He answered by saying, “Ruth would want her boy beside her.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Jessy ended any further discussion of that issue.
Chase made sure of it by changing the subject. “Have you talked to your mom about the toy drive for the Marines?”
“Talked to her?” Jessy echoed his question on a laughing note. “I went over there to tell her about it and, almost before I had the words out of my mouth, she was on the phone calling other ranch wives. By now, she’s probably finalizing a list of toys to get and organizing a shopping trip.”
“Speaking of Christmas,” Cat began and split her glance between Jessy and Trey, “if you can spare a couple of the hands on Monday, I want to haul the decorations out of the attic and get started hanging the outside ones.”
“No problem,” Trey assured her.
“Unless it snows,” Laredo inserted. “It’s in the forecast for this weekend.”
“As long as it isn’t coming down on Monday, it won’t be a problem,” Cat told him. “In fact, it will add to the holiday atmosphere.”
“That reminds me,” Chase said. “Set an extra place for lunch on Monday. The son of an old friend will be dropping by.”
The phrase struck a familiar chord, sparking her immediate interest. “That son wouldn’t be Wade Rogers, would it?”
Chase gave her a questioning look. “How did you know his name?”
“I answered the phone when he called and asked for you,” Cat reminded him, struggling to sound matter-of-fact and conscious that she felt on the verge of blushing.
“Just the same, I’m surprised you remembered.”
That voice wasn’t one she was likely to forget, but Cat kept that bit of information to herself and asked instead, “Will he be staying long?”
“I doubt it. More than likely he’ll leave early afternoon,” Chase replied then cocked his head. “Why?”
“I merely wondered whether I need to make sure there was a room ready for him.” She felt oddly disappointed that Wade Rogers’s stay would be such a short one. Which was silly because she hadn’t even met the man. For all she knew he could be fat and bald with hair growing out of his ears. Rather than dwell on that image, Cat pushed any further thoughts of Wade Rogers out of her head.
Come Monday morning seven inches of fresh snow covered the vast reaches of the Triple C ranch. No clouds remained, leaving the sun the sole occupant of the vivid blue sky. The air was brisk and the wind was still—a scene straight out of a Currier and Ives print. It was the ideal setting for holiday decorating—except for one thing.
Cat clamped gloved hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block out the deafening roar of the snowplow at work clearing the area in front of the Homestead. She wanted to scream at the driver to go somewhere else, then sighed in frustration, knowing she’d never make herself heard above the plow’s diesel engine.
With teeth clenched, Cat lowered her hands and attacked the flaps of the cardboard storage box in front of her, one of several strewn across the pillared veranda, some empty and some waiting to be opened. Inside this particular box was a three-foot tall artificial tree, one of two that would occupy the decorative urns flanking the front door.
As she struggled to lift it out, first one flap then another got in her way. Try as she might, Cat couldn’t muscle it out.
Just as she was about to give up and start over, a pair of gloved hands reached in and gave the tree the final tug, lifting it free of the box. At almost the same instant, a shrill whistle pierced the plow’s loud din. Cat looked up and saw Laredo halfway up a stepladder holding a small wreath up to one of the front windows. He gestured to summon her.
Surrendering the tree to her helper, Cat pointed to the nearest urn, indicating it belonged there, then crossed to Laredo. With the snowplow’s noise making conversation impossible, Laredo first held the wreath high on the window, then low, pantomiming his question of where it should hang. Cat responded in kind, using hand gestures until he had the wreath centered in the window.
After securing it in place, Laredo stepped off the ladder and tilted his head close to her, his glance flicking to a point beyond. “Who’s the silver fox?”
Surprised that she could hear him, Cat first looked to confirm the snowplow was already some distance from the house and moving away; then Laredo’s question registered. Suddenly she was conscious of an unfamiliar SUV visible in her side vision, but it was the tall gentleman standing at the front door who claimed her attention.
Everything about him screamed city—from his charcoal-colored topcoat and plaid muffler to his black-lace shoes, spattered with bits of snow. Not a hair on his bare head was out of place. And its color made Laredo’s description “silver fox” singularly appropriate; it was a rich shade of pewter burnished with silver highlights.
“He must be Wade Rogers,” she realized. “Dad said he would be coming by today.”
Without waiting for a response, Cat hurried to greet their guest. When she reached him, he was about to knock on the door, an action that definitely marked him as a first-time visitor. Only strangers knocked; everybody else simply walked in.
“Mr. Rogers? You are Wade Rogers, aren’t you?” Cat sought confirmation when he turned toward her.
“Yes, I am.” The instant he spoke, his voice provided further proof of his identity.
One look at his strong, masculine features, the attractive grooves making a parenthesis of his mouth, and the compelling brightness of his dark, nearly black eyes, and Cat wanted to laugh that she had ever thought he might be bald and fat. This was a man as handsome as his voice.