Wide Open Spaces

“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 about 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.

Larkin spoke, interrupting Summer’s speculation about the helpful stranger. “You were a million miles off. I said, call me if you find a backer. I’ll take a gander at any contract they draw up.”

“Of course. But don’t hold your breath. Everyone in this neck of the woods is pretty much land-rich and cash-poor, like me. Thanks for being here for me today, Larkin. Dad would be pleased.”

The old man shrugged off her gratitude. “I didn’t do anything. I’m getting deaf as a post. I’ve tried hearing aids, but those dang things make every little mouse squeak sound like a lion’s roar.”

Impulsively, Summer hugged him. “You’ve believed in and stood behind the Callans for as long as I can remember. You’re like family. Something I’m very short of, I’m afraid.”

Larkin shook out a clean white handkerchief and blew his nose. “Why don’t you take back the name Callan, and cut Frank Marsh out of your life forever?”

“I can’t do that,” she said with a rueful smile. “Rory’s a Marsh and he always will be, regardless of Frank’s and my differences. Our son already feels abandoned by Frank and we’re both still reeling from losing Dad. I may cave on this deal, if for no other reason than to get Frank to pay attention to Rory. Maybe if he gets the money he’s after—”

“Don’t you dare! I guarantee Bart and Ben will come back to haunt you. To say nothing of old Ben.”

She laughed, and felt suddenly better. “Point taken, Larkin. If I go down, I’ll go down like a Callan. Fighting to save my land.”

CHAPTER TWO

COLT STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER and heard his cell phone ringing in the main part of his hotel room. Snatching a towel from the rack, he sprinted out of the bath and dived across the bed to grab the phone from the nightstand. He caught it on the last ring.

“You must have radar,” he told the gruff-voiced man on the other end of the line. “Either you wake me up at the crack of dawn or you roust me from my shower. You’re running five days for five, Kenyon. So, if I disappear on you, it’s because I’m trying to listen and dress at the same time,” Colt said, reaching into his dresser drawer. “What’s up? Yesterday, you said you’d wait to hear from me.” As he spoke, Colt struggled to drag a pair of briefs over still-wet legs.

“Sources tell me Ed Adams is calling in a lot of markers. It’s rumored he’s putting together a seven-million-dollar bid on property in Oregon. Marley assumes it’s the Marsh ranch. Can you confirm? And is that the figure we’ve got to beat?”

“I know there was a court hearing today having to do with the property. I accidentally stumbled upon that information. I can probably get details tonight. If not at dinner, then later in the bar. Frank Marsh’s new lady is out of town. He bellies up to the bar every night to bitch about his ex to anyone who’ll listen.”

“You’re not hitting the sauce again, are you, Colt?”

The sudden question went unanswered for a moment.

“One drink’s my limit these days, Marc. You wouldn’t believe how good I am at nursing a single beer through a long evening. But I understand why you ask, and appreciate your concern. I swear I’ve got my head screwed on straight and my life headed in the right direction now. My goal is to do a good job for the consortium and save enough to buy myself another small spread. And do it before I’m too old to break a green horse,” he added jokingly. “So you’d better believe I’m not squandering my hard-earned cash on booze.”

“Your word’s good enough for me. God knows, if anyone’s entitled to drown himself in booze, Coltrane, it’s you. Doesn’t mean watching you try was easy on your friends.”

Colt stopped with his jeans halfway up his hips. Gripping the phone tight, he looked back at his last job as a hostage liberator for a private group of ex-military types. His jungle operation went under, thanks to a rebel coup. Recalling that always made Colt’s throat constrict and his head swim. Mercifully he’d managed to block out the worst of what happened during five years in a stinking, makeshift prison where he ate disgusting things to stay alive. What stood out in his mind, what sent him reeling over the edge after escaping, was the fact that his loving wife had him declared dead for the purpose of dissolving their marriage. Colt discovered later it was a legal proceeding in Idaho. Apparently it had been a simple matter for Monica; she’d convinced a judge that because Colt’s friends had seen him captured by guerilla forces, they all assumed he was dead. As his ex, she was able to liquidate his ranch and horses, lock, stock and barrel. Monica and her crafty lawyer took the proceeds from his ranch and sailed into the sunset. Reportedly they were living the high life in Rio de Janeiro.

At first, Colt drank to forget. Then he drank hoping to find the courage to go back to South America and confront Monica. It took him six months to discover that drunks were capable only of wallowing in self-pity. His recovery began the day he sobered up enough to get so angry with Monica, he actually recognized she wasn’t worth losing the only thing he had left—his self-respect.

“You there, Colt?” Marc Kenyon’s voice slid anxiously across the wire.

“Yeah. I was thinking back. In case I never said thanks to you and Mossberger and Gabe…”

“Look, none of us wants or needs gussied-up words. Semper fi, man. If we’d drifted off course—jeez, until we all wised up, it could as easily have been you dragging my butt out of a sleazy bar.” He cleared his throat. “We won’t mention this again. Call me when you get the info we need, okay?” The line went dead in Colt’s ear.

He closed his phone and finished zipping his pants. He felt an odd sense of melancholy as he shrugged into his shirt. There was no doubt his life had taken a detour from the goal he’d once set for himself—to become a top American horse breeder. He’d bought the ranch and married Monica while he was still in the military. When he got out, he’d let Monica convince him that doing a few paramilitary rescues with his ex-marine pals would provide easy money to pay off the ranch.

Now he counted himself lucky to have found his way out of the darkness into the privately funded consortium known as Save Open Spaces—a group committed to saving threatened rangeland by establishing parks or wildlife sanctuaries. Luckily, his same ex-marine buddies had given up the rescue business following his capture, and created SOS. Traveling around the U.S. looking for large ranches in danger of being gobbled up by money-motivated land grabbers would never be as satisfying to Colt as raising and training Morgan horses. But the job got him out in the fresh air, occasionally on horseback. Sometimes he went for days at a time without wishing Monica to hell and back.

Not tonight, however. Not until his conversation with Marc conjured up her memory.

No, it wasn’t fair to blame Marc. This particular ranch deal had regenerated his anger at his ex-wife. Since he’d been so badly betrayed himself, he’d automatically sided with Frank Marsh.

In fact, until Colt met Summer Marsh this morning and subsequently listened to Myron Holder defend her, he’d planned to work his organization’s deal solely with Frank. Now something held him back and urged him to wait—to listen to the other side. He’d be darned, though, if he knew why he should waste his time.

Because Frank Marsh comes across as a braggart and a blowhard. And because you discovered there’s a kid to consider.

The answer echoed inside Colt’s head as he toweled his hair.

“Well, hell!” Heaving a rough sigh, Colt made up his mind to eat dinner at the café where he’d been told fans of Summer Marsh usually gathered. After eating, he’d mosey over to White’s Bar and Grill and eavesdrop on Frank’s troops again.

One way or the other, by the time he contacted Marc, Colt wanted to have made a clear-cut decision. Or if the issue needed further investigation, he’d still know how much money the consortium needed in order to snap up the Forked Lightning. Colt intended to save this property from being ripped asunder like the Marsh marriage.

THE GREEN WILLOW CAFÉ offered good food and a mellow atmosphere. Colt removed his Stetson as he entered. He stood there a moment, appreciating the low babble from tabletop fountains placed strategically around the room amid green plants. It didn’t take him long to notice and appreciate the enticing scent of roast beef drifting from the kitchen. Roast beef sure beat downing another run-of-the-mill greasy cheeseburger down the street at White’s.

A waitress who’d taken his breakfast order earlier in the week greeted Colt warmly. “Booth or table tonight?” she asked, looking him up and down with an admiring glance that wasn’t lost on him. She was an attractive woman. Long legs. Blond hair. Blue eyes. If he was in the market for female companionship, which he wasn’t, he’d have little trouble returning her interest.

“Booth, if you have one.” Colt wagged a leather portfolio he’d been holding at his side. “It’ll be another working dinner,” he said, hoping to discourage her from getting too friendly.

“Oh? What kind of work brings you to Callanton?” she queried lightly. “I couldn’t help noticing you in town this past week. On Tuesday I met some friends for happy hour at White’s and we saw you sitting at the bar. Gina, one of my girlfriends, said I should invite you to join us. Another girl said not to, that you were part of Frank Marsh’s group.”

Colt frowned. He thought he’d been more discreet in his observation of Marsh. Usually he wasn’t so careless. But then, he should’ve figured that any stranger would stand out in a town as small and tight-knit as Callanton.

“I wasn’t with anyone at White’s,” he said, sliding into the booth the waitress, whose name tag identified her as Megan, had directed him to. “It probably only seemed as if everyone at the bar was one of Marsh’s pals.”

Megan’s blue eyes widened perceptibly.

Colt accepted the menu she held out, wondering whether or not Megan represented another view of the warring couple. “Is Frank related to a woman named Summer? I bumped into her this morning at the veterinary clinic. I needed my horse checked out. She brought in a wild bird. An injured eagle.”

“Doc Holder came in for coffee. He told us about the eagle. Summer used to be married to Frank Marsh. They’re divorced, so I guess technically they aren’t related anymore. Why don’t I give you a minute to look over the menu? Tonight’s specials are listed on the yellow sheet inside.”

“Uh, thanks. Say,” Colt called as Megan turned away, “did Holder happen to say how the bird’s getting along?”

The blonde flashed Colt another of her perfect smiles. “Oh, yeah. He said with the proper care she’ll heal and fly again. Which’ll happen, once Summer gets her out to the ranch. Summer’s pure genius when it comes to fixing wild animals.”

Because Megan seemed to expect further comment, he nodded as if he already knew this was true. “Good. That’s good.” He bent over the menu, conjuring up a vivid memory of Summer Marsh’s strange golden eyes. He’d thought about her eyes several times since they’d parted. In the short time they’d been together, after he’d taken note of their unusual color, Colt had observed how they changed to reflect feelings of anger, wariness and hope.

Unsettled though he’d been by the chance encounter, he had little problem believing that Summer Marsh possessed an uncanny ability to connect with both humans and animals.

Wishing he hadn’t broached the subject of Summer Marsh with the waitress, he turned his full attention to the menu. He’d been right about the roast beef. Old-fashioned pot roast was the evening’s special. Colt had no more than given Megan his order, than his eyes were drawn to a flurry of activity at the café’s entrance.

For a moment he thought his mind was playing tricks. Summer Marsh had suddenly appeared, standing next to the sign that said patrons should wait to be seated. Was he hallucinating, creating an image of the woman he’d been thinking about?