Calder Pride (30 page)

That sounded suspiciously like the truth. Wheeling around, Cat marched back to his bedroom doorway. “Would you kindly tell me where you expect me to sleep?”

He came out carrying a pillow, a blanket, and a bedsheet. “The floor or the sofa, take your pick.” Unceremoniously he dumped them in her arms.

“What?” she said, her mouth agape.

“I recommend the sofa. The floor can be a bit hard.”

She stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious,” Logan responded coolly.

Cat sputtered for an indignant moment. “You should be the one sleeping on the sofa, not me.”

“Take another look at the sofa. It’s about six inches too short for me, but it’s about the right size for you.” His mouth quirked in a cold smile. “Consider it an example of equal opportunity in action.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “Don’t forget to lock up before you turn in.”

With that, he walked into the bedroom and shut the door. Cat stared at it, still wavering between fury and astonishment. Her first impulse was to charge in and throw the bedding at him. But that would put her in his bedroom, the last place she wanted to be.

Faced with no other satisfactory option, she strode into the living room and tossed the bedding on the sofa. In quick order, she closed the front door, locked the dead bolt, retrieved her overnight bag by the door, and disappeared into the bathroom, every movement sharp and brisk with controlled anger. Minutes later she came out, her temper still simmering, a robe of peacock blue satin hanging open over her matching nightgown, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She set the overnight bag next to the ancient and ugly platform rocker, laid her dress and undergarments across its seat, made up her bed on the sofa, then checked Quint one last time. Leaving the hall light on for him, she turned out the rest of the lights and shrugged out of her robe, draping it over an arm of the sofa before
crawling beneath the covers of her makeshift bed.

From Logan’s room came the telltale creak of bedsprings. Cat gave her pillow a vicious punch and rolled onto her side.

“Some wedding night,” she thought, and suddenly found herself fighting tears.

Logan’s mental alarm clock went off promptly at five o’clock, as always. Dawn’s pearl-gray light shone through the bedroom windows. Rolling over, he sat on the bed, stretching his shoulders in a flexing shrug in an attempt to throw off the heavy tension that continued to grip him. From childhood, he had been a light sleeper, able to come fully awake and alert in an instant. But last night had been a restless one, dogged by the knowledge that Cat—his wife—was in the living room. That thought brought back all of last night’s needs and frustrations.

He pushed off the bed, all taut energy again with no release available. Crossing to the chair, Logan snatched his suit pants up and stepped into them, pulling them on over his briefs. Barefoot, he padded into the bathroom, steadfastly refusing to glance toward the living room.

A shower wasn’t part of his routine first thing in the morning. That would come later, before he changed into his uniform and assumed his role as acting sheriff.

Back during the years he had lived in the city, he would have used these early morning hours to go for a ten-mile run, work out in the gym, or spend time on the shooting range. Now he spent the hours checking cattle, fixing fence, and making any needed repairs or improvements plus half a hundred other chores—seasonal or otherwise—that had to be done on the ranch.

But none of it before he had his morning coffee.

Fully dressed in boots, jeans, and a work shirt, Logan came out of the spare bedroom and headed for the kitchen. All his fine resolve not to look at Cat went up in smoke when he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. It stopped him, turned him, and held him motionless.

She was stretched on her side, her eyes closed in sleep, her black lashes lying thick and frill together, one hand clutching the blanket under her breasts. Sometime in the night she had kicked her legs free of the covers, and the satin nightgown she wore had ridden up, showing him the shapely length of her legs even as the clingy material outlined every curl and swell of her breasts.

She had a natural beauty that would arouse any man. Logan was no exception. Yet, looking at her, he found himself coming face-to-face with a cold, hard truth. He wanted more than her body. He could have her in the physical sense any time he wanted her; he had proved that to himself—-and to her—last night.

No, he wanted
her
. All of her. It shook him to realize just how much he wanted that.

Pivoting on his heel, Logan walked swiftly from the room. Once in the kitchen, he went through the motions of putting on coffee.

Something pressed on her arm. Cat shifted away from it and rolled onto her stomach, drawing up a knee and coming instantly against the back of the sofa. She groaned an irritated protest at the narrow confines of her bed.

The pressure came back, this time jiggling her shoulder with gentle insistence. “Mom,” Quint whispered. “Mom, I can’t find my socks.”

“Look in your bag,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“They aren’t there. Mom, I need my socks. I gotta go help the sheriff feed the horses.”

The mere mention of the man who was the reason she hadn’t been able to get a decent night’s sleep turned Cat stubborn. “Tell the sheriff to look.”

“He’s already at the barn. I saw him from the window. Mom, I’m gonna be late.”

An aching stiffness registered in a dozen different places as Cat levered up onto her elbows, so tired she wasn’t sure she could move. “I’ll get up.” Untangling herself from the twisted covers, she sat up and pushed the rumpled mass of her hair away from her face. “Where’s my robe?”

“Here.” Quint handed it to her.

Standing, she pulled it on and absently belted it, then followed Quint to his room on legs that felt wooden. The missing socks were quickly located, jammed deep inside a cowboy boot. His eyes positively beamed with gratitude when she pulled them out.

“You found them!” He promptly sat down on the floor to put them on, then hastily tugged on his boots. Scrambling to his feet, he managed a quick, “See ya, Mom.”

Then he pounded from the room at a run. By the time Cat made it to the hallway, the squeaky screen door banged shut behind him. She cast a longing glance at the sofa and knew she had to be really tired if it looked inviting. Vowing there and then that she had slept on it for the last time, she headed for the kitchen.

To her everlasting joy, she found the coffee already made. Judging by the absolute blackness of it, it had been brewed some time ago. Cat didn’t mind in the least. A concentrated dose of caffeine
might be just what she needed to get rid of this heavy, drugged feeling from too little sleep.

She drank the first cup standing at the sink and carried the second cup to the bathroom, stopping along the way to collect her overnight bag.

After an invigorating shower, Cat felt almost human again. She returned to the living room, folded up the blanket and bedsheet, stacked them in a pile with the pillow on top, and carried them to Logan’s bedroom. Resisting the urge to see if the unmade bed was as firm and Comfortable as it looked, she walked over to the straight-backed chair in the corner and dumped the bedding onto it.

As she turned away, the pillow slipped off the pile and knocked over the metal wastebasket beside the chair, spilling pink, yellow, and white flowers onto the room’s slate blue carpet.

Kneeling, Cat picked up a pink daisy, its head drooping in the first stages of wilt. A faint dampness clung to its short stem. Rising, she spotted a small crystal vase sitting atop the tall bureau. Droplets of water clung to the outside edges of its inner base.

She rescued the rest of the flowers, a mix of pink and white daisies and yellow rosebuds with sprigs of baby’s breath, put them in the vase, and carried it to the kitchen, filling it half-full of water. Only after she set the vase on the counter did Cat take the time to consider the significance of the dainty bouquet in Logan’s bedroom. Obviously, he had bought the flowers with her in mind—no doubt as ambiance in some grand seduction scene. No doubt a little more snooping would turn up candles—maybe even a bottle of champagne.

The creaking of the screen door was preceded by the muffled clump of footsteps across the porch. Not one, but two sets, Cat realized, a quicksilver tension sliding across her nerves.

“Mom?” Quint called in a questioning voice.

“I’m in the kitchen.” Instinctively she lifted a hand to her damp hair, making sure no strand had escaped from the smooth French braid before she poured herself another cup of coffee.

Quint trotted into the kitchen, bits of hay chaff dusting his hat and his clothes. “Got any juice? I’m thirsty.”

“I’ll see.” She set the cup on the table and crossed to the refrigerator. “Did you get the horses fed?”

“Uh-huh.” He dragged a chair over to the counter, then climbed onto it to get a glass out of the cupboard. “The sheriff’s got a baby colt. It’s all dark ’cept it’s got spots on its rump. He says it’s a ploosa.”

“An appaloosa.” Cat spied a carton of orange juice tucked behind a jug of milk.

“Yeah, an ap’loosa.” He dragged the chair back to the table, the glass rolling precariously on the seat. “The sheriff says maybe when it’s bigger I can ride it.”

“That’s nice.” Juice carton in hand, Cat pushed the refrigerator door shut, and threw a quick glance toward the living room. “Where’s the sheriff?”

“He went to take a shower.” Quint climbed onto the chair again and sat on his knees, holding the glass while Cat filled it. “He says he’ll have some juice and coffee after he cleans up.” He gulped down a big swallow, then wiped his mouth across the back of his hand. “What should we name it?”

“What?”

“The colt.” He looked at her with earnest gray eyes.

“That will take some thinking. A name is kinda permanent.” She pulled out the chair and sat down beside him.

He frowned over that. “Not real permanent, though, ’cause you changed your name when you married the sheriff. And mine’s gonna be Echohawk just like his.”

“That’s true.” She wasn’t comfortable with the turn this conversation was taking. “Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.” His expression turned hopeful. “Can you make some pancakes?”

“I don’t know if the sheriff has everything here to make them.”

“Can you see? I could eat a whole stack.”

Cat smiled. “It sounds like you really worked up an appetite this morning.”

Nodding, he added, “And I’ve been up a long time, too.”

“In that case,” she said with a relenting sigh, “I’d better see what we can do about making pancakes.”

Between the well-stocked cupboards and the refrigerator, Cat found all the necessary ingredients to make Quint’s pancakes. Less than ten minutes later, bacon sizzled in the skillet while Cat rubbed a thin coating of oil over a cast-iron griddle. She turned the burner on under it, then went to the sink and washed her hands. The running water masked the even tread of Logan’s footsteps. She was unaware he had entered the kitchen until she heard his voice.

“Hats off in the house, son.”

Her nerves jumped. Half turning, she saw him remove Quint’s hat and hook it on a corner of an adjacent chair. Logan still had the wet gleam from his recent shower, and he was dressed in his crisp tan uniform.

He glanced at her, his eyes cool, gray, and unfathomable. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” She turned off the faucets, shook the excess water from her hands and reached for the towel to dry them.

“Mom’s cookin’ pancakes and bacon,” Quint told him.

“So I see.”

“Do you want some?”

“She may not have fixed enough for me.” Logan walked to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, standing close enough to Cat that she caught the clean scent of soap and the woody tang of his aftershave.

“Didja, Mom?”

“There should be plenty for both of you.” Nerves threatened, and she conquered them by moving to the range top to check the bacon. “Why don’t you set a place at the table for him?”

“Okay.” He jumped off the chair and dashed over to the silverware drawer, then reached onto the counter instead and touched the crystal vase. “How come you’re keeping these dead flowers?”

The fork hovered a fraction of a second too long over the bacon slice before Cat moved it to the next. “They aren’t dead, just drooping a little. I put them in fresh water to revive them.”-

In control again, she glanced at Logan and saw his raised eyebrow. “They looked in need of rescuing.”

He said nothing to that and lifted the coffee cup to his mouth, watching her over the rim of it. “How did the sofa sleep?”

“It was definitely an experience.” Her smile was pure saccharine.

Amusement gleamed in that split second before he tipped the cup and took a sip of hot coffee. Silverware clattered together as Quint dug out a knife, fork, and spoon. He pushed the drawer shut, then turned a thoughtful frown on Logan.

“How come Mom slept on the sofa? I thought moms and dads slept in the same bed.”

“Not always,” Cat said quickly. “Sometimes there are reasons.”

“Like what?” Quint carried the silverware to the table.

She paused in the middle of pouring pancake batter on the hot griddle to throw her son a half-irritated glance. “Where are all these questions coming from? You never used to ask so many.”

“The sheriff says sometimes you gotta ask questions in order to get answers.”

“He said that, did he?” The batter bubbled around the edges of the first pancake as she poured the second.

“Yup.”

“In that case, you can field them from now on,” she told Logan with an acidly sweet look.

Amusement danced in his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You do much too fine a job of it.”

Not to be diverted, Quint asked again, “Like what, Mom?”

“Like snoring or reading in bed.” The bacon was ready to turn.

“Do you snore, Sheriff?”

Cat jumped in before Logan could answer, “Like a freight train.”

“What does that mean?” Quint frowned.