie. To sit before a judge and admit she hadn’t been the recipient caused her shame Summer wasn’t sure she’d ever get over.

  No one except Audrey and Virgil knew how badly she’d hurt when Frank announced he’d only ever proposed because of a deal put to him by her father. A deal assuring Frank half interest in the Forked Lightning once they were married.

  Summer hoped and prayed Bart Callan had never learned that Frank’s charm was all a sham. Or that Rory was nothing to him but insurance against her ever cutting Frank out of his share. Not even Audrey or Virgil were privy to that sad fact. Frank had shared it with Summer in private.

  In her revised estimation of Frank Marsh, few men sank lower. Yet he would forever and always be her son’s father. She’d die before she’d let Rory experience the awful blow to his self-esteem that she’d suffered at Frank’s hands.

  So, while to some, Colt Quinn’s gift might seem modest or insignificant, the crystal eagle meant as much as diamonds to Summer. If for no reason than the fact that it showed he’d cared about her, at least a little, when he bought it. And that was nice.

  COLT THOUGHT ABOUT SUMMER Marsh a lot on the drive to Boise. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. The road, though, wound through empty, desolate land. And Summer was inexplicably tied to this wilderness. Tied to these wonderful, wide open spaces. One small woman digging in her heels, hoping to ward off encroaching developers.

  She had guts, Colt had to give her that. He sincerely doubted there were many women who’d opt for grueling days in the saddle over the lure of the cash Edward Adams offered.

  Colt knew what it took to make a living from the land. Granted, he’d built a smaller outfit than the Forked Lightning. Any ranching operation took blood, sweat and tears. He’d listened to both Frank and Summer talk about the ranch. Only Summ
er spoke from the heart.

  It was a crying shame she’d end up losing the land. While Colt felt guilty about that, he comforted himself with the knowledge that in the end, after all the dust settled on the fast and furious negotiations the consortium would pull off, he could assure Summer her land would survive in its natural state.

  He had no idea if the parks department or a wildlife sanctuary would preserve the Forked Lightning. He did know that no five-star resort would blight the grassland, erode the mountains or pollute the rivers of this ten-thousand-acre tract.

  As Colt crossed the Oregon-Idaho border, once again reentering civilization, he felt a twinge of envy for whoever ended up as the Forked Lightning caretaker. God willing, someday Colt hoped to experience such freedom again—on a smaller scale, of course. Considering the skyrocketing cost of raw land, he could be an old man before it came to pass. But come to pass it would.

  He tried hard not to get riled at Monica when he thought about the years he’d already lost. The VA counselors did their best to drill into him how self-destructive it was to hold a grudge. But, damn!

  Stopping in Caldwell to gas his truck, Colt channeled his thoughts away from Summer, Frank and Monica onto Marley’s latest assignment. Colt really should have asked more questions about Tracey Jackson, should’ve got some information to help identify him. Especially as the Boise airport had grown. He remembered Marley’s nephew as a nerdy, gangly kid. Admittedly, Colt hadn’t been in the greatest shape on the occasion of their meeting. He’d only recently come off five years’ starvation in a hellhole prison, followed by a serious attempt to drown himself in whiskey. He must have made a damn poor impression on a pampered city teenager. What if they didn’t hit it off? What if he couldn’t ever find the kid?

  AS IT TURNED OUT, Colt needn’t have expended so much energy worrying. Tracey Jackson was quite possibly the only African-American cowboy in the entire Boise airport. The kid had sprouted up. He topped Colt’s own six-foot-one-inch height by a good three inches. He’d also filled out appreciably.