Wide Open Spaces. Roz Fox Denny

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ