by Lisa Jackson
“If that’s the best you can do—”
“It is.”
He crammed his Stetson onto his head and threw her a look that told her she wasn’t about to see the last of him, then she watched as he swung out of her office, past Stella’s desk and through the creaking gate. His jeans had seen better days and they’d faded over his buttocks, it seemed, from the glimpse she caught at the hemline of his jacket. He didn’t bother with the buttons or gloves; he was probably overheated from the anger she and Bob Espinoza had fired in him. Well, that was just too damned bad.
He shouldered open the door and again a blast of air as cold as the North Pole rushed into the room. Then he was gone, the glass door swinging shut behind him. “And good riddance,” Kelly muttered under her breath, irritated that she found him the least little bit attractive and noticing that Stella had forgone answering the telephones or typing at her computer keyboard to watch Matt’s stormy exit.
Yep, Kelly thought, squaring her hat on her head and sliding her arms through the sleeves of her insulated jacket. The man was bad news.
Chapter 2
Matt drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his truck. Snow was blowing across the highway, drifting against the fence line and melting on his windshield. He flipped on the wipers and switched the radio to a local country station, searching for a weather report and settling for a Willie Nelson classic.
Squinting against the ever-increasing flakes, he scowled as he headed out of town toward the Flying M Ranch. Maybe he’d made a mistake, driving like the devil was on his back into town and barreling into the sheriff’s department demanding answers.
He hadn’t gotten squat.
In fact that red-haired detective had put him in his place. Time and time again. It was unsettling. Infuriating. Downright insulting. Kelly Dillinger had a way of bothering him more than she had the right to. And he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Her skin was pale, her eyes a deep chocolate brown, her hair a bright, vibrant red which, in his estimation, accounted for her temperament. Redheads were always a fiery, hot-tempered lot. Then there was her no-nonsense, I-won’t-deal-with-any-bull attitude. Like she was a man, for God’s sake. That would be the day. Her build was basically athletic, but definitely female. He’d noticed, and kicked himself for it. Her uniform had stretched tight over her breasts and hugged her waist and hips. The woman had curves, damned nice curves, even if she tried her best to conceal them.
He’d always heard that women were attracted to men in uniforms, but he damned well didn’t expect it to work in reverse. Especially not with him. Nope. He liked soft, well-rounded women who reveled in and showed off their feminine attributes. He was partial to tight T-shirts, miniskirts or long dresses with split skirts, open enough to show a good long length of calf and thigh. He’d seen slacks and silk blouses that were sexy, but never a uniform, for crying out loud, and especially not one of those from the local sheriff’s department, but he’d noticed Kelly Dillinger. Angry as he’d been when he’d stormed into the sheriff’s department, he’d found it damned hard to keep his mind on business.
But then he’d always had trouble with his libido; around attractive women it had always been in overdrive. Tonight was worse than it had been in a long, long while.
So there it was. He was attracted to her.
But he couldn’t be. No way. Not to a woman cop—especially not this one who was working on his sister’s case and who, he knew, held a personal grudge against the McCafferty family. But the bare facts of the matter were that he was lying to himself. Even now, just thinking about her, he felt his crotch tighten. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Idiot,” he chastised, then shifted down as he approached the Flying M, the ranch that had been his father’s pride and joy.
“Great,” he grumbled as he cranked the steering wheel and his tires spun a little as they hit a patch of packed snow. The woman was off-limits. Period. If for no other reason than she lived here in Grand Hope, far from his own ranch. If he was going to be looking for a woman, which he wasn’t, he reminded himself, he’d be looking for one a lot closer to home. God, where did those thoughts come from? He didn’t want or need a woman. They were too much trouble. Kelly Dillinger included.
His headlights caught the snowflakes dancing in front of the truck and a few dry weeds poked through the mantle of white, scraping against the undercarriage as he navigated along the twin ruts leading to the heart of the spread. A few shaggy-coated cattle, dark, shifting shapes against the white background of the snow, were visible, but most of the herd had sought shelter or was out of his line of vision as he plowed down a long lane and rounded a final bend to a broad, flat parking area located between the main house and the outbuildings.
The truck slid to a stop beneath a leafless apple tree near a fence that was beginning to sag in a spot or two.
Matt yanked his keys from the ignition, threw open the door and was across the lot and up the three steps of the front porch in seconds. He only stopped to kick some of the snow off his boots, then pushed open the front door.
A wave of warm heat and the sound of piano keys tinkling out a quick, melodic tune greeted him. He sloughed off his jacket and felt his stomach rumble as he smelled roasting chicken and something else—cinnamon and baked apples. Hanging his jacket and hat on a peg near the front door, he heard the quick, light-footed steps of tiny feet scurrying across the hardwood floor overhead. Within seconds the twins were scuttling down the stairs.
“Unca Matt!” one little dark-haired cherub sang out as she rounded the corner of the landing and flew down the rest of the worn steps.
“How’re ya, Molly girl?” Crouching, opening his arms wide, he swept the impish four-year-old off her feet.
“Fine,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling at a sudden and uncharacteristic hint of shyness. She sucked on a finger as her sister, blanket in tow, scampered down the steps.
“And how about you, Mindy?” he asked, bending down and hauling the second scamp into his arms. The music was still playing and so he dipped and swooped, dancing with a niece in each arm. He’d only known the little girls over a month, but they, along with Randi’s baby, were a part of his family, now and forever. He couldn’t imagine a life without Molly, Mindy or the baby.
The girls giggled and laughed, Mindy’s tattered blanket twirling as Matt sashayed them into the living room where their mother, Nicole, was seated on the piano stool, her fingers flying over the keys as she played some ragtime piece for all it was worth.
“Is Liberace playing?” Matt asked.
“No!” the girls chimed, throwing back their heads and giggling loudly.
“Oh, you’re right. It must be Elton John?”
“No, no!” they screamed in unison, their little noses wrinkling. “It’s Mommy.”
“And she’s a hack,” their mother said, twirling around as the final notes faded and the sound of the fire crackling in the grate caught Matt’s attention. Nicole’s daughters wiggled out of his arms and scrambled to their mother. “But then, you’re not exactly Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly.”
“Oh, damn, and I thought I was.” Matt walked to the fireplace and warmed the back of his legs against the flames. “I’m crushed.”
“That’ll be the day.” Nicole shook her head, her amber eyes bright with mischief.
Harold was lying in his favorite spot on the rug near the fire. He lifted up his head and yawned, stretching his legs before he perked up one ear and snorted, looked as if he might climb to his feet, but didn’t bother and let his snout rest upon his paws again.
“Well? What did you find out?” Thorne, on crutches, hitched his way into the room and plopped into the worn leather recliner where he propped up his injured leg. He was wearing baggy khaki pants that covered up the cast running from foot to thigh, and his expression said more clearly than words, “I’m tired of being laid up.”
“Nothing. The damned sheriff’s department doesn’t know diddly-squat.”
�
�You talked to Espinoza?” Thorne asked.
Boots pounded from the back of the house, heralding the arrival of their youngest brother.
“Wait a minute!” Juanita’s voice echoed through the hallways. “You take off those boots! I just mopped the floor. Dios! Does anyone ever listen to me? No!”
“Hey!” Slade appeared in the archway separating the living room from the foyer and staircase. He didn’t bother to answer Juanita, nor did he shed his coat. “Where the hell have you been?” Black eyebrows were slammed together over intense, laser-blue eyes as he stared at Matt. “We’ve got stock to feed, and Thorne’s not a helluva lot of help these days.”
“Cool it.” Thorne’s gaze moved from his youngest brother to Nicole’s daughters who, if they’d heard the swearing, were too busy banging on the piano keys to notice. “Matt was down at the sheriff’s office.”
“They found anything?” Slade asked, his belligerence fading as he walked to the liquor cabinet set into the bookcase and unearthed an old bottle of Scotch. “How ’bout a drink?”
“No, they don’t know anything else and yeah, I could use a shot.” Matt couldn’t hide his irritation that he hadn’t gotten more definitive answers.
“None for me.” Thorne shook his head. “What did Espinoza have to say?”
“He wasn’t around. I talked with the woman.”
“Kelly Dillinger,” Nicole said as the twins, bored with making their own kind of music, climbed down from her lap and hurried out of the room. A tall woman with brown hair, a sharp wit and a medical degree, Nicole Stevenson was more than a match for his brother. She was smart, savvy, and as an emergency room physician, wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone—just the kind of woman to tame Thorne and settle him down.
“She’s the one.” Matt accepted a short glass from Slade, took a swallow and felt the warm fire of liquor burn a welcome path down his throat. And he shoved any wayward thoughts of Detective Dillinger from his mind. It wasn’t easy. In fact it was damned near impossible. That fiery redhead had a way of catching a man’s attention. Big time.
“A drink?” Slade asked Nicole as he poured another glass.
“I’d better take a rain check. I’m scheduled at the hospital later,” she said, and as her words faded she froze and cocked her head. “Uh-oh, it sounds like someone’s waking up.”
Matt heard the first cough of a baby’s cry, and he was amazed at how women seemed to have a sixth sense about that sort of thing.
“I’ll get him,” Nicole said, then turned her head and looked over her shoulder at Thorne. One sleek eyebrow rose as she added, “but you uncles are going to be pulling duty later this evening.”
“We can handle it,” Thorne said, as if a baby were no problem at all. But then Thorne thought he could handle the world. And he wasn’t too far off.
“Yeah. Right.” Nicole wasn’t buying her fiancé’s confident routine. She climbed the stairs to the nursery, and her laughter drowned out the baby’s fussy noises.
“So what did the detective say?” Thorne asked Matt as he pushed the recliner into a more upright position.
“Same old runaround. They’re looking into all possibilities. They have no evidence of foul play. There are no suspects. When Randi wakes up, then maybe they’ll be able to piece more of it together. All a load of bull if you ask me.” He downed his drink, irritated all over again. The heat from the fire felt good against the back of his legs, the liquor warmed him on the inside, but he was restless, anxious, needed to take action. He’d been staying at the Flying M for nearly a month, ever since he’d been called and told about his half sister’s accident. He’d driven like a madman, camped out and done what he could, but he was frustrated as hell because he felt like he was spinning his wheels. He had his own place to run, his ranch near the Idaho border. His neighbor, Mike Kavanaugh, was looking after the place while he was gone and had hired a couple of high school boys to help out, but Matt was beginning to feel the need to go back and check on the ranch himself.
“Detective Dillinger is a looker, if ya ask me,” Slade offered up as he took a swallow from his drink.
“No one did,” Matt grumbled.
Slade’s chuckle was deep and wicked, and Matt caught the teasing glint in his brother’s blue eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Matt snorted. Lifted a shoulder.
“Come on, admit it.” Slade wasn’t about to give up. “You’ve always had an eye for the ladies.”
“It takes one to know one.”
“Enough,” Thorne said just as Nicole returned toting the baby. Matt’s heart melted at the sight of little J.R., the name the brothers had come up with since Randi was still in a coma, didn’t even know she had a son. They figured they could call him Junior or John Randall, like the kid’s grandfather. As he had dozens of times, Matt wondered about the baby’s father. Who was the guy? Where the hell was he? Why hadn’t Randi ever mentioned him?
Matt felt a slash of guilt. The truth of the matter was that he, and the rest of his brothers, had been so caught up in their own lives, they’d lost touch with their half sister, a firebrand of a girl who, for years, had been the bane of her older siblings’ existence, the daughter of the woman whom they blamed for wrecking their parents’ marriage.
Now, looking down at the baby, his downy reddish-gold hair sticking up at odd angles, Matt felt a bit of pride and something more—something deeper, something that scared him, as it spoke to the need for roots, and settling down and marriage and children of his own.
Nicole handed the bundle to the man she intended to marry. “Here, Uncle Thorne, you deal with J.R. while I see if Juanita needs some help with dinner.”
“Me, too. I help,” Molly offered, dashing into the room only to take a spin around her mother and race off toward the kitchen.
“How about you?” Nicole asked Mindy, who was tailing after her more exuberant sister.
“Yeth. Me, too.”
“Come on, then,” she said, casting one final glance at her soon-to-be husband and shepherding the girls down the hallway. Harold gave up a disgruntled “woof” and slapped his tail onto the braided rug. Matt swallowed a smile at the sight of his eldest brother—millionaire, CEO of McCafferty International, heretofore international jet-setter and playboy—reduced to juggling a one-month-old infant in his awkward hands while propping up his broken leg.
“Hey, I could use some help here,” Thorne grumbled, though he grinned down at the baby.
“Didn’t you say something about feeding the stock?” Matt asked Slade.
“That I did.” The two younger McCaffertys left Thorne in charge of the infant. Matt thought it was only fitting as he snagged his jacket from the peg near the front door and stepped outside into the frigid air. Seeing as Thorne couldn’t help out much with the heavy work around the ranch, he could damned well babysit.
* * *
The woman in the hospital bed looked horrible, though by all accounts she was healing. Nevertheless, in Kelly’s estimation Randi McCafferty had a long way to go. There were tubes and monitors running into and out of her body and she lay on the bed unmoving, thin and pale, her skin still showing some signs of discoloration, though some of the bruises and cuts had healed.
“If only you could talk,” Kelly said, biting her lower lip. For all the pain the McCaffertys had put on her family, Kelly still didn’t like seeing anyone like this. A nurse walked to Randi’s bedside and began taking her vital signs. “Has she shown any sign of waking?” Kelly asked.
“I can’t really say,” sighed the petite woman with shiny black hair, olive skin, eyes rimmed with excessive mascara and a name tag that read Kathy Desmond. “With this one, we might need a crystal ball,” she joked as she picked up Randi’s wrist and took her pulse, then slipped a blood pressure cuff over her arm. “It seems to me that she should wake up soon. Certainly she’s had plenty of eye movement beneath her lids, she’s yawned, and one of the night nurses thinks she moved her arm. Whether this mean
s she’ll be waking up today, tomorrow or next week, I don’t know.”
“But soon.”
“I would think.” The nurse’s highly arched brows pulled together. “But I’m not sure.”
“I understand,” Kelly said, wishing Matt McCafferty’s half sister would rouse and open her eyes, be cognizant and clearheaded enough to answer questions about the day her car slid off the road. Had someone intentionally forced her over the embankment? Had she gone into labor and lost control? Had she just hit a patch of black ice that sent her vehicle into a skid? The McCafferty brothers seemed to think there was some person or persons behind the accident. Kelly wasn’t convinced. Right now only Randi McCafferty had the answers to what had happened up at Glacier Park and only she knew who was the father of her child.
The nurse left the room and Kelly stepped closer to the unmoving form on the bed. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal rails, then touched the back of Randi’s hand, willing some life into Randi’s battered body. “Wake up,” she urged. “You’ve got so much to live for…a new baby, for starters.” And three stubborn, intense half brothers.
“Besides that you’ve got a lot of explaining to do when you wake up.” She squeezed Randi’s hand, but there was no response. “Come on, Randi. Help me out here.”
“She can’t hear you.”
Kelly released the comatose woman’s hand quickly and flushed. She recognized Matt McCafferty’s voice instantly. Her heart jumped.
“I realize that.” Turning, she found him in the doorway, still dressed in the jeans and shirt he’d had on a few hours earlier. His jacket was unbuttoned, his hat in his hands, his face not as hostile as it had been earlier, but there were still silent accusations in his dark eyes. Roguishly handsome and mad as a wet hornet.
“What’re you doing here?” he demanded.
“I met Detective Espinoza in the ER, then decided to check on your sister.”