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“In my opinion, it tastes better, and the Queen agrees with me. But more than that, it is a naturally lean beef with lower amounts of cholesterol. In short, it is the ideal product for consumers who love beef but have to watch their cholesterol intake for health reasons.”
“Is that true?” Cat frowned and glanced at Jessy. “Is he pulling my leg?”
“Delightful as that exercise might be, I assure you that everything I said is absolutely true.” His mouth curved in a smile of understanding. “But please don’t take my word for it. Read up on the breed yourself.”
“Don’t Highland cattle have long horns?” Cat’s frown deepened in an effort to recall more about the breed.
“Yes, but nothing as impressive as those.” Monte gestured to the set mounted above the fireplace mantel.
Impressive they were. Taken from a longhorn steer named Captain, the horns were long and twisted, the span of them measuring more than five feet across. The brindle steer had led the first herd of Calder cattle north from Texas to Montana and each subsequent drive thereafter. When the longhorn had died of old age, Benteen Calder had kept his horns and mounted them above the mantel in the steer’s honor, making him forever a part of the family lore.
“Few modern-day longhorns grow sets like that pair of old mossy horns,” Jessy remarked.
In the living room, Cat’s nine-year-old son, Quint, let out a shout, and the big house echoed with the rapid thud of feet running across the hardwood floor. Quint dashed by the doorway toward the foyer. Trey raced after him, skinny arms pumping, his expression grim with determination to catch up with his older cousin.
“Hey, Dad!” Quint’s happy greeting reached all the way back to the den.
“Logan must be here,” Cat realized, throwing a glance at the rain-lashed windows. “I didn’t hear him drive in.”
“With all the lightning and thunder, that’s hardly surprising,” Jessy said.
Quint’s voice came from the foyer. “It must be really raining hard out there. The rug’s all wet where you’re standing.”
“Howdy, Sheriff.” The smaller voice belonged to Trey, who insisted on calling Logan by his official title rather than uncle. “Did ya catch any bad guys today?”
“ ’Fraid not,” was Logan’s low reply.
“Maybe tomorrow ya will,” Trey suggested, optimistic as always.
“Maybe,” Logan agreed, then asked Quint, “Where’s your mom?”
“In the den with Aunt Jessy and Mr. Markham.”
Three sets of footsteps of varying weight approached the den. Flanked by two boys, one the spitting image of himself, Logan walked into the room, minus his hat and raincoat, with his face still wet from the rain.
Seeing him, Laura grabbed up her coloring book and bounded off the chair. She ran up to him. “See the red dress I colored, Uncle Logan.”
Gray eyes skimmed the three adults standing near the fireplace before he bent his head to look at the picture. “Good job, Laura.” The comment had a perfunctory ring. Turning, he laid a hand on Quint’s shoulder. “Take the twins in the other room, Quint, and keep them occupied for a while.”
Alerted by something in his father’s tone, Quint tipped his head back and inspected his father’s face. When Quint was barely out of the toddler stage, the Triple C cowboys had dubbed him “little man” for his quietness and adultlike seriousness. His basic nature had changed little during the intervening years. As a result, Quint was quick to pick up subtleties that most nine-year-olds would have missed. His father’s somber expression made him uneasy.
“Is something wrong, Dad?”
Logan replied with a slow nod. “I’ll tell you about it later. Take the twins to the living room for me.”
Quint knew something bad had happened. As much as he wanted to stay and find out, he understood that he had been given the responsibility of the twins, and he had been taught that a man shouldered his responsibility; he didn’t protest or try to wiggle out of it.
Without another word, Quint herded the twins out of the den and into the hall. A short distance from the doorway, curiosity got the better of him. He steered the twins over to the wall and raised a finger to his mouth to shush them. Trey was quick to obey, certain it was the start of some new game. Laura twirled about, making the skirt of her sundress flare out.
“Are we gonna sneak up on somebody?” Trey asked in a stage whisper, causing Quint to miss the question his mother asked.
“Sssh,” he admonished and cocked his head to listen, grateful that his father hadn’t closed the doors to the den.
The low timbre of his father’s voice responded in answer. “About an hour ago, I received a phone call from the Fort Worth police. The news isn’t good.”
“Daddy.” There was fear in his mother’s voice. “Something happened to him.”
“There was an accident . . .”
