Wide Open Spaces
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Roz Denny Fox
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14
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.”
