Читать книгу Wide Open Spaces - Roz Fox Denny - Страница 8

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.