by Janet Dailey
“If you think he won’t put two and two together and come up with us, you’re wrong,” Rollie told him.
Lath was unconvinced. “Not if we lay low for a while and play it cool. He may think about us, but not seriously, and not for long.”
Time passed much more swiftly than Cat thought it would. Her first days at the Circle Six were spent unpacking everything and arranging it to suit her. It was a process made longer by the time she took out to spend with Quint. Although he had always been content to entertain himself from the time he was small, Cat was concerned that he might have trouble adjusting to his new environment, a concern that proved to be groundless. If anything, he seemed happier. Which should have been a relief, but it bothered Cat that he was so quick to embrace this new life, so eager to explore every inch of it and so ready to make Logan a part of it.
“Graciously civilized” was the best way to describe her relationship with Logan after two weeks. There had been times when she was relaxed in his company, but on those occasions, someone else was invariably present, either Quint, her uncle, or some other member of her family. On the whole, Cat made it a point not to be alone with Logan. Which wasn’t difficult, considering that he was away the biggest part of the day. In the evenings, after she tucked Quint into bed, she usually went to her room and read for a while or occupied herself with some household task.
The role as woman of the house was a new experience for her. At The Homestead, the responsibility had always belonged to someone else—her mother when she was alive, then Ty’s first wife, Tara, and now Jessy. But here, she was in charge. With the additional work came an amazing sense of freedom. Suddenly Cat could do things the way she wanted them done, not someone else. Sometimes it was something as simple as folding the towels lengthwise first, then in half, or as major as rearranging everything in the kitchen cupboards. Without being aware of it, Cat subtly put her personal stamp throughout the house.
With Quint’s help, she planted a flower border along the length of the front porch. Nearly every day, they would saddle up their horses and go for a ride. At first, it was a chance to spend time with Quint and familiarize herself with this rough, broken country that was so different from the wide, rolling grasslands of the Triple C. But as Quint’s fascination with the wild landscape and his desire to explore it grew, so did hers. Out of habit, Cat would check on the condition of the range, the cattle, or the fences and pass the information on to Logan that evening.
And there was the young Appaloosa colt. Every time she turned around, Cat found Quint down at the corral trying to coax the flighty youngster to come to him. Out of concern for Quint, she began gentling the colt, teaching it to lead and getting it used to being handled, in short, making it safer for Quint to be around. Since she had always enjoyed working with young horses, the task was a pleasure of its own.
“What do you think of Raindance, Mom?” Quint climbed onto the kitchen counter and balanced on his knees to lift the plates out of the cupboard.
“Raindance?” Cat lifted the lid on the sauce pot. Steam, scented with basil and oregano, rose in an aromatic cloud as she stirred the simmering tomato and meatball mixture.
“Yeah, for the colt. We can’t keep calling him Easy Boy Easy.” Balancing the plates, he climbed back onto the chair and jumped to the floor.
“Raindance sounds good. Where did you come up with that?”
“Well…I wanted an Indian name for him ’cause he’s an Indian horse. And it looks like he’s got raindrops on his rump.” Quint walked around the table, setting a plate in front of each chair. “It’s okay to say rump, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Cat retrieved a head of lettuce from the refrigerator and took it to the sink to wash.
“The sheriff said butt isn’t a nice word.” Quint went to the silverware drawer.
“The sheriff’s right. There are definitely better words.”
The crunch of tires on gravel and the low rumble of a car engine filtered into the house. Quint snapped his head toward Cat and listened with eyes wide and mouth open, a look of excitement dawning.
“That’s the sheriff!” He gave the drawer a shove and stampeded toward the door, all coltish energy. “I gotta go tell him we fed the horses.”
A quicksilver tension raced through Cat, all her senses going on high alert as she rinsed the lettuce one last time and turned off the faucet. Leaving it to drain in the colander, she went to the cupboard and took down a salad bowl.
A mix of footsteps, one set slow and even and the other quick and light, thudded across the porch. The squeaking of the screen door signaled their entrance into the house. A tremble skidded up her spine when she heard the low, rich timbre of Logan’s voice.
Cat chalked it up to nerves and this awkward marriage that had them living together for Quint’s benefit. She consoled herself with the knowledge that it would be twice as unnatural if she weren’t aware of Logan as a man, a virilely attractive man. If there were times when she longed to be held and touched, such urges were perfectly natural, too. Probably even healthy. But that didn’t mean she wanted to give in to them.
Except for that first night, their wedding night, Logan hadn’t shown any interest in her as anything other than Quint’s mother. Even that night when he had shown her the various ways she could escape an attacker’s hold, his attitude and touch had been purely instructional. Which was precisely the way she wanted it, Cat reminded herself and ignored the funny ache inside.
Footsteps approached the kitchen, and she busied herself patting dry the head of lettuce, her pulse rushing a little as it always did when Logan was around.
“Something smells good.” Logan walked to the stove, lifted the lid on the sauce pot and inhaled the fragrant steam. “Spaghetti and meatballs. Looks like we’re going Italian tonight.”
“Yeah, Mom makes the best spaghetti. It’s even better than SpaghettiOs, ’cept she doesn’t make the Os,” Quint added.
“That’s a shame.” A smile was in Logan’s voice.
“She can’t find the Os at the store,” Quint explained. “She’s looked and looked. Haven’t you, Mom?”
“That’s right,” Cat agreed, too aware of Logan moving to the counter area where she was working.
He opened a cupboard door and took out a cup, slanting her a sideways look. “Quint tells me you fed the horses already. I don’t expect you to take care of the house, look after him, and do ranch chores as well. I hope you know that.”
Uncomfortable and half-irritated that he should be so thoughtful and considerate, Cat dug her fingers into the head of lettuce and tore out a chunk. “I had been working with the colt. Since I was already at the barn, it seemed logical to go ahead and feed the horses. It didn’t require that much effort.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, thanks for doing it.” The warmth in his voice was genuine, and much too unsettling.
“No problem.” She was cool to the point of being brusque. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his mouth tighten.
“I thought of a name for the colt,” Quint put in. “It’s a good one, too.”
“Let me guess,” Logan said. “You’re going to call him Lollapaloosa.”
Logan’s suggestion was so unexpected and whimsical that Cat couldn’t keep a laugh from bubbling out. She struggled to smother it, even though this wasn’t the first time Logan’s sense of humor had taken her by surprise.
Just for a moment, amusement danced in both their eyes. The guarded look was gone from her expression. She was open to him, warm and vibrant and beautiful. Desire crawled through Logan with an enveloping heat. Then Quint spoke up, reclaiming his attention.
“Lollap’loosa,” he stumbled over the name, a deep frown knitting his forehead. “What’s that mean?”
“It means the colt is unique, the best there is,” Logan explained.
“Is it an Indian name?”
“I’m afraid not.” Logan carried his cup over to the table.
“The colt needs an Indian name,” Quint said with a decisive nod, th
en proceeded to tell him the one he liked and explained at length how he had come up with it, finishing with, “What do you think? Do you like Raindance, too?”
“I think it fits him perfectly,” Logan agreed. “He certainly does a lot of dancing around when you put a halter on him.”
“Not anymore. Mom’s got him leading real good. But he used to, didn’t he?” Quint said, pleased to find another reason for choosing the name.
“He sure did.” Logan drank the last of the coffee in his cup and took it back to the counter, glancing at Cat. “Do I have time to change before dinner’s ready?”
“Easily,” she answered without looking at him. “I won’t be cooking the spaghetti until Uncle Culley gets here.”
“I’m gonna put on a clean shirt,” Quint announced. “Mine’s dirty.”
Cat started to suggest that he finish setting the table first, but the words died on her tongue when she saw Quint trailing Logan, doing his best to copy Logan’s long, unhurried stride. The image of father and son couldn’t have been stronger. For some reason it cut deep.
She stood for a long minute, listening to Quint’s steady run of chatter fade to the other end of the house, then shook aside the vague melancholy and finished setting the table before putting the water on to boil in anticipation of her uncle’s arrival.
Conversation lagged at the supper table that evening. Cat had quickly exhausted her supply of mundane topics and wondered if she was the only one who felt the strain of this silence. She glanced at Quint, noting the way he idly toyed with his chopped-up bits of spaghetti.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Quint.” A few weeks ago Cat wouldn’t have found that at all unusual. Since moving here, he had become much more talkative. It was something that had happened so gradually that Cat was only now realizing it—and how much she had come to rely on him to keep the table conversation going.
“I been thinking.” He wore his serious face.
“About what?” Logan glanced at him, amused and curious.
“Well…” Quint laid his fork down and gazed intently at Logan, “I was just thinking that I’m really glad you found us, Dad.”
It was the first time Quint had ever called him that. Cat didn’t know if she was more shocked by that or the breathtaking look of love that shone in Logan’s eyes.
“I’m glad I did, too, Quint,” he replied with husky sincerity.
A beautiful, beaming smile lit Quint’s whole face. Cat stared at it for a numbed instant, then pushed to her feet, turning from the table. “I forgot to put fresh coffee on.” Her voice shook almost as much as her hands.
Her appetite was gone. She could hardly wait for the meal to be over. But her attempt to shoo everyone from the kitchen failed when Culley insisted on helping with the dishes. In the end, Cat didn’t have the energy to argue and consoled herself with the knowledge that Culley wouldn’t expect much in the way of conversation.
Working in a companionable silence, she dipped the first dinner plate in the rinse water and set it on the drainboard rack, then immersed her hand in the soapy dishwater to wash the next one. Culley picked up the plate and began wiping it dry.
“It’s natural for a kid to love his father, Cat.”
Instinctively tensing, she managed a relatively even, “I know that.”
“You looked like your heart had got torn out of your chest.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She felt her skin heat.
“You thought it was safe to love the kid, didn’t you?” He set the dried plate on a clean section of the counter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cat rubbed vigorously at the already clean plate.
“I got a feeling you’ve been playing it safe just about ever since your mother was killed. I can’t say that as a fact, ’cause I was pretty tore up myself back then.”
Determined to change the subject, she said, “Remind me to tell Logan that Dad called today. He wants us to come over for dinner on Sunday.”
“Now that I think about it,” Culley took the plate from her before Cat could place it in the rack, “I was kinda like you after Maggie died. I figured as long as I didn’t let myself care too deep about anybody, I wouldn’t be hurt that bad again. Then you started coming around, reaching out and needing someone because you didn’t have anyone to turn to, not with Calder laying in the hospital and your brother suddenly finding himself holding the reins to the ranch. You looked so much like Maggie that it hurt sometimes, but it helped, too. And I knew she’d want me to look out for you. So I reached back. You were family. I guess you’re more like me than Maggie.”
Cat shook her head at his rambling discourse. “You aren’t making any sense, Uncle Culley.”
He frowned. “I guess I’m not saying it plain.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She threw him a quick smile, her tension showing.
“Things aren’t working out between you and Logan, are they?”
“Everything’s fine.”
Culley grunted his doubt. “I could tell you liked kissing him that time. I thought he was safe enough for you.”
The plate slipped from her fingers and splashed into the rinse water. “When did you see me kissing him?”
“That night at The Homestead after those cattle were found dead.”
That seemed like a lifetime ago. “You shouldn’t be spying on people, Uncle Culley.” Cat rescued the plate and jammed it in the rack.
He responded with a small, negligent movement of his shoulders. “I guess I thought Logan was like the Taylor boy.”
“How can you say that? I loved Repp.” In quick order, she washed the last two plates and started on the silverware.
“You sure were sweet on him,” Culley agreed, then paused in his wiping and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. “I don’t know, I guess I’m comparing you to Maggie again. When she cared for somebody she did it with her whole heart. There was no holding back with her, even when she knew she’d get hurt. Calder hurt her more than once.”
He eyed her astutely. “You weren’t that way with Repp, or you never would have let him keep putting you off when you wanted to get married. And you gotta admit he wasn’t all that eager about it, either. It kinda makes you think that he might have been awed by the idea of marrying a Calder—maybe even worried that you’d find out he couldn’t measure up.”
Why had Repp dragged his feet about marrying her? And why had she been so quick to believe that he was trying to do what was noble and honorable? Had she argued that strongly against waiting? Or had she simply gone through the motions of objecting?
Cat couldn’t remember. The memories were all too fuzzy now, blurred vignettes of horseback rides, slow dancing, and passionate kisses. But she couldn’t recall the intensity of the hunger or the heat, not with the sharp, disturbing clarity that etched every detail of the night she spent with Logan.
Which meant absolutely nothing.
“I loved Repp,” Cat repeated with force.
Culley nodded in a show of approval. “You hang on to that. It’s a kind of protection that’ll keep you from letting yourself care about anyone else.”
“I don’t do that.” But the denial came too late. Doubt had already set in.
TWENTY-THREE
Always a light sleeper, Logan couldn’t have said what initially woke him. Eyes open, he remained on his side, fully alert and listening.
There was a whisper of movement in the hallway, the faintest rustle of cotton brushing cotton. His bedroom door was open a crack, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway. A small shadow blocked the lower part of it. Then the door inched open a little more. Quint slipped through and stood, staring at the bed.
Logan made a show of waking up and levered himself onto an elbow. “Quint. Having trouble sleeping?”
“You don’t snore.” He walked to the bed. “I been listening.”
“You have?” Logan hid a smile.
“Uh-huh. Do you think I should tell Mom?”
> “I don’t think so.” He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Its green numbers read 1:16. “It’s after one in the morning. I’m sure she’s sleeping, which is what you should be doing.”
“I know.” Quint nodded and heaved a big sigh.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Kinda.”
Smiling, Logan pulled the covers aside. “Why don’t you hop in bed with me for a while. Then when you get really tired, I’ll take you back to your own bed.”
“Okay.” He climbed into bed and stretched out facing Logan, a hand propping his head up. “You aren’t wearing pajamas. Don’t you have any?”
“No.”
“You should tell Mom. She’ll get you some.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“What happened to your shoulder?” Small fingers touched the reddened area of newly healed flesh.
“A scar.”
“How’d you get it?”
Logan hesitated, trying to decide how much to tell him. “I got shot,” he said, reasoning that Quint had seen him in uniform nearly every day and had already asked some questions about the gun Logan carried.
His eyes got big. “By a bad guy?”
“Yup.”
“Did you catch him?”
“We sure did.”
“Does it hurt a lot to get shot?”
“It hurt an awful, awful lot,” Logan stressed.
“Did you have to go to the hospital?”
“Yup, and the doctors had to operate to get the bullet out.”
“Were you there a real long time like my grandpa was when he got hurt?”
“I was there a long time, but probably not as long as your grandpa.”
“Do you think I could be a sheriff when I grow up?”
“I think you can be anything you want to be—a sheriff, an astronaut, or a cowboy in a rodeo.”
Of all the things Logan had imagined doing with a son, this middle-of-the-night conversation wasn’t one of them. Yet lying there, talking with his son, and listening to him prattle on a dozen different subjects, this was easily one of the most enjoyable things he had ever done. He was sorry when he saw Quint’s eyes growing heavy. He waited, watching as Quint nodded off. Only then did Logan gather him up and carry Quint to his own room.