I’m bunked at the Arrowroot Inn, and I’m boarding Spirit at Tucker’s Stable. Hey, as you’re something of an authority on local ranches, fill me in on the place belonging to the woman who brought in the eagle.”
The old man stared hard at Coltrane. “Summer’s a damn fine woman who’s been handed a raw deal by her snook of a husband. Ex he is now, thank goodness. But Frank’s still making mischief. That’s all I’m gonna say about them. The one who’s been most affected is their son, Rory. He’s just a little shaver. Too young to understand any of it.”
“A son?” Colt said absently, watching Myron conduct a thorough examination of the bird’s shattered wing. None of his records indicated that Marsh had a kid. Nor had he heard a single word about it when he’d nosed around town this past week.
“Hold this clamp.” The vet shoved a gleaming instrument into Colt’s hand. “I’ve gotta clean buckshot out of the wound. God damn every last city hunter who can’t tell an eagle from a pheasant. I wish Summer had nailed their ignoramus hides so they’d be sitting out their vacation in our poky. This bird’s gonna need care for a long time while her wing mends. Oh, Summer’s got the facilities, but she doesn’t need one more problem on her plate.”
“Earlier you referred to her menagerie.”
“I did?”
Colt waited impatiently for embellishment as the veterinarian set the eagle’s delicate bones and splinted them together with thin strips of nonflexible plastic.
“You seem mighty interested in Summer,” Holder finally growled. “Suppose it’s natural, though. I’ve never seen a cowboy yet who couldn’t pick out the prettiest woman in three counties.”
Colt gave a rough snort. “You’ve read me all wrong. I’ve been duly shafted by a pretty woman before. If I was planning to take sides in the Marsh matter, I’d more than likely toss in my lot with her ex.”
“Then you’d be dead wrong. But then, didn’t you say you were staying at the Arrowroot Inn? Probably means you spend time at Mason White’s Bar and Grill. I hear Frank Marsh hangs out there, bragging about what a cattle baron he is. Did nobody stop to wonder how he has the time to sit in a bar when ranching’s a twenty-hour-a-day job?” He shook his head. “It’s a good thing you aren’t in any position to align with Frank and further hurt Summer. The Forked Lightning means the world to her.”
“Hmm.” Coltrane watched Holder cage the groggy bird. He withheld his final thoughts on the subject of Summer Marsh. If she truly cared about the Forked Lightning, then he was in a position to further hurt her.
SUMMER ARRIVED AT CIRCUIT COURT Judge Roy Atherton’s chambers, ten minutes late. She hesitated before entering the room, where she could hear several men speaking, their voices low and intense. Summer thought she’d weathered the worst that could happen to her this past spring, during the Harney County court proceedings. She’d survived a bitter, name-calling divorce from Frank Marsh, her husband of eight years. Now, according to the most recent paper she’d been served, Frank was demanding she sell her beloved ranch, which had been home to four generations of Callans. Summer had always supposed that, if nothing else, she and Frank were agreed on one thing: passing the ranch to their son, Rory.
The hand she extended to open Judge Atherton’s door shook. That kind of fear was unlike her. Heavens, she wrangled beef for a living! And often supervised up to eight cowboys at any given time, all while managing a home and raising a child. She’d nursed her father, Bart Callan, through ten years of a hellish disease that had wasted his body long before taking his life. If she could do all that, she could certainly do this.
Lifting her chin, she staved off any perceptible tremor before striding into the room. All anyone there could do was hit her with words. They couldn’t touch her heart unless she let them, and she had a solid padlock on that.
“Mrs. Marsh, I presume?” snapped a hawk-nosed man seated at the head of the table. “Your lawyer, Mr. Crosley, should have informed you that it’s bad policy to be late. I’m Judge Atherton. I believe you know everyone else present at this informal hearing. The purpose today is to divide the physical property owned jointly by you and Mr. Marsh. Take a seat next to Mr. Crosley, please, and let’s begin.”
Larkin Crosley lifted his bulk from his chair with some effort. With a palsied hand, he pulled out another on his right. Summer sighed, wishing she could have afforded better counsel. Larkin had been her grandfather’s attorney, and her father’s, as well. She suspected that, at eighty-seven, he was past his prime. She knew he was hard of hearing.
She’d barely claimed her seat when the judge spoke again. “I assume you’re all aware that Oregon is an equitable distribution state. In case you aren’t, that means all tangible and intangible property owned by either or both spouses is subject to division by the court. This includes any gifts and inheritances, as well as property acquired prior to and during the marriage.”
Summer’s heart skidded toward her stomach, where it lodged. Larkin had explained the community property law. But falling from Judge Atherton’s impassive lips, the edict sounded far more ominous. Final. The Forked Lightning needed every acre, plus all the government grazing land Summer currently leased, to support a herd of the size she had to run to make a profit.
Add Atherton’s cold decree to Frank’s smirk, and Summer felt her hands turn to ice. But she’d promised herself she wouldn’t lash out under any circumstances. Frank had hurt and humiliated her and that was all she intended to allow.
His lawyer, Perry Blake, was senior partner of a prestigious law firm in Burns, the largest city near Callanton. Theirs was a rural community named for Ben Callan, Summer’s own great-grandfather.
Perry popped the lid on his expensive leather briefcase and removed stapled copies of a typed report attached to a map. He passed one to the judge and another to Larkin. “The holdings in question are outlined in red, Your Honor. It amounts to roughly ten thousand acres. Most is undeveloped. There’s a past-its-prime farmhouse, a few cottages, three outbuildings and a barn set on a fenced ten-acre pasture. My client wishes the entire properties to be sold to the highest bidder, so that his half of the settlement is all in cash. We accept that the court will then divide the proceeds equally between my client and the former Mrs. Marsh.”
The knot in Summer’s midsection grew tighter as she broke her promise to herself. “That house you’re calling ‘past its prime’ was built by my great-grandfather, Ben Callan, when Oregon was still a territory. My great-grandmother stood off marauding Nez Perce and Umatilla Indians for three days while she was eight months pregnant with Ben Junior. My dad, Bart, was born in that house, as was I and also my son. Rory deserves the right to raise his sons there, Frank. You know it’s what my dad intended.”
“For God’s sake, Summer. If you invest your portion of the money from the sale, Rory can live in a frigging castle if he wants.”
Judge Atherton rapped his knuckles on the table. “I think it’s safe to say that if you two agreed as to the dissolution of this property, we wouldn’t be here today.” He gazed over his half glasses. “Mrs. Marsh, since the property in question obviously has greater significance for you than for Mr. Marsh, the simplest way to resolve this situation is for you to buy out his interest.”
Frank and his lawyer exchanged a look Summer couldn’t read until Perry Blake rushed to say, “Your Honor, my client has a buyer willing to write a check tomorrow for 7.6 million dollars. But if the former Mrs. Marsh can give her ex-husband half that amount today, then your solution works for us.”
Stunned
