For a moment he thought his mind was playing tricks

Summer Marsh had suddenly appeared in the café.

Colt deliberately shut his eyes, then opened them again. She hadn’t gone. 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. But his body language suggested he wasn’t happy to be going out to dinner with his mother.

Colt realized Mrs. Marsh hadn’t seen him yet. An older waitress named Helen greeted Summer, grabbing a pair of menus. “How did the hearing go?” Helen asked as she directed them to the booth right behind Colt.

“Oh, fine, I guess,” Summer murmured. “The judge gave me six months to come up with money to buy out my ex.” She shrugged, looking dejected. “But the buyout’s based on an inflated price. To keep the Forked Lightning, I’d have to pay Frank three point eight million.”

They’d drawn abreast of Colt’s booth, and Summer stopped abruptly. “Mr., ah, Quinn, isn’t it?”

Colt rose politely. He’d been eavesdropping on her conversation with Helen. What Summer Marsh had said about the results of the hearing interested him a great deal.

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

Dear Reader,

The strangest things prompt writers to create a story. Of course, my primary goal as a Superromance author is to tell a love story that has a happy ending. To me, that’s the heart of my stories. The backbone often comes from obscure news articles, overheard conversations or a passing comment. In the case of this book, it was a small ad in the back of a conservation magazine.

The ad was titled “Buy into Conservation” and went as follows: “Wanted, buyer for an 18,600-acre oasis in beautiful Oregon’s high desert. Abundant wildlife includes pronghorn deer and bald eagles. The property comes with more than 25,000 acres of public grazing and allotments and three home sites along the river.” It ended with “Conservation buyers purchase property for their private use with certain restrictions on their development activities. By doing so, the buyer helps safeguard imperiled landscapes.”

As a former Oregonian, I remain passionate about land in its natural state. I’m someone who loves clean air, clear streams and unobstructed mountain views. Someone who routinely bemoans encroaching development on the beautiful desert near where I currently live, in Arizona. So this ad nagged me. It whispered and shouted and nudged until I dreamed up Summer Marsh, a cattle rancher in danger of losing her beloved ranch. And Coltrane (Colt) Quinn, a horse breeder. While serving his country on foreign soil, Colt lost his land when his greedy wife had him declared legally dead.

I don’t know whether anyone bought the Oregon ranch I saw advertised. I hope so. And I hope my readers agree that it should end up in the hands of people like Summer and Colt.

Roz Denny Fox

P.S. Write me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, Arizona, 85731 or e-mail me at rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

Wide Open Spaces
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Karen and Paul Belt, and Carol and Alvin Roy,

who know what it’s like to sink roots into family land

and coax a living from the soil year after year.

To Sharon and Bob Nistler, who own and operate the

granary in my old hometown and who have preserved the

historic railroad depot for future generations.

You all thought we were having a reunion,

but if you recall, I warned you I was researching a new

book. Any mistakes herein are mine. However,

you’ve all known me since we were knee-high

to a harrow, so the fact that I have a big imagination

shouldn’t come as any great surprise.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

COLTRANE QUINN STOOD at the rear of a horse trailer still attached to his Dodge Ram pickup. He was talking to Myron Holder, the local vet, discussing a pulled tendon on his favorite gelding. This was Colt’s second visit to Holder’s clinic, and he appreciated talking horses with someone who knew them as well as Holder did. Colt was cut off in the middle of a sentence by a big Ford dually and trailer bearing down on him. It seemed to be traveling way too fast. Dust and gravel engulfed Colt as the oncoming vehicle squealed to a stop inches from his rig. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman at the wheel, sitting to the right of a window sticker that read Badass Ladies Don’t Drive Mercedes. A moment later, she jumped from the cab and was obliterated by a cloud of grit.

“Fool woman,” Colt choked, waving away flying particles with both hands.

“Hardly,” Holder said. “Summer Marsh is one of least foolish women I know. Something’s wrong.” Already in motion, the old vet rushed toward the back of the woman’s single-horse trailer. She joined him, flinging down the trailer’s ramp.

Well, well, well! Colt was about to get his first look at the woman his boss had sent him to Callanton to assess. He’d been hanging around town for a week, enjoying the still-pleasant October weather of eastern Oregon while he filled a notebook with information on Frank and Summer Marsh. Finally, he was about to meet the wicked witch of Forked Lightning Ranch face-to-face.

Needing time to get a grip on his automatic hostility, Coltrane shook dirt off his Stetson. Eventually, he sauntered up alongside the battered trailer. The way it lurched back and forth, he figured the Marsh woman couldn’t handle a horse any better than she managed her life.

“Hey, Quinn,” Holder yelled, his voice hollow from inside the covered trailer. “Give us a hand.”

Colt stepped into the trailer’s opening, then dived back as some screeching thing hit his shoulder and knocked his hat clean off his head. “What the hell?” He ducked, squinting to see into the dim interior of the horse van.

“Grab her” came a woman’s frantic voice. “Oh, please! She’s going to injure her good wing if we don’t subdue her soon.”

Colt saw then that the Marsh woman and Doc Holder were wrestling a full-grown eagle boasting the widest wingspan he’d ever seen. One of the shrieking bird’s wings, he realized, trailed at an odd angle. Dark, rusty blood stained the white tips of the feathers. The eagle fought her captors valiantly with her other wing. Nor was she a slouch when it came to her beak and deadly talons.

Closing his mind as to why Summer Marsh might have an injured bird in her horse trailer, Colt jumped into the fray to do what he could. Dodging behind the flapping eagle, he threw his arms around her and clamped down for dear life.

He wasn’t a soft man by any means, thanks to special-forces training in the military. If only he’d had the sense to stay out of covert operations after he left the service, he’d be in better shape now. Instead, he’d let friends talk him into an occasional private rescue mission. The five years spent as a captive in that South American hellhole, had taken their toll. The few months thereafter, which he’d spent trying to drown in whiskey, had also contributed to his current breathlessness. But hell, he’d climbed out of the gutter and now worked out regularly again. Yet his arm muscles quivered and ached as he went down on one knee to add more leverage so he could hold the bird whose heart tripped faster than Colt’s own.

“Hot damn, keep her there, son,” Myron shouted. “I’ll get my bag and tranquilize her so I can take a good look at that injury.”

Colt felt Summer Marsh’s hands close over his wrists in her effort to complete the circle around the bird. Her hands were softer than he’d imagined a woman rancher’s hands would be. Knowing that about her delivered an unexpected jolt to his stomach.

Turning his head aside, Colt gritted his teeth and concentrated instead on listening to the cadence of their combined harsh breathing. It beat hearing the Marsh woman croon low and melodically to the eagle, like a mother might do to soothe a hurt child.

True to his word, Holder returned in a flash. One pop with a slender needle and the bird went limp in Colt’s arms.

Wheezing, Holder gasped, “Quinn, do you feel up to carrying our patient into an exam room?”

“I think so. Sure.” Colt figured that, aside from helping the vet, this would give him a chance to form his own opinion of Summer Marsh. But he’d barely skirted the trailer’s hub and heard her clang the ramp shut when she darted ahead of him and stopped Holder.

“Myron, I hate to dump trouble on you and then take off before you can assess the damage. I was on my way to circuit court over in Burns when some stupid hunter trespassing on my ranch shot the eagle out of the sky. It was pure luck that she practically fell in my lap. If I don’t scoot, though, I’ll be late for the hearing. Oh, and look at me. This shirt was clean when I started.”

Colt sneaked a peek around the bundle of feathers he held. Summer Marsh didn’t look anything like the harridan he’d conjured in his mind. For one thing, she was younger—more vibrant. Her medium-length russet hair curved from a center part toward a pointed chin. What Colt saw of her skin reminded him of a commercial that touted skin cream. Light gold, not the least bit leathery, the way you saw with people who spent long hours outdoors.

She wasn’t very big, either. Colt doubted the crown of her head would reach his shoulder. And that included her footwear. Boots. All but the tips of her dusty, square-toed boots were hidden beneath a split riding skirt fanning from a narrow, belted waist. Her once-white, western-style collarless shirt was the only thing Colt could see that seemed the worse for wear. Blood streaked one sleeve below a small rip in the shoulder. Considering how hard the bird had fought, it could have been worse. Much worse.

All in all, the lady looked good. Too damned good.

“Run along, Summer,” Holder was saying. “I’ll take care of your eagle. You want to leave her overnight, or pick her up on your way home to stable with the rest of your menagerie?”

“I’ll stop by and get her. If she’s the eagle I’ve seen hunting our north pasture, she has babies nesting in Kiger Gorge. I hope she has a partner. If not, I’ll have to figure out how to bring the little ones down for feeding.”

“Like you need that chore heaped on top of Frank acting like an ass! Is he behind this hearing you’re headed for?”

“I guess. Or his lawyers.” She paused again to check her watch. When she glanced up this time, it was straight into Coltrane’s eyes. He realized her irises were gold, flecked here and there with bits of green. Hazel, he supposed was the proper term. Something in her eyes reminded Colt of the firestorm he’d witnessed earlier in the eagle. And they invoked a sympathy he didn’t want to feel.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a step toward Colt. “We’ve never met. I’m Summer Marsh.”

“Coltrane Quinn,” he mumbled, slightly dazed by her suddenly blinding smile.

“Well, Mr. Quinn. I don’t know if you’re just passing through Callanton, or if you’ve settled in. Either way, you have my profound thanks for your willingness to help a stranger. If I can ever return the favor, you can usually find me twenty miles due east of town, somewhere on the Forked Lightning Ranch.”

Following a final wave at Holder, and after the old man’s murmured “Good luck today, Summer,” she was gone. Just the way she’d arrived, in a cloud of dust.

Colt shook off an odd sensation. Afraid he’d drop the limp bird, he hurried into Holder’s clinic.

“I realize you were first in order,” Holder told him. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to set this wing and place the eagle in a portable cage before she comes out from under that tranquilizer. Turn your gelding into the small corral out back of the clinic. There’s water and grazing enough to keep him happy until I finish.”

“Spirit’s okay in the trailer for now. As I was saying before all hell broke loose, I’ve wrapped his foreleg with Flexus Plus and administered Cosequin since you checked him earlier in the week. He seems to be on the mend. I’d just like another opinion before I let him bear my full weight.”

“A more professional opinion than that of a cowboy, you mean?”

“I don’t know if I’d describe myself as a cowboy, exactly.” Colt smiled across the bird stretched out on the steel table Colt smiled across the bird stretched out on the steel table. “Guess I never mentioned that I used to breed Morgan horses near Featherville, Idaho. Learned all I know about horse doctoring from Halsey Luttrell, best vet in the territory. He recommended you, by the way. Said you two met in college.”

Myron Holder scratched his beard. “Did the old son of a gun tell you I was number one in our veterinary medicine graduating class, and he was a distant second?”

Colt’s grin spread. “He neglected to pass on that detail.”

“Humph! So what brings you from that forsaken land to God’s country? I don’t imagine you’re scouting horseflesh. Not saying we don’t have our share of good ones hereabouts, but mostly there’s prime cattle in these parts.”

The smile slipped from Colt’s face. “I had a ranch sold out from under me. Since then, I’ve been doing a little of this and a little of that. At the moment I’m bunked at the Arrowroot Inn, and I’m boarding Spirit at Tucker’s Stable. Hey, as you’re something of an authority on local ranches, fill me in on the place belonging to the woman who brought in the eagle.”

The old man stared hard at Coltrane. “Summer’s a damn fine woman who’s been handed a raw deal by her snook of a husband. Ex he is now, thank goodness. But Frank’s still making mischief. That’s all I’m gonna say about them. The one who’s been most affected is their son, Rory. He’s just a little shaver. Too young to understand any of it.”

“A son?” Colt said absently, watching Myron conduct a thorough examination of the bird’s shattered wing. None of his records indicated that Marsh had a kid. Nor had he heard a single word about it when he’d nosed around town this past week.

“Hold this clamp.” The vet shoved a gleaming instrument into Colt’s hand. “I’ve gotta clean buckshot out of the wound. God damn every last city hunter who can’t tell an eagle from a pheasant. I wish Summer had nailed their ignoramus hides so they’d be sitting out their vacation in our poky. This bird’s gonna need care for a long time while her wing mends. Oh, Summer’s got the facilities, but she doesn’t need one more problem on her plate.”

“Earlier you referred to her menagerie.”

“I did?”

Colt waited impatiently for embellishment as the veterinarian set the eagle’s delicate bones and splinted them together with thin strips of nonflexible plastic.

“You seem mighty interested in Summer,” Holder finally growled. “Suppose it’s natural, though. I’ve never seen a cowboy yet who couldn’t pick out the prettiest woman in three counties.”

Colt gave a rough snort. “You’ve read me all wrong. I’ve been duly shafted by a pretty woman before. If I was planning to take sides in the Marsh matter, I’d more than likely toss in my lot with her ex.”

“Then you’d be dead wrong. But then, didn’t you say you were staying at the Arrowroot Inn? Probably means you spend time at Mason White’s Bar and Grill. I hear Frank Marsh hangs out there, bragging about what a cattle baron he is. Did nobody stop to wonder how he has the time to sit in a bar when ranching’s a twenty-hour-a-day job?” He shook his head. “It’s a good thing you aren’t in any position to align with Frank and further hurt Summer. The Forked Lightning means the world to her.”

“Hmm.” Coltrane watched Holder cage the groggy bird. He withheld his final thoughts on the subject of Summer Marsh. If she truly cared about the Forked Lightning, then he was in a position to further hurt her.

SUMMER ARRIVED AT CIRCUIT COURT Judge Roy Atherton’s chambers, ten minutes late. She hesitated before entering the room, where she could hear several men speaking, their voices low and intense. Summer thought she’d weathered the worst that could happen to her this past spring, during the Harney County court proceedings. She’d survived a bitter, name-calling divorce from Frank Marsh, her husband of eight years. Now, according to the most recent paper she’d been served, Frank was demanding she sell her beloved ranch, which had been home to four generations of Callans. Summer had always supposed that, if nothing else, she and Frank were agreed on one thing: passing the ranch to their son, Rory.

The hand she extended to open Judge Atherton’s door shook. That kind of fear was unlike her. Heavens, she wrangled beef for a living! And often supervised up to eight cowboys at any given time, all while managing a home and raising a child. She’d nursed her father, Bart Callan, through ten years of a hellish disease that had wasted his body long before taking his life. If she could do all that, she could certainly do this.

Lifting her chin, she staved off any perceptible tremor before striding into the room. All anyone there could do was hit her with words. They couldn’t touch her heart unless she let them, and she had a solid padlock on that.

“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 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?

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.

“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.

Colt turned to see several men dressed in blue jeans and plaid work shirts troop through the swinging doors. He was trying to recall whether he’d ever seen them at White’s before, when he realized Frank had slid off his stool and was hailing the newcomers. Marsh’s parting shot to Colt made no sense.

“Like I said, stranger, if a man’s after money, he better be holding a fifth ace. Then all he’s gotta do is sit back and rake in the proceeds. You know what I mean? Everything in the pot.”

Colt watched Frank join the others—four men in all. They chatted briefly, then disappeared through a door at the back of the bar. Colt hadn’t noticed it before. But the bartender prepared a tray with a bottle of whiskey and five glasses, which he carried through the same door. Colt supposed Marsh had been referring to poker. It wouldn’t surprise him to discover the man gambled in addition to his other vices.

While an interesting sidebar, Frank’s vices didn’t have much relevance to Colt or SOS. Merely rubbing elbows with Marsh had soured his taste for beer, Colt discovered. He dug a few bucks out of his pocket, tossed them on the bar, then collected his things and walked out.

On the way to his room, he castigated himself for not pumping Frank more. However, while eavesdropping earlier on Summer, he’d verified the dollar figure Adams intended to fork over for the Marsh land. As well, he’d learned SOS had up to six months to top the Adams bid.

Colt had been told his boss, Marley Jones, possessed a phenomenal ability to raise large amounts of cash in short periods of time. SOS should be able to muscle in on this deal with no sweat. Soon, a closer would arrive in Callanton, freeing Colt for the consortium’s next project. And he could move on and put Summer Marsh completely out of his mind.

The first thing Colt did after entering his room was phone Marc and relay everything he’d unearthed that evening.

“Bless that judge. He did us a real favor. Six months will buy SOS the time we need.”

“So my job here is just about finished, right?”

“Not so fast. A lot could still go wrong. Marley won’t want to lose touch with either principal,” Marc said, speaking of their boss in Washington D.C., who’d organized the network. Marley Jones was a smart man, proud of his African-American heritage. He wielded considerably power in the Washington beltway and with governors around the States. He was born in rural Georgia during the depression, but his perseverance had achieved him a status enviable to any man. What made him stand out was the fact that he’d never, in his climb up the political ladder, lost sight of his family’s history, which was tied to the soil. Now his dedication in the private sector—saving endangered land and endangered species—extended to people as well.

Colt would be forever grateful to Jones, who’d seen something worthwhile inside a bitter, thirty-five-year-old ex-Marine. Even as Colt had stood before Marley, skin still jumpy from a scant two days off booze, Marley hired him on the spot and extended a welcoming hand. From that day forward, Marley Jones had Colt’s undying respect.

“If Marley thinks I should stay in Callanton, I will.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it. Marley has a good reason, though. We’ve got deals coming to a head in Utah, Colorado, northern California and southern Arizona. They represent a lot of cash, and the coffers are low. Marley needs time to put the arm on some of his backers. Even the ones with deep pockets aren’t as free with contributions as they were a few years back.”

“This is awesome country, Marc. There’s no danger we’ll lose it, is there?”

“Of course not.”

Colt heard concern in his old friend’s declaration. “Tell Marley this property has everything. Sweet grassland. Pine forests fed by an uncontaminated river. Its source is a snow-capped peak that sets the ranch apart from city encroachment to the north and west. A granite gorge serves as a buffer to the south. You wouldn’t believe the wildlife I’ve come across when I’ve gone out riding. Plus, there’s the clearest blue sky I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll pass on the information. That rangeland won’t be lost for lack of trying on Marley’s part.”

“I know.” Colt recognized the frustration in Marc’s voice.

“You handled the initial investigation on the last deal without a qualm. What makes you antsy about this one?”

Colt knew exactly what had made him hesitate—a glimpse of the pride in Summer Marsh’s eyes when she told the waitress how long she’d run her ranch, together with her admitted desire to pass the job to her son. It hadn’t been his imagination that her pride turned to vulnerability when she’d glanced at Rory.

“Coltrane? We still connected?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why this deal is different, Marc. Maybe because the ranch reminds me of my old place in Idaho. It’s probably that simple. I guess I can’t stand the thought of one of Ed Adams’s supernova resorts ruining this great ranch. There are so few of them left.”

“Amen. Hang on and keep tabs on anything out of the ordinary. The judge’s decision is the reprieve we need. But as Marley pointed out in our meeting on Monday, it’s not in Adams’s nature to wait contentedly for something he wants. How about if you and I touch base again at the end of this week? Unless anything drastic comes up and you need us sooner.”

“Okay. Spirit pulled a tendon, so I haven’t checked out as much of the ranch as I would’ve liked. His leg’s healing. Maybe by the weekend I’ll have had a chance to survey the rest of the Forked Lightning.” Colt couldn’t say why he withheld the information that he planned to visit there in the morning.

“Talk to you then, Colt.” Marc clicked off.

COLT LEFT HIS MOTEL ROOM before daylight. In fact, a three-quarter moon shed a cold light over the sleeping town of Callanton. Since he got underway before the Green Willow opened, he had no choice but to forgo breakfast.

His first stop was the farm at the edge of town where he stabled Spirit. When Colt loaded the gelding into his trailer, he noticed that Spirit still favored his leg. Was that a sign he should let Mrs. Marsh rescue her eaglets alone? he wondered wryly.

Thing was, Colt felt honor bound once he’d given his word. And maybe the outing would do Spirit more good than standing in a corral.

Six or so miles out of Callanton, Colt dropped in behind a school bus he assumed was the one scheduled to pick up Rory Marsh. Colt was sure of it when the bus turned down a graveled stretch of road that led to the Forked Lightning.

The sun had barely peeked over Blue Mountain by the time the big yellow bus swung off on a shoulder and stopped beneath a wrought-iron arch bearing the image of a divided lightning bolt. The ranch brand was an exact replica.

Colt stopped the prescribed distance behind the bus, which sat with red lights flashing. The lights had no sooner come on than a pickup—the one Colt had seen Summer driving yesterday—roared up to the arch from the distant house. A sullen-looking Rory Marsh slid out of the passenger seat. Head down, he trudged toward the bus, kicking up dust with his boots.

Colt opened his pickup door and stepped out on his running board. “Hey, kid,” he called. “Have a good day at school.”

Rory lifted his head, face brightening. “Hi! Wow, you did come to rescue the baby eagles. Mom said you probably had better things to do.” Rory galloped around the front of the bus. The driver honked, and the noise started him, making him drop his lunch box.

Summer saw her son dash in front of the bus rather than ascend the steps. What was he doing? Surely not running away! Yet he might just try that following the set-to they’d had at breakfast.

Heart pounding, she yanked on her emergency brake and fought to open the stubborn door that tended to stick. It popped ajar in time for her to hear a man’s baritone voice cautioning her son to get on the bus. The blood drained from her head and left her feeling dizzy because she thought Frank had finally decided to visit his son. Then she saw Rory wave and meekly retreat. He’d never do that if it was his dad standing outside the fence.

“Go on,” the man was saying. “Board the bus. I’ll see you when you get home.”

Summer realized the voice was deeper than Frank’s. By then, she’d reached the fence. Prior to that, the bus had blocked her view of the road. Identifying a pickup with horse trailer, and a man’s lanky outline, she expelled her breath in a whoosh.

Coltrane Quinn. He’d come, just the way he’d promised.

Summer recognized that he was the source of her son’s changed demeanor. Oddly enough, her own heart hammered significantly faster.

“Colt’s here, Mom,” Rory shouted. “The baby eagles will be okay now, and you don’t hafta worry ’bout Virgil killing himself helping you.”

“That’s good,” Summer admitted, clearing her throat. “I know you wanted to greet Mr. Quinn, Rory, but you shouldn’t keep Mrs. Reilly waiting. She has other children to pick up. Go on now, or you’ll make everyone late for school.”

“’kay,” the boy mumbled, although he continued to peer around the bus door while waving nonstop at Colt.

Rory had barely found a seat on the bus before the driver shut the door and began a wide turn back onto the road.

For some reason it touched Colt to see Rory press his smiling face to the window, his bright eyes following Colt until the bus rumbled out of sight. The warm feeling lasted until he turned and saw Summer Marsh glaring at him. Her arms were crossed, her spine taut. A frown hardened her pretty face.

He noted that she was dressed for work, wearing a wrangler’s wool plaid jacket buttoned atop worn blue jeans. Her scarred, low-heeled boots and leather gloves were far from new. A red scarf added a feminine touch to her outfit, and yet Colt himself wore a similar neckerchief, which he considered a standard ranch necessity. Riding the range, you never knew when a dust storm might blow up out of nowhere.

“What?” he demanded. “You said seven o’clock. According to my watch—” Colt made a show of digging it out from under his jacket sleeve “—it’s only 7:03.”

“Please be careful about the promises you make my son,” she said sharply. “Rory didn’t want to leave the house this morning because you hadn’t arrived yet.” Spinning abruptly, she stalked back to her vehicle.

Angrier over her attitude than was warranted, Colt removed his hat and slapped it against the hood of his pickup. “Just a damn minute! You’ve got no call to take a strip off me. I said I’d lend a hand to recover the eaglets. And I’m here. Excuse me, but exactly what promise have I broken?”

Summer’s shoulders bowed. This time she faced him wearing a guilty expression. “N-nothing, of course. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve become very defensive on Rory’s behalf since his father…since Frank…” She gave a sigh so loud Colt could hear it yards away.

He gripped his own truck door tight to keep from going to console her. “I understand from what you said last night that Rory’s going through a rough patch. His world’s been turned upside down. The last thing I want to do is make the situation worse. Let’s go after the eaglets. That way, I’ll be gone from here long before Rory returns from school.”

“Good,” she managed to say in a voice that was higher than normal. She slid behind the wheel and released her parking brake, leading the way to the house. Summer couldn’t help wishing, for her son’s sake, that Frank could change and be a little more like Coltrane Quinn. She gasped at such a thought and braked too hard outside the barn. Dust enveloped her as she climbed from the cab.

An old man hobbled up. He watched while Colt backed his pickup and trailer between the house and barn. The elderly man’s presence buffered the tension that had sprung up between Summer and Colt.

“Virgil, this is Coltrane Quinn. Quinn, Virgil Olsen. He’s held this place together with baling wire since before I was born.” She hugged the man’s bent frame, honest feeling reflected in her eyes. “It’s your lucky day, Virg. Mr. Quinn has volunteered to give me a hand catching the eaglets. How’s their mother doing?” she asked as the two men exchanged a handshake.

“Feistier than when you brought her home, Summer. The old girl nipped me good when I put food in her cage. She’ll be better if you can bring in the little ones. She’s crying out and beating her good wing against the cage. Without her babies, I’m afraid she’ll die just trying to escape. I’d rather you two go after ’em than me,” he remarked, gazing at Colt from faded brown eyes. “I’d never’ve let Summer tackle the job alone. Doesn’t mean I looked forward to hauling these old bones up those cliffs.”

Colt rubbed his chin. “I’ve done a bit of rock climbing. I travel with all my gear, so I have rudimentary ropes, pitons and carabiners in my truck. What I think we’ll need is some type of basket with a tie-down lid to put the eaglets in. Depending on how many and how large the birds are, we may need more than one container,” he mused aloud.

“Jiminy, I’d have never thought of a lid.” The old man took off his battered hat and raked his fingers through sparse gray hair. “I spread some hay in an open box, thinking we’d transport the birds that way.”

“I think we’ll need a cover of some kind to make it work.”

“Don’t have one.” The old man shook his head. “Can’t think what we—”

“Virgil, what about Audrey’s knitting basket?” Summer broke into the men’s conversation. She nudged him and winked. “I realize if the birds poop in it I’ll owe her a new one.”

“Why, that’s just the thing. You go ask her, Summer-girl. She’d never refuse you. If I unload that woman’s knitting, she’s liable to smack me upside the head with a frying pan.”

Summer chuckled. “You old fibber. Audrey loves you to pieces. But I’ll go do it. I want to fill a thermos with coffee and toss a couple of apples in a saddlebag. I figure this trip will take a lot of energy.”

“Do you mind bringing an extra apple?” Colt put in.

“For the horses, you mean?”

“Well, that’d be nice, too. No, I’m being purely selfish. The café hadn’t opened yet when I left town.” He rubbed his stomach, which chose that moment to growl.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier? Heavens, you’re probably starved. Come inside. I’ll ask Audrey to whip you up some eggs and toast.”

“No. Don’t go to any trouble. An apple will do me. We should get underway. This is going on day two for those birds. Once the sun rises, they’ll be increasingly exposed to predators.”

“Exactly.” Summer turned to Virgil. “Will you saddle Starlight for me, please? She’s surefooted enough for the gorge.”

As Summer loped toward the house, Colt backed Spirit out of his trailer.

“Your horse favors his foreleg, son,” Virgil said.

“He landed sideways on a rock the other day. I’m lucky all he did was strain a muscle.” Colt bent over his horse and ran a hand down the leg, checking for swelling.

“My wife makes a herb ointment to help with my arthritis. The stuff works wonders on animals. Why don’t you leave the gelding for me to treat? You can ride one of Summer’s horses.”

“I’d appreciate it. I thought a workout might help him, but I don’t want to push him if he’s not a hundred percent.”

“Then it’s settled. You assemble your climbing gear and I’ll swap your mount for one of ours. It’ll only take me a few minutes to saddle two horses.”

“Use my saddle. It has extra ties for attaching mountaineering gear.”

“Sure. Here, cut the wrap off Spirit’s leg. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Virgil produced a rusty pocket knife that had seen better days. Colt finally found one blade that literally chewed through the medicated wrap he’d put on his horse yesterday.

Summer beat Virgil back to the place where Colt was readying his equipment. A dog, a mixed breed with some spaniel and terrier—or that was Colt’s best guess—bounded up to him, barking, and sniffing the items he’d laid out on the ground.

“Don’t mind Lancelot.” Summer rushed to catch hold of the dog. “His bark is fierce, but he’s really friendly. The best cow dog that ever lived,” she said with a high degree of immodesty.

“Best ever, huh? Tall praise, boy.” Colt let the dog sniff his hand before trying to pet him. He’d owned a cutting dog named Vic. Monica had given him away. At least it was to a family with kids. Vic loved kids. Colt hadn’t had the heart to demand him back and disappoint little children.

“Oh, shoot. You’ll want to wash before you eat this biscuit sandwich I brought out. Lancelot, no,” she commanded as the dog sailed through the air, attempting to steal the napkin-wrapped biscuit she handed Colt.

“I’ll use the napkin to guard against dog germs.” Colt hopped up on the running board of his pickup in order to keep his food out of the dog’s reach. Lancelot was quite a jumper. “You didn’t have to do this, Summer, but my stomach thanks you.” As if on cue, Colt’s stomach growled again. Louder this time. The dog gave a funny yip, dropped to his belly and slithered back to Summer. Both she and Colt laughed.

“Well,” she said. “I’ve never seen him do that before. You’d better wolf that down fast before he gets brave again.”

“I take it he’s your pet and not Rory’s,” Colt remarked as he began to devour the egg, ham and biscuit sandwich.

“Interesting you should think that. I saved him after he’d been hit by a car. The month before Rory was born. When the baby came, the dog appointed himself guardian extraordinaire. Last year, Rory started school, and I had a terrible time keeping Lancelot off the bus. Which is why you didn’t see him earlier. We’ve learned to lock him inside the house until after Rory leaves. Otherwise, he’ll park himself next to the gate all day.”

“That’s a great trait. I had a loyal dog…once….” His sentence trailed off as Colt wadded the napkin, shoved it into his pocket, then jumped to the ground. “There’s Virgil,” he exclaimed, starting off to meet the man.

Summer wasn’t so quick to follow. Obviously something had happened to his pet, she decided, based on the abrupt way Colt dropped the subject. Men! He probably regretted letting her see an emotional side. The Callan men and Frank, too, had all been miserly with any show of softness. Rory would be different if she had any influence. Yet his bouts of tears, no matter how infrequent, were a bone of contention with Frank. He insisted to any and all who’d listen that she’d turned their son into a sissy. But she knew it wasn’t sissified to want Rory to express honest feelings.

Summer gave a start when Colt took the knitting basket out of her hands and replaced it with the reins to her horse.

“Sorry to break your train of thought, but the sun’s climbing fast. Hadn’t we better go?”

“Yes. Virgil,” she said, swinging into the saddle. “Hang on to Lancelot, please. I don’t want him scaring those eaglets to death. Oh, and Phil Eubanks might deliver our roundup supplies this morning. I left his check with Audrey.”

“Anything else?”

“One other thing. Bozo Bear’s off his feed. Check to see if you think he’s sick. From what I’ve read on bears since we got him, I would’ve expected his appetite to pick up around this time, since he’ll be heading into hibernation soon.”

Virgil nodded and grabbed the dog’s collar.

“You have a bear?” Colt shifted in his saddle to eye her as they rode out.

“An orphan I ran across after a summer forest fire. I’m surprised Myron didn’t fill you in on what people around here call Summer’s Wildlife Sanctuary. As a kid, I was forever dragging home injured squirrels, birds and motherless calves. Now, anytime anyone within driving distance comes across an animal in need, they drop it on my doorstep. My goal is to return them to their natural habitat as quickly as possible. At the moment we’re boarding the bear, two fawns, a disagreeable badger, a snow goose, a family of sage grouse, a great horned owl and…you’ve met the eagle. Those are the wild creatures. Any number of cats and dogs show up in any given year, too. Fortunately, the vet who served Callanton before Myron set up an endowment to cover my costs. Otherwise, I couldn’t afford the menagerie.” She paused, then said softly, “I’ll always be grateful to Dr. Ross. He died the same year my father did, and I miss them both.”

“You don’t sound as if you mind the time your… menagerie must take.”

She smiled. “Not really. I can’t stand to think they’d be left to suffer and die. Although sometimes—for instance, in the case of the eagle—care becomes a challenge.”

Colt pondered the pain evident in her voice when she talked about what might happen to the animals except for her. He was struck by how different she was from his ex-wife. Monica had once refused to help him bottle-feed twin fillies delivered by a mare that didn’t make it through the night. Why hadn’t he seen Monica’s self-centeredness before they got married? Colt strove to remember. Had Monica changed, or had he? Probably both. He hadn’t known her long; theirs had been a whirlwind courtship. And he had to admit that prior to his struggle to stay alive day after day in that rebel prison, he’d been shallow enough to derive importance from how attractive Monica looked on his arm.

“Now who’s miles away?” Summer scolded, calling his attention to a narrow track where they’d have to ride single file.

Colt let her take the lead. “I, uh, was thinking what a genuinely nice person you are to rescue so many injured animals.”

She said nothing, only urged her mare up the trail.

“What happens to your menagerie when Adams buys you out?”

Summer whirled in her saddle. “What do you know about that?”

“Just what I heard you tell Helen last night at the café.” Damn, he’d have to watch himself. If he aroused her suspicion, he’d jeopardize the deal Marley was trying to cobble together.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sure the situation between Frank and me is great fodder for town gossips. I hate that more than I do the actual split. At the risk of sullying your rosy picture of me, I have to admit I was the last to learn that Frank cheated on me. Most days since, I wake up wishing him in hell. So, you see how terrible I really am.”

Unexpectedly, Colt found himself confiding a fact he rarely spoke of, other than to his best friends. “We have a lot in common. I regularly consign my ex to the same place.”

“Really? Then I’m not coming unhinged? Thank God!”

She sounded so truly relieved, Colt burst out laughing.

In reality, Summer was dying to ask more about his divorce. None of her family or close friends had experienced a breakup. But she didn’t know Coltrane Quinn well enough to trade confidences. Except for maybe in one area. “If I remember correctly, you said you were childless.” She turned in the saddle to see him better.

“That’s right. So, there’s something to be grateful for at least. Monica and I haven’t hurt a kid by fighting over him or her. Not that you’ve hurt your son,” he hastened to add.

Summer shook her head. “Rory idolizes Frank. What’s clearer now is that he probably only played at being a dad for show. Since Frank took up residence with his mistre—uh, with Jill, he can’t be bothered to even phone our son. Some people in town have decided I’m keeping Rory from visiting Frank. Well, you saw how Rory blames me, too.”

“So tell him the truth. The kid appears to have above-average intelligence.”

“I’ve talked till I’m blue in the face. I’m not getting through.”

Colt shifted awkwardly. Unless he missed his guess, Summer was just one step from shedding tears. Considering the fact that he’d handled Monica’s deceit by trying to pickle himself in alcohol, he wasn’t the best person to offer advice.

“I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?” Summer faced forward again. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have bent your ear. I hardly know you.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to unload on strangers. We all need outlets. Mine turned out to be any one of a hundred bartenders,” he said, allowing her another little peek into his soul.

“Ah, so you’re a recovering alcoholic? Are you still running away? Is that why you ended up in an out-of-the-way place like Callanton?”

“The answer to all three questions is no.” He shook his head. “Jeez, you don’t pull any punches. You sound like the shrink my buddies dragged me to. The guy who helped me dry out.”

She glanced back and this time her face did crumple. “Oh, darn. I apologize. I’m sorry, but…uh, we don’t feel like strangers. You—now don’t take this wrong, but you feel…comfortable. Like…an old friend I haven’t seen in a while.” She ducked her head and pulled her hat brim lower. “Sounds stupid, huh?”

Colt, who’d suddenly discovered that he found her comfortable, too, didn’t think they ought to be moving in that direction. He realized it’d be far too easy to set himself up as friend and protector to this woman and her son. Something inside him needed to be someone’s hero. That was why he’d let Marc, Gabe and Reggie Mossberger talk him into putting his marriage and his ranch on hold to go off and liberate one last group of kidnapped oil executives. Look where that had landed him.

Shutting down as he’d learned to do in order to avoid getting close to anyone again, Colt ended the personal side of their conversation. “All I am is a man who has a soft spot for eagles. Nothing more. Nothing less. We’re not old friends, not even new friends. As for kids—I don’t know jackshit about kids.”

Summer recoiled instinctively. A cold fist plunged into her stomach. “It’s not far now,” she said, returning to a coolness that matched his. “If all goes well, we’ll be back at the ranch before Rory’s bus drops him off. Rest assured, I’ll make sure he doesn’t impose on you—or assume you’re something you’re not.”

Colt silently accepted the verbal blows she rained on his head. He stared out at the glorious panorama of the gorge without really seeing it. And called himself all kinds of names for acting like an idiot. She’d just needed a sounding board.

Still, given what he knew—and she didn’t—about the part he’d be playing in seizing her land, a clean break now would be best for her, and certainly for Rory.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE TRAIL UPHILL GREW progressively more twisted and rocky. The concentration it required provided Colt and Summer with ample reason for silence.

Half an hour later, Colt spoke. “How in the name of God did you locate a nest of eagles up here? This is mountain-goat country.”

Summer reined in. “The Forked Lightning often has stray cattle in the gorge. I love it up here, so it’s no hardship for me to ride in regularly to round them up. I spotted the eagles’ nest a couple of years ago. Eagles return to the same nest year after year.”

“But it wasn’t shot in the gorge?”

“No. I was on the road to town. She hunts along the river. In another ten minutes or so, you’ll see her nest.”

“I’m not complaining. I like wild places, particularly on horseback. I admit, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting a woman who feels the same.” Colt leaned casually on his saddle horn, and took his time inspecting Summer from the top of her battered Stetson to the toes of her well-scuffed boots.

Anger reddened her cheeks. “Are you suggesting I’d lie about something like this? Why would I? This land is my home,” she said fervently. She knew her passionate declaration stemmed from her animosity toward Frank, who was trying to take the Forked Lightning away. For the moment, Colt just happened to be a handy target. “Does the word home hold no meaning for men, other than what it represents in cold hard cash?”

Colt touched his heels to the borrowed gelding’s flanks and moved closer. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Look, I’m not the only man who hates urban sprawl destroying a great way of life. You’ve shown me that all women don’t need mammoth shopping malls within arm’s reach. Shall we leave it at that? We came to rescue eagles, not fight the battle of the sexes.”

She took a deep breath. “You provoke these arguments, then very neatly extricate yourself, leaving me looking petty. I’m sorry your ex treated you badly. I can sympathize because Frank did the same to me. I’ve been honest with you, yet I sense you think I’m making this all up. And you never answered me. Why would I lie?”

“To impress me, perhaps?”

“You egotistical jerk!” Summer choked up on her mare’s reins. Starlight reared, lost her footing and began slipping toward the trail’s edge.

Colt vaulted from his saddle, but Summer had already kicked off her stirrups and thrown herself toward the mountain. She dug in her heels and hauled on the reins to keep the mare on the trail. And she did it all before Colt even reached her.

“That was quick thinking,” he panted, visibly shaken by her near-tumble over the sheer drop.

“All in a day’s work for a cattle rancher,” she responded, also having difficulty breathing.

“Then you’re a better man than me.” Colt moved to the cliff side of the trail, and stood gripping Summer’s saddle cantle. He glanced up as she reclaimed her seat in the saddle. Their eyes met only briefly, but something passed between them.

Respect from him.

Comprehension from her. She understood what the compliment had cost him in the face of their recent heated words. She didn’t think he was a man who gave compliments lightly. Summer could hold it over his head or pursue their argument. She did neither. “The eaglets are waiting.” Bending away from him, she patted her mare’s neck.

“Uh…right.” Colt gathered his shaken senses, released his death grip on her cantle and mounted his horse. They rode on as if the incident had never occurred.

As Summer had pointed out, within a few minutes they reached a high chaparral overlooking a series of granite spires that spiked upward from the canyon floor. On the jagged tip of one spire, nestled in the fork of a squat, misshapen pine, sat the object of their trip. Three squawking eaglets huddled in a nest of mud and twigs, loudly announcing their displeasure at the turn their life had taken.

Summer and Colt each hauled field glasses out of their saddlebags and trained them on the nest.

“Hellfire and damnation.” Colt expelled his breath. “This is going to be even harder than I figured.”

“I’d say we’re in the nick of time, though.” Summer stabbed a finger toward floaty clouds drifting across a cerulean sky.

It took Colt a moment to refocus. When he did, he saw several buzzards circling high above the nest. Without the rescue, it wouldn’t be long before the vultures had themselves a succulent meal.

“I’d better set up fast.” Looping his binoculars over his saddle horn, Colt dismounted. He shed his jacket, then untied the bundle of ropes he’d brought. He deftly sorted out three sets and shrugged into a climbing harness.

Summer watched, shading her eyes with one hand. “Virgil and I would never have saved them. I’ve seen the mother flying in and out of here. But, until now, I didn’t realize the nest sat on a ledge separate from the gorge wall.”

She gestured helplessly. “I hate not to go through with this, but maybe we should forget it. I shudder to think of the danger involved.”

“Well, it’s going to take longer than I estimated. But unless I run into a snag I can’t see from here, it looks like a fairly straightforward climb.”

“Really?” She folded her arms, nervously massaging them from elbow to shoulder and back again.

“Yep. Hey, can you shoot that rifle you’re packing with any degree of accuracy?”

The question galvanized Summer as nothing up to this point had. “I’m an excellent shot. Why?”

“If those buzzards see me stealing their noon meal, they may take a notion to substitute me for the eagles.”

“Buzzards are cowards. I’d think any cowboy worth his salt would know that.”

“Did I claim to be a cowboy?”

Summer looked him over and shook her head. “No…”

“Relax,” he said, clipping a series of carabiners to his rope. “Some folks might call me a cowboy. Among other careers, I once bred and broke horses for riding and roping.”

“What other careers?” Summer asked, curious to know what had brought him to her small corner of the planet. Callanton didn’t attract a lot of newcomers, and none like Coltrane Quinn. Hunters had begun to drive out from big cities for a week at a time, but they were duded up and easy to spot. Colt blended in. He could pass for a local.

Mired in her thoughts, Summer finally noticed his frown. “Careers?” she probed.

“I pulled a hitch or two for Uncle Sam. You’ll have to take my word that I was honorably discharged.” Colt removed his Stetson and dropped it on a shrub. He extracted a baseball cap from his saddlebag. Donning it backward, he kick-tested the solidness of two separate boulders. Apparently he had nothing more to say on the subject of his careers.

Finding the boulder nearest the bluff to his liking, Colt double-looped one of his ropes around the base and pulled it tight. “Hand me the basket, would you?”

She retrieved it from her saddle and gave it to him without comment.

“Here’s my plan. I’ll rappel from here to the ravine floor, cross the creek and climb the spire to slightly above the shelf with the nest. I’ll tie off the rope I’ve looped through the basket. That’ll slope it toward you. Next, I’ll transfer the birds, secure the lid and send the whole kit and caboodle to you, relying on gravitational feed. You’ll haul the basket up and over the lip of this ledge. Okay? Can you handle that?”

“I sling hay bales from the ground to the back of a flatbed truck. In the winter I sometimes have to toss them out of the hayloft by myself. Don’t worry, Quinn, I’ll do my part.”

The lopsided grin he sent her before he disappeared backward over the cliff with the basket and ropes said plainly that he knew he’d gotten under her skin.

Despite her touchiness, seeing him disappear so abruptly sent Summer’s stomach dive-bombing to her toes.

With her heart thundering in her ears, she ran to the bluff and peered gingerly over the edge. A breeze ruffled the shrubs growing out from the sheer drop-off. The ropes were taut, but she couldn’t see Colt. “Are you all right?” she called, her words echoing back from the canyon floor.

“Yo,” he answered, his voice sounding much farther below than she’d expected.

Suddenly, saving the eaglets at the risk of a man’s life and limb seemed not to be the best idea she’d ever had. She’d pulled off some hair-raising rescues of stranded calves in her day, but Summer discovered it was one thing to risk her own neck and something else entirely to watch another person risk his. Not only that, he was practically a stranger, a man who had no vested interest in her or the ranch. Why would he do this?

She saw him step onto the floor of the ravine, turn his face toward her and wave. Aided by her binoculars, she was able to see the boyish grin he wore. He was loving this adventure. Here she stood, shaking like a wind chime in a gale, worried about his rotten hide, and he was having the time of his life.

Men, the whole lot of them, were a mystery.

Scrambling back to safety, Summer kept her field glasses trained on Colt as he picked his way across the swift-running creek. Quite soon it was evident that he wouldn’t be climbing the spire as fast as he’d descended. The wall he faced was perpendicular and so slick he had to set anchors at points above his head in order to feed ropes and pulleys to bear his weight. Beneath his cotton shirt, his back muscles strained and bunched. The harness belt slung around his narrow hips looked heavy.

The muscles in Summer’s abdomen contracted. Surprised, she let the binoculars drop. What was there about Quinn? She hadn’t been so moved by a man in more years than she cared to remember—including Frank when they’d met. The truth of that shocked her. She’d been telling herself she’d married for love. She hadn’t. She’d been weary and worried sick about her dad. Frank had been—well, he’d been there.

A few hours with this stranger and her body had turned traitor. Sweeping dry lips with her tongue, she fit the field glasses to her eyes again. This time she was prepared for the electric response arcing through her midsection.

Colt paused in his climb, blotting sweat from his brow as he swung free above a creek he could no longer hear babbling. He hadn’t climbed since his last trek out of the jungle, fifteen months ago. That terrain had been soft—nothing like this granite. His legs cramped and his arms felt weighted. At the same time, he was exhilarated as he surveyed the view this elevation afforded.

Flashes across the canyon momentarily blinded him. Sun reflecting off Summer’s binoculars. He remembered the concern in her voice when she called to him after he’d rappelled down the rocks. Was she still worried about him? He felt a ripple of something—was it pleasure? It’d been a long while since anyone, except the teammates from his former military unit, cared what happened to him.

For a few seconds, Colt savored the welcome thought. Then a cloud drifted across the sun, blanking out the flash from the other side. The shadow might as well have been a bucket of cold water; it had the same effect on Colt. Even if Summer Marsh was inclined to care for him, which was iffy, he had nothing to offer her in return. She’d soon have three million bucks in the bank. He didn’t have enough savings to buy even a hundred acres of this land.

Removing his cap, Colt stuffed it in his pocket. He untied his neckerchief and banded it around his forehead to stop the flow of sweat. Facing the crux, the most difficult pitch of any climb, he drove in another chock before creeping higher.

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