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tempting as it may be to pit my faith against your vanity, Logan, I much prefer to chat with my niece.” Sheglanced up at the gold-plated clock on the mantel before offering him a calm smile. “But cheer up. As soon as Bram and Jamie arrive, you can go head-to-head with them.”
    His slow grin was a perfect match for the gleam of challenge in his eyes. “But I’d rather go head-to-head with you, Cait,” he whispered, giving Cassie a wink.
    A pretty shade of rose dusted her aunt’s cheeks. “You’re incorrigible, Logan McClare, and I have a mind to never play cribbage with you again.”
    He laughed, the sound bold and confident as he returned the chair to the game table. “But you will, Cait, and we both know it.” Giving her a disarming grin, he reached for a neatly folded copy of The San Francisco Examiner from the coffee table and ambled toward the cordovan easy chair he claimed as his own. “Since I have a few moments before the other gentlemen arrive, I’ll let you ladies chat while I peruse my stocks.”
    â€œThe divil, you say!” Mrs. Rosie O’Brien stood at the door, her brogue as thick as her disdain. Aunt Cait’s notorious housekeeper and nanny scowled. “The only pa-rusin’ you’ll be doing, Mister ‘Beware’, is in that dining room for a welcome supper for your niece.”
    â€œRosie!” Cassie jumped up, giggling at the intentional slaughter of her uncle’s name which marked a humorous enmity that went back as far as she could remember. Dressed in her gray uniform with a calf-length white apron, Rosie often appeared as starched as her lace cuffs and collar, but behind that gruff exterior lay a heart as big as San Francisco Bay. “I’ve missed you!” she said, embracing the slip of a woman who had been Aunt Cait’s nanny from little on.
    â€œAwk, Rosie’s the boss, Rosie’s the boss!” Miss B. quipped, and everyone chuckled.
    At sixty-five, Rosie was still a handsome woman in spite of her bristly nature. Dark hair heavily sifted with silver and pulled back in a tight chignon emphasized steel-blue eyes that whittled Uncle Logan down to size even when her words could not. With a petite frame that was tiny and trim, Mrs. O’Brien wielded power in the McClare household that far exceeded both height and rank, a fact evidenced by the family’s so-ugly-he’s-cute bulldog, Logan Junior. Despite Logan’s objections, Rosie had won when she’d suggested naming the pet for the uncle who’d given it, citing the “creature’s propensity to intestinal odors” as commonality enough.
    â€œAw, but it’s grand to have you back with us, Cassidy McClare,” Rosie said with a grin, patting a veined hand to Cassie’s cheek. Blue eyes in a squint, she peered at Uncle Logan who stood stock still, newspaper still dangling from his hand. “Sure, and it’s high time we feed this scrawny, little thing from the cow ranch, wouldn’t you say?”
    Lips gone flat, Logan glanced first at his watch and then at Aunt Cait, obviously ignoring Rosie to the best of his ability. “We should wait for Bram and Jamie, don’t you think, Cait?”
    â€œI suppose . . . ,” Caitlyn said with a concerned glance in Rosie’s direction.
    â€œOh, aye, that’s a grand idea,” the housekeeper said with a grunt, the mulish press of her lips matching Logan’s to a T. “Bar the starving lass from her welcome dinner, why don’cha?”
    â€œNow, Rosie,” Aunt Cait said softly, “dinner’ll keep for a moment or two, won’t it?”
    Rosie’s chin angled high. “Sure, if it’s cowhide you be wantin’ to serve. Fixed a rump roast, I did—” She spared a sliver of a smile in Logan’s direction. “In his honor.” Her gaze swiveled back to Aunt Cait with a spike of a dark brow.