by Lisa Jackson
“But she didn’t ask any of her partners before letting you go,” Kelly clarified.
“Not that I know of.”
“None of us heard a word,” Matt said. He grabbed a poker from the blackened tool set on the hearth and jabbed at the logs in the fire. Flames crackled and embers spit sparks. “Since Dad died, Randi was in charge. She’s always been pretty independent.”
“To a fault,” Thorne grumbled.
“And since each of us—Slade, Thorne and I—only owned a sixth of the spread apiece, we let her do her thing. We—well, at least I figured if she needed my help, she’d ask for it.” Matt’s mouth tightened and he seemed a bit ashamed as he tossed a chunk of mossy oak onto the old andirons. “To tell you the truth, I thought she’d give it all up after one winter of ranching. Even though she was in Seattle, working at the newspaper, she was responsible for what went on here. I figured she’d want to sell out.”
“To you?” Kelly asked.
“To whoever would buy, but yeah, I thought she’d come to either me or one of my brothers.” He let out a disgusted breath. “Guess I was wrong.”
Larry’s anger had dissipated. “It’s a helluva thing,” he said, his lips folding in on themselves. “She fires me, then within two weeks ends up having a baby and fighting for her life.”
“And you took your old job back.”
“The brothers asked me.” His green eyes narrowed a bit. “It took a little persuadin’, let me tell you. I don’t like bein’ let go.”
“I understand. Did you ask her who would be handling the place after you left?” Kelly asked. “This is a pretty big ranch, and since she didn’t live here, how did she expect to keep things running smoothly?”
“Good question. One I didn’t ask. Guess I was too hot under the collar.” He took a step closer to Kelly and a shadow of concern darkened his gaze. “You know, I have this feeling…and it’s nothing she said, mind you…but just a sense that she wanted to just hole up and be alone. She didn’t fire the hands, just me, so maybe she thought she could run the place herself, but—” he hesitated as he squared his hat upon his head “—I guess we won’t know until she wakes up.”
“Hell’s bells,” Thorne grumbled as he reached for a single crutch tucked to the side of his recliner.
Larry checked his watch. “I’d better get home.”
“If you think of anything else she may have said, call me.” Kelly slipped her wallet from her jacket pocket and handed him a card.
“Will do.” Larry nodded curtly, then swept his gaze to Thorne and Matt. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Within seconds the door was slamming shut behind him.
“I don’t suppose either of you can shed any further light on why your sister fired him?” Kelly asked, hitching her chin toward the window. Through the icy glass she watched Larry climb into a king-cab pickup. The sound of an engine rumbling to life reached her ears just as the truck’s headlamps blazed through the swirling snow.
“Neither of us had talked to Randi in a while,” Matt admitted, and Thorne scowled darkly. Larry Todd’s truck tore off, plowing through the drifts.
“What about the father of her baby?”
“We’re still trying to locate him—whoever he is. Kurt Striker is looking into it.” Thorne hobbled to the fireplace and, bracing his shoulders on the mantel, picked up a photograph of his sister that had been propped against the old bricks. Sighing, Thorne shook his head. “Striker’s supposed to be back here tomorrow.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
Matt hesitated. “Is that standard procedure?”
Kelly’s temper snapped. “Listen, Mr. McCafferty, nothing about this case is standard.”
“I thought we established that you could call me Matt.”
“Whatever,” she said, bristling. “Now, what about her boyfriends?”
“I never met any of the guys she was dating, even if she was…well, obviously there was someone in her life.” The lines bracketing his mouth became more pronounced. “But I don’t have a clue as to which one of the men she’d been seeing is little J.R.’s father.” Matt raked his fingers through his near-black hair and frustration was evident in the tension of his muscles and set of his jaw.
“J.R.’s father might be someone that no one knew about, a man she was seeing on the sly,” Thorne said as the fire popped and bright sparks and smoke floated up the chimney.
Matt swore under his breath. “The truth of the matter is we all feel foolish, not knowing this basic stuff about our sister.”
“I have several names of people she dated.” Kelly flipped through her notes. “Joe Paterno, who worked freelance for the Seattle Clarion, Brodie Clanton, a lawyer whose father is a judge, and Sam Donahue, an ex-rodeo rider who ranches outside of Spokane, Washington.” She glanced up and noticed the thunder in Matt’s stare.
“I don’t know the other two guys, but Donahue’s a miserable piece of work,” he growled, dusting his hands then shoving them into the front pockets of his jeans. “But I still can’t believe that Randi was ever involved with him.”
“You don’t know that she was,” Thorne rebutted. From his expression, Kelly guessed he didn’t like the idea of Randi and Donahue any better than Matt did. Using the crutch, he hitched his way across the braided carpet to the bookcase. “Kurt Striker is checking blood types, which should help. Even if we can’t determine who is the father of Randi’s kid, we can rule out those who aren’t.”
“Exactly. We’re working on the same premise,” she said as a clatter of footsteps on the stairs caught her attention.
Nicole Stevenson, twin girls tagging behind her, and baby—presumably Randi McCafferty’s infant—in her arms, made her way down the stairs.
Gone was the all-business, tough doctor whom Kelly had run up against. In her stead was a smiling mother listening to the little girls babble and giggle as she tended to the baby.
Kelly’s heartstrings pulled a bit just as Nicole, who had reached the bottom of the stairs, looked up and caught sight of a policewoman in her home. Her jaw hardened just a fraction before a smile tugged the corners of her mouth upward. “I think I owe you an apology,” she admitted, striding into the room. “Last night I was very upset when hospital security had been breached and Randi was attacked. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“It was tense for everyone.”
“I know, but it wasn’t very professional on my part.” She was sincere. Kelly decided her apology was heartfelt.
“It’s fine. Really.” Even though she reminded herself not to be suckered in by anyone in the McCafferty family, Kelly couldn’t help but warm to the slim woman with her forthright gold eyes and proud lift of her chin. In other circumstances, Kelly thought, she and Nicole might be friends.
“Thank you.”
“This is Randi’s baby?”
Matt crossed the room to peek at his nephew. “Yep. He’s what all the fuss is about.” To Kelly’s surprise, Matt plucked the baby out of Nicole’s arms. Big, calloused hands drew the infant to his chest, and though he seemed a tad awkward with J.R., Matt smiled down at the boy. “If only he could talk.”
Or his mother could, Kelly thought, amazed at the transformation in both McCafferty brothers. Matt was ranch-tough and no-nonsense, but his leathery touch-me-not exterior softened as he gazed down at his nephew. Thorne, with the use of a crutch, had crossed the room and stood by Nicole, his free arm slung over her shoulder, the edgy, hard-as-nails corporate executive evaporating into a proud, caring husband-to-be. He ruffled one twin’s crown with his free hand while the other twin, a shier girl, hid behind his cast. For the briefest of seconds, Kelly felt an emotion akin to envy for this tightly knit family.
Nicole’s gaze moved from Thorne to Matt. “Hasn’t either of these gentlemen, and boy, do I use the term loosely, offered you anythin
g? Coffee…tea…a glass of wine?”
“I’m fine, really.”
“I wants a drink,” one of the girls said, tugging on her mother’s blouse. “I wants a drink.”
“In a minute, Molly. Now—” she eyed the men speculatively “—which uncle is on J.R. duty?” Nicole asked. “The baby could use a bottle, and then, no doubt, he’ll need to be changed. Uncle Thorne? Uncle Matt?” From Matt’s arms the baby let out a soft little coo that had the amazing effect of pulling on Kelly’s heartstrings.
“I think it’s my turn,” Thorne grumbled good-naturedly, reaching for the child as Matt handed the baby to him. “But you’d better carry him into the kitchen and get me settled in with a bottle.”
“I do it!” One of the curly-haired girls, Molly, Kelly guessed, volunteered, then she dashed down the hall.
“Me, too.” Her sister raced after her, tiny feet pounding on the hardwood floor. Two bright-eyed dynamos.
“I think I’d better supervise. I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Nicole said to Thorne as she took the baby from his arms and started out of the living room, only to pause midstep. “Oh, but one last thing.” She was looking at Kelly. “Has it been proved that something was slipped into Randi’s IV? I haven’t been back at the hospital since last night.”
“Insulin,” Kelly supplied. “It can kill if the victim overdoses. Remember the Sunny von Bulow case? Where her husband was accused of trying to kill her by injecting her with insulin?”
“He got off, right?” Matt asked.
Kelly nodded. “But his wife remained in a coma. Alive, but hospitalized. Nearly dead. For years.”
“Damn.”
Nicole frowned and sighed. “I suspected as much. From the symptoms. Any ideas who could have done it?”
“Not yet,” Kelly admitted.
“Well, do me a favor, will you?” she asked. “Nail the bastard who did this.”
“We will,” Kelly said fervently.
There was a crash and a wail at the far end of the hall and Nicole, still carrying the baby, took off toward the sound. Thorne was on her heels, hurrying after her on one crutch.
“Dios, niña! Look what you’ve done,” a husky woman’s voice cajoled, then muttered a Spanish phrase Kelly didn’t understand.
Within seconds there was the sound of sobbing from one small girl and a series of denials from the other. “I didn’t do it!” one of the twins cried.
“Did, too,” the other responded.
One side of Matt’s mouth lifted as he listened to the exchange from the living room. “Never a dull minute around here, I’m afraid.”
“It seems that way.”
Nicole, now carrying one of the twins, winked at Kelly and Matt as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The little girl had her head burrowed in her mother’s shoulder and wouldn’t look up, just sobbed as if her heart was breaking. “Good thing I’m an emergency room doc,” Nicole confided, swallowing a smile as she toted her daughter upstairs. “Mindy might need major surgery.”
The girl, aware that her mother was teasing, buried her tear-streaked face in Nicole’s neck even further and muttered, “No.”
“Is she okay?”
Nicole nodded. “Fingers got smashed when the sugar jar broke. I’m not sure how it happened—”
“Molly did it!” the girl insisted, finally lifting her head in self-righteous indignation. She sniffed loudly and her lower lip quivered. “She pushed my chair.”
“Did not,” the other twin denied as she streaked from the kitchen to proclaim her innocence. “You falled.”
“I think Mindy will live,” Nicole said as she turned at the landing and disappeared up the remaining stairs.
“You falled, you falled, you falled,” Molly chimed, clambering up the remaining stairs.
“Damned three-ring circus,” Matt grumbled as he checked his watch. “Look, I’ve got to check the broodmares.” He slid her a glance that was unreadable. “You have any more questions?”
“A few.”
“Then come along.” He walked through the foyer, snagged a jacket and hat from a tarnished brass coatrack, then continued toward the back of the house through a hallway adorned with pictures of the McCafferty family at different stages in their lives—Thorne in a football uniform, Slade tearing down a mountain on skis, Randi in a long dress with her arm linked through that of a tuxedoed beau, and Matt astride a rodeo bronc. The buckskin horse, front feet planted firmly in the sod of an arena, head ducked, back legs shooting skyward, had been frozen in time trying to throw his rider—a lean, hard-muscled cowboy who seemed as determined to stay on as the stallion was to send him skyrocketing. Matt’s right hand was lifted to the sky, his other buried in the strap surrounding the buckskin’s chest.
“Who won?” she asked, motioning toward the glossy eight-by-ten.
“I did.”
“Of course.”
“Not always, especially when I drew Zanzibar.” He motioned toward the picture. “He was a tough one.” A nostalgic gleam sparked in his eye and Kelly suspected that he missed the excitement and thrill of the rodeo. From all accounts, though he often wore a wide belt buckle depicting a bucking bronco, Matt had given up the rodeo circuit years ago and contented himself ranching on a spread he owned in the western hills of Montana.
Through an archway, they stepped into a large kitchen where the fragrance of roasting pork and cooling pies tickled her nostrils. A battered butcher-block counter surrounded a stainless steel sink and electric range where pots were simmering, steam rising to the copper bonnet. In a corner, shards of delft-blue pottery and white crystals were gathered together in a dustpan, testament to the accident with the twins. Thorne was seated at the table, the heel of his cast on a nearby chair, the baby in his arms suckling at a bottle and staring up at him.
Matt clucked his tongue as he shrugged into his jacket. “I never thought I’d see the day—”
“Don’t say another word,” Thorne warned Matt, but there was a twinkle in his gray eyes, as if the millionaire CEO enjoyed his newfound role of temporary father.
“Who’s gonna stop me? A man with a broken leg holding a baby?”
“Try me.”
“Anytime, man. Anytime.”
“Enough!” A hefty, dark-skinned woman with flashing black eyes and a strong chin emerged from the pantry. She placed bags of onions and potatoes on the counter. “You two are like two old…toros. Always pawing at the dirt and snorting… Dios!” She threw up a hand. Her gaze fastened on Kelly. “Policia?”
“Detective Kelly Dillinger, with the sheriff’s office,” Matt explained. “Our cook, housekeeper and angel of mercy, Juanita Ramirez.”
“Angel?” Juanita snorted her disdain, but smothered a smile as she rounded the counter and picked up the dustpan, then shook it into the trash. “You two, you could have taken care of this…” she admonished as she dusted her hands. “So you,” she said to Kelly, “you are searching for the person who is behind Randi’s trouble?”
“Yes.”
“But you have not found him?”
“Not yet.”
Juanita sighed heavily, her ponderous breasts heaving at the injustice of the world. “So much trouble for that one. The baby. Her job…and the book.” She reached for a knife and began skimming the skins off onions with expert dexterity. “If you ask me, this is about her libro.”
“You’ve read it?” Kelly asked.
“Me?” Juanita glanced up, the knife poised over the onion that oozed juice. “No.” Shaking her head, she tossed a pile of thin, paperlike skins into a trash basket.
“But you saw it, know that it existed.”
“She talked about it. She was here for a few days and she was on the phone all the time.”
“Because of the book?” Kelly asked, trying to f
ollow the older woman’s line of reasoning.
“Sí. With her…” She snapped her fingers, as her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Dios, her…her…agente.”
Thorne’s head snapped around. “Her agent?” he repeated, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Randi had an agent?”
“Sí.”
“Who?” Matt demanded, and Kelly’s heartbeat accelerated. Here was a fresh clue, one no one had picked up on before.
“I don’t know.” Juanita shrugged. “You will have to ask her when she wakes up.”
“When was this?” Kelly asked. “How long before the accident?”
“Oh…let me see…the middle of summer, I think,” Juanita said, and Kelly scribbled frantically in her notebook. “Yes, not long after Señor John passed on.” Deftly, not bothering to drop the knife, she made the sign of the cross over her chest. “She came for a visit.”
“And you didn’t see that she was pregnant?” Matt asked, unable to hide his incredulity. “She would have been five or six months pregnant.”
“No. Sí, she was…rounder…heavier…but I thought she had just gained weight.”
“Did you see her working on the book?” Kelly asked.
Juanita cut thick slabs of the onion, frowned and blinked against tears that were probably brought on by her task rather than her ragged emotions. “I saw her working on something on her computer. She said it was a book. But no, I did not read any of the pages.”
“So we’re back to square one,” Matt said, sliding his arms through the sleeves of his rawhide jacket in disgust.