Calder Pride (Calder Saga 5)

Logan drew his head back in surprise, his gaze instantly narrowing on the boy. “What do you mean?” The thoughtless question was out before Logan considered the wound it could inflict. He cursed himself for not remembering sooner his own fatherless childhood, even as the ramifications of Quint’s statement began registering.

“I don’t have a dad,” Quint repeated with a downward tip of his head, his slender shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know why. I guess I never ever had one.”

If Quint wasn’t the son of Ty and Jessy Calder, then—“Your mother’s name is Cat, isn’t it?” Logan took a step toward the boy, something hard and savage twisting through him at the thought of Cat lying in the arms of another man. He recognized it as jealousy, which made it all the more galling.

Quint shot him a quick, hesitant look and nodded that she was.

Something in the tilt of his head, his quietly serious expression had Logan taking a closer look at him. His straw cowboy hat sat on the back of his head, showing Logan the shock of black hair beneath it.

The slanting sunlight was full on his face, exposing the thinness of it and the outline of strong bones beneath boyish-soft skin. But it was the pewter gray color of the boy’s eyes that had another thought streaking through Logan.

“How old are you, Quint?” He had to work to sound casual and keep the demand out of his voice.

“Five.” He held up his left hand, spreading his fingers and thumb wide.

“When’s your birthday?”

“I just had one last week.”

And it would be six years ago in August that he had been with Cat. Mathematically, it worked. It was a real possibility that this was his son. The thought dazzled and stunned him.

Logan refused to let the idea take root, not until he could either confirm or disprove it. He knew of only two ways to do that. One would be infinitely quicker.

“Five is a good age to be, Quint,” he said and moved toward the restaurant door.

When he opened it, Quint hopped off the swing and hurried after him, slipping inside before the door closed. Logan paused to take off his hat, his glance cruising the room. Quint ran to the table. “The sheriff’s here.”

Cat didn’t need to be told that. She had seen Logan the instant he entered the restaurant. His gaze locked on her and never wavered as he came toward their table. She felt the quick, uneven thudding of her heart and the sudden shallowing of her breathing, his presence again causing a definite disturbance.

His expression was unreadable when he stopped by her chair. “I would like to have a word with you in private, Cat.”

He knew. The suspicion briefly rattled her, but she covered it from long practice, her lips curving in a show of amusement. “That’s a bit difficult here, don’t you think?”

“What’s this about, Echohawk?” Chase eyed him with a sharp frown.

Logan gave no sign that he’d heard him. “Would it be all right to use your office, Sally?” he asked without looking at the gray-haired woman seated at the table.

“Of course,” she murmured with obvious hesitancy.

He nodded his thanks, then lifted a hand, palm up, in the direction of the rear office. “After you.”

Rising, Cat turned and stepped ahead of him, wisdom convincing her this was a discussion better held in private. In one step, he was beside her, and she felt the intimate pressure of his guiding hand low on her back, directing her toward the hallway. The touch of it was much too familiar and warm, a sensation she didn’t want right now, when she needed all her wits about her.

But he didn’t take his hand away until they reached the door marked PRIVATE. He turned the knob and gave it a push inward, again letting Cat precede him. Walking over to the desk, she resisted the urge to twist her fingers together and kept them at her side in a pose of calmness.

When he pushed the door shut, the dimensions of the room seemed to shrink. Cat fought off the feeling of claustrophobia and made a slow turn to face him, her glance traveling up his wide, flat chest to the unexpected gunmetal gray of his eyes. Tension licked along her nerve ends.

“What is it you wanted to discuss?” she asked, conscious of the mad drumming of her heart and confident none of this inner agitation showed in her expression.

“I just realized a few minutes ago that Quint is your son.” He watched her face. “Who is his father, Cat?”

She managed a laugh, albeit a shaky one. “Is this part of your investigation into the slaughter of our cattle?”

“It has nothing to do with it, and you know it.” There was something lazy and dangerous in the way he looked at her.

Trapped, she searched for a way out. “Does it matter? Does it really matter to you, Logan?” The edginess of desperation crept into her voice.

“It matters.”