Wide Open Spaces. Roz Fox Denny
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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.
“Talk to you then, Colt.” Marc clicked off.
COLT LEFT HIS MOTEL ROOM before daylight. In fact, a three-quarter moon shed a cold light over the sleeping town of Callanton. Since he got underway before the Green Willow opened, he had no choice but to forgo breakfast.
His first stop was the farm at the edge of town where he stabled Spirit. When Colt loaded the gelding into his trailer, he noticed that Spirit still favored his leg. Was that a sign he should let Mrs. Marsh rescue her eaglets alone? he wondered wryly.
Thing was, Colt felt honor bound once he’d given his word. And maybe the outing would do Spirit more good than standing in a corral.
Six or so miles out of Callanton, Colt dropped in behind a school bus he assumed was the one scheduled to pick up Rory Marsh. Colt was sure of it when the bus turned down a graveled stretch of road that led to the Forked Lightning.
The sun had barely peeked over Blue Mountain by the time the big yellow bus swung off on a shoulder and stopped beneath a wrought-iron arch bearing the image of a divided lightning bolt. The ranch brand was an exact replica.
Colt stopped the prescribed distance behind the bus, which sat with red lights flashing. The lights had no sooner come on than a pickup—the one Colt had seen Summer driving yesterday—roared up to the arch from the distant house. A sullen-looking Rory Marsh slid out of the passenger seat. Head down, he trudged toward the bus, kicking up dust with his boots.
Colt opened his pickup door and stepped out on his running board. “Hey, kid,” he called. “Have a good day at school.”
Rory lifted his head, face brightening. “Hi! Wow, you did come to rescue the baby eagles. Mom said you probably had better things to do.” Rory galloped around the front of the bus. The driver honked, and the noise started him, making him drop his lunch box.
Summer saw her son dash in front of the bus rather than ascend the steps. What was he doing? Surely not running away! Yet he might just try that following the set-to they’d had at breakfast.
Heart pounding, she yanked on her emergency brake and fought to open the stubborn door that tended to stick. It popped ajar in time for her to hear a man’s baritone voice cautioning her son to get on the bus. The blood drained from her head and left her feeling dizzy because she thought Frank had finally decided to visit his son. Then she saw Rory wave and meekly retreat. He’d never do that if it was his dad standing outside the fence.
“Go on,” the man was saying. “Board the bus.