Roz Fox - Wide Open Spaces

“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.

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.”