“What city?” Quint wanted to know.
“Washington, Saint Louis, but mostly New Orleans.”
The tap-tapping of her heels across the porch’s wooden floor masked the click of the lock’s release. Logan gave the front door a push, swinging it open, then picked up the bag at his feet and took a step forward.
“You aren’t going in there, are you, Sheriff?” Quint blurted, then threw a half-worried and half-uncertain look at Cat. Instantly she knew what he was thinking, and a heat started deep in the pit of her stomach and grew from there, along with a mad fluttering of her pulse.
Halted by the question, Logan frowned. “It’s our home. Why wouldn’t I?”
“But I thought—aren’t you supposed—”
“It’s all right, Quint,” Cat rushed as understanding dawned in Logan’s eyes.
Amused, he ran his gaze over her face, studying the tiny signs of discomfort she showed. “That’s right. A groom is supposed to carry the bride over the threshold, isn’t he? It’s a good thing you reminded me, Quint, or I would have forgotten.”
“It isn’t necessary.” It was a useless protest, but Cat had to make it.
“Quint thinks it is, and so do I.” Turning, he set the bag inside the door, then pushed the creaking screen door wider, saying to Quint, “Care to hold the door for us?”
“Sure.” He hurried to it, his bag thumping against his leg and the porch floor.
When Logan moved toward her, Cat wanted to back away, but she held her ground. With Quint looking on, she wasn’t about to cause a scene. Something told her Logan knew that.
He paused beside her, his body momentarily blocking her from Quint’s view. “This won’t be the first time I’ve carried you, you know,” he murmured for her ears alone.
That was the problem. She remembered too well the sensation of being cradled in his strong arms, that sense of being protected, cared for, and, most of all, safe.
His arm slid behind her back. In the next second, he was effortlessly scooping her up, catching skirt and all. Reflex had her hands reaching up to circle the muscled column of his neck, her fingers brushing the clipped ends of his hair. His head was tipped toward her. For an instant her eyes collided with the molten gray of his. She looked hurriedly away and held herself stiffly, silently denying that she enjoyed any part of this.
It took only seconds for him to maneuver her through the doorway. But they were excruciatingly long seconds for Cat. The instant he put her down, she took a quick step away from him, needing to break the contact and knit together her tattered composure.
His glance flicked coolly over her before he turned and went back onto the porch. “Come here, sport,” he said to Quint. “I’ll carry you over, too.” He swung Quint up, bag and all, and carried him into the house. “There.” He set him down, crouching beside him, a hand cupped around Quint’s neck in a man’s caress. “That’s the way it should be done.”
Quint’s big smile and the absolute joy in his eyes mingled with a look of wonder when he gazed at Logan. There was little doubt that including Quint in the threshold ceremony had been the right thing to do. It was the second time Logan had made a special point to include Quint. Cat was touched by it, however reluctantly.
TWENTY
I haven’t gotten around to doing any painting or fixing up inside,” Logan said when Cat turned to look at her new surroundings. “I thought it would be something I could do this winter.”
She took a few steps into the sparsely furnished living room, her glance skimming the cream-colored walls, bare of adornment. A fireplace stood in the center of the end wall, its carved mantelpiece and wooden front stained in walnut.
At an angle to the fireplace sat a big easy chair upholstered in a rich green and gold tweed. Finding it much too easy to picture Logan sitting in it, his long legs propped on the matching ottoman, Cat swung her glance to the long sofa, covered in a coordinating dark gold fabric.
“Look, Mom.” Quint dragged his overnight bag over to an old platform rocker, the only other large piece of furniture in the room. “The sheriff has a fireplace. We can roast marshmallows in it just like at home.”
“We sure can,” Cat was determined that Quint would continue to regard the Triple C as his real home.
He turned earnest eyes on Logan. “I like ’em best when they’re brown on the outside and all warm and gooey on the inside. I don’t like ’em when they get burnt. Do you?”
“I don’t know,” Logan replied. “I’ve never roasted marshmallows.”
“You haven’t?” Quint couldn’t have been more astonished.
“Nope.” His gray eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sounds like I have a treat in store for me.”
“We can fix you some, can’t we, Mom? Mom knows how to do it real good.”
“I’ll bet she does,” he agreed, his glance running soberly to her. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”