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 beef, please?”
Colt unrolled his napkin and watched. He, too, had his doubts about her handling a ranch the size of the Forked Lightning.
Megan dipped her head in deference to her customer, then dashed away. It was Helen who returned with Summer’s horseradish. “How is everything?” she asked, anxiously surveying the trio.
Rory had tucked into his chicken. He paused, letting his mom answer as he took a swig of milk. Colt smiled and continued to cut the meat steaming on his plate.
Summer looked around the table. “Everything appears fine, Helen. Rory and I will be leaving as soon as we finish eating. Could you prepare our check, please?”
“Sure you two won’t save room for Elvin’s deep-dish apple pie? Apples came in fresh today from Hood River.”
“Audrey bought some. I only went into the house briefly this afternoon, but I know the whole place smelled of apples and cinnamon.”
“Well then, enjoy your meals. I’ll leave your check at the register, Summer.”
“You have someone at home who makes you pies?” Colt asked when curiosity got the better of him after several awkward minutes of silence.
“Um, yes. Audrey Olsen. She and her husband, Virgil, came to work on the ranch when my grandfather was alive. Audrey cooked for the main house as well as for the wranglers. She also ran the chuckwagon during roundups. Still would if I’d allow it, despite the fact that she’s getting on in years. Virgil keeps our equipment running. Technically, they’re both past the age to retire, but the Forked Lightning is the only home they’ve known for forty years. When Dad died, I set aside retirement funds for them. I just discovered my husband had them canceled.” Glancing up with a guilty frown, as if she’d revealed more than intended, Summer exhibited a sudden interest in the food on her plate.
For a moment, Colt thought she might cry. She merely blinked several times and scraped the left side of her hair behind her ear. It was something he already noticed she did—a sort of nervous gesture. An emotion akin to empathy wound tight as a watch spring in his stomach. He knew without Summer’s saying it that the faithful old couple would be out of a home when she lost the ranch.
And losing it was inevitable.
Hell, why was he feeling sorry for her? She’d walk away with a chunk of cash large enough to establish another annuity for the Olsens. It probably wasn’t fair that she’d have to fund it alone, but given what he’d learned of Frank Marsh, it was a cinch she wouldn’t get a cent from him.
Colt continued to stare at Summer across the table as one emotion after another dulled the burnished gold of her eyes. He lacked words to lessen her pain, but somehow wished he could offer something to bring back their light.
She shoved her nearly full plate aside and inquired softly as to whether Rory was ready to go. At the same time, Colt stumbled upon the only thing he could think of to offer. “If you need a hand rescuing those stranded eaglets, I’d be glad to drive out in the morning and help.”
“What?” Summer’s head spun around until her frown connected with his hesitant smile.
He shrugged. “You mentioned that Virgil shouldn’t climb cliffs. And you sounded as if it’d be taking your wranglers away from important work. I’m free tomorrow, and I’m a fair mountain climber, if I do say so myself. I haven’t done much lately. But a rescue like that isn’t something you should tackle alone.”
“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