Roz Fox - Wide Open Spaces

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.