Calder Pride (Calder Saga 5)

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.”