Rumors: The McCaffertys: The McCaffertys: ThorneThe McCaffertys: Matt

by Lisa Jackson

  “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 follow 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.

  Kelly disagreed. Now they had more information to work with. It could very well turn
out to be another blind alley, but it was something. She stuffed her notebook into her jacket pocket and followed Matt through the back door and across the porch.

  Outside the air was sharp. The wind slapped her face and snow swirled in the dark night. She trudged through the path Matt broke to the stables. He threw open the door and snapped on the lights.

  One horse nickered nervously. Another snorted at the intrusion, poking a large head over the top rail of the stall. “How’re ya, girl?” Matt asked, and scratched the blaze that ran crookedly up the mare’s broad nose. Outside the raw winter wind raged and howled, but in this old building with its ancient siding, hayloft overhead, tack room visible through an open door, the stables felt warm and safe, filled with the scents of horses, oiled leather, dust and straw. Cobwebs hung from the support posts, surrounded the windows and feathered in the corners. Barrels of oats and mash were stacked in an old bin, and pitchforks, shovels and buckets were held by nails pounded into the siding years ago.

  “These are the ladies of the Flying M,” Matt explained to Kelly as other mares stretched their necks over the gates. “Expectant mothers.”

  Curious eyes blinked from the heads thrust over the railings. One mare seemed skittish, another jerked away as Kelly approached, but others allowed her to pet their muzzles.

  Matt checked feed and water, patted each velvet-soft nose and spoke in low, soft tones as he scratched an ear or patted a sleek shoulder. All the while his eyes moved from one mare to the next.

  It was hard to imagine him or any of his brothers as a murderer intent on killing their half sister for her share of the Flying M. No, that was just gossip whispered around the coffee shops and taverns of Grand Hope, nothing more. In Kelly’s estimation the harsh talk was far-fetched and probably fueled by jealousy. Despite her own family’s run-ins with the McCafferty family, she found it difficult to believe that Thorne, Matt or Slade was a potential murderer.

  All of the brothers seemed more than concerned for their sister’s well-being. They were clamoring for the police to find Randi’s assailant.

  And they all doted on the baby.

  Now, as she watched Matt’s ease with the mares, his strong hands gentle as he patted a shiny neck or scratched beneath a strong equine jaw, she was more certain than ever that someone outside the McCafferty family was behind the attacks on Randi and possibly Thorne.

  “So what is it you wanted to ask me?” Matt glanced over one shoulder as he poured oats from a coffee can into the empty mangers.

  She climbed onto the top rail of a stall and hooked the heels of her boots on a lower slat while bracing herself with her hands, the way she used to do years ago at her grandmother’s farm. “I hoped you could tell me about why your father left half the ranch to your sister.”

  He slid her a troubled glance she didn’t understand.

  “Each of his sons got a sixth, but Randi inherited half of it, the half with the house and outbuildings, right? While you boys each got a sixth.”

  “That’s about the size of it. I guess Dad felt he had to take care of Randi, more than he did with the rest of us.”

  “Because she was a woman?”

  “Bingo.” His lips thinned.

  “Did she know anything about ranching?”

  “Not enough.”

  “So how do you feel about that? I mean, don’t you and your brothers resent the fact that she inherited the lion’s share?”

  He lifted a shoulder and something stirred in his gaze. “She was always Dad’s favorite.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was Penelope’s daughter,” he said coldly. “He would have gone through hell for that woman, and in the end, she tossed him over. Kinda tit for tat, if ya think about what he did to Mom.” His jaw tightened. “But it’s all water under the bridge now. Doesn’t matter a whole helluva lot.”

  “So you think John Randall didn’t split things equally because of favoritism?”

  “Probably, but I can’t second-guess my old man. At the time the old man realized he was facing the grim reaper, Thorne was already a millionaire, I had my own place, Slade…well, Slade plays by his own rules, never gave Dad the time of day, and Randi, she had a job in Seattle, yeah, but Dad never approved. Not that it mattered. She did pretty much as she damned well pleased.”

  “A family trait.”

  “You noticed.” He walked to a ladder built into the side wall and climbed up to the hayloft. Kelly dragged her gaze away from the faded buttocks of his worn jeans as he disappeared through an opening overhead.

  Thud!

  One bale of hay landed on the floor.

  Thud! Thud!

  More bales rained from above. Within seconds Matt had swung down to the main floor again and cut the bailing twine with his jackknife. As he leaned over, her eyes were drawn again to his hips and strong legs. Her blood heated and she turned her attention to the mare in the stall behind her. Lord, what was wrong with her? Why did she wonder what he wore, if anything, beneath those disreputable Levi’s? Why did she envision hard, muscular thighs and strong calves? She’d never in her lifetime ever so much as contemplated what a man would look like naked. Until now. And now she wondered what his body would feel like stretched out over hers, touching, sweating, tasting…

  He clicked his knife shut and she started, brought back to the here and now. Matt snagged a pitchfork from its hook on the wall and began shaking huge forkfuls of hay into the mangers.

  “You know,” he said, his shoulders moving fluidly beneath his shirt as he worked, “I hadn’t seen Randi in a while. Neither had Slade nor Thorne and we all feel bad about it. We should have kept up with her.”

  “So, as you said, you didn’t know about the men in her life, right?”

  “Well, of course I knew Randi had boyfriends, not only here when she was growing up but also when she was away at college. But I never heard that she was ever serious about any one guy, not even lately.” He jabbed the pitchfork into a fresh bale and looked over his shoulder, his gaze meeting Kelly’s in the light from the few iridescent bulbs suspended from the ceiling. Her throat went dry, but she managed to concentrate on the conversation. “For someone who tosses out advice, she’s pretty private,” Matt added. “The independent kind. Well, you know about that.”

  “We’re not talking about me,” she retorted, stung a bit.

  “No, but I thought you could relate.” He leaned on the pitchfork and sighed. “It really doesn’t surprise me that she was involved with a man who I didn’t know about, but it’s strange that she didn’t tell any one of us, not me, or Thorne, or Slade that she was pregnant.”

  “Maybe she planned to give the baby up for adoption,” Kelly suggested.

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s not like she’s a teenager who hasn’t finished school and doesn’t know what she wants in life, or that she couldn’t afford a baby. No, I’m sure she intended to have the baby and keep him, but there was something she had to do before she told us about him.”

  “Write a book?” Kelly suggested.

  “More likely deal with the father.” He turned and faced her, and she noticed the lines of irritation pinching the corners of his eyes. “What’s the deal with that guy? Where is he? If he cared a lick about my sister he would’ve shown up by now.”

  “If he knows about her accident.”

  “He should, dammit. If he cared enough…enough to get her pregnant, then he damned sure should be hanging around.”

  “Maybe they broke up before he found out she was pregnant. Maybe she didn’t tell him just like she didn’t tell you. Maybe she doesn’t want him to know.” She thought long and hard, avoiding staring into Matt’s angry eyes. “Or maybe you’re right, he just doesn’t care.”

  “Damn it all.” Matt kicked at a bale of hay as he walked up to her, and as she balanced on the top rail, he pressed his nose close to hers. “Let me tell you, if my woman was in the hospital and that kid was mine—” he jerked his thumb in the general direction of the ra
nch house where, presumably, little J.R. was sleeping “—things would be a lot different. A whole lot different.” Matt’s lips had thinned, his nostrils flared and one fist was clenched in impotent rage. He smelled of horses and hard work. A vein near his temple became more pronounced. Tiny crow’s feet fanned from eyes set deep behind a ledge of thick black eyebrows.

  Kelly’s heart took off. She licked suddenly dry lips. Matt McCafferty was just too damned sexy for his own good.

  Her stupid, feminine heartbeat accelerated to the rate of hummingbird’s wings and she noticed the corners of his mouth, where anger pulled the skin tight. In another surreal moment, she wondered what it would feel like to kiss those blade-thin, furious lips and have his big, work-roughened hands rub against her skin. Just what kind of a lover would he be?

  The best.

  She caught herself up short.

  This was silly.

  Ridiculous.

  Damned unprofessional.

  His gaze caught hers for a second and held. Something dark and dangerous sizzled in those scorching brown depths, connected with a part of her she didn’t want to examine any too closely. He was dangerous. Emotionally. But not a killer. Not a man who would plot to murder his half sister, no matter what the stakes.

  The moment stretched long. Horses shifted and snorted in their stalls. Kelly heard her heartbeats count off the seconds.

  Her throat was arid as a windswept Montana prairie.

  His gaze flicked to her mouth, as if he, too, felt the sudden intimacy, sensed the unseen charge in the air.

  This couldn’t be happening. She…couldn’t want him to gather her into his strong arms, pull her off the top of the stall, drag her close and kiss her until…oh, dear…

  As if he, too, felt the atmosphere in the musty building thicken, he took a step back and cleared his throat. But his dark gaze still held hers and she saw sex and promise in his eyes.

  Oh, God, no.

  With more agility than she thought possible at the moment, she dropped to the cement floor. “If…if…” She licked her lips, felt a wash of heat stain her cheeks, realized with disgust that her legs had gone weak. What in the name of God was she thinking? “If you think of anything else, call me,” she added, her voice louder than she’d intended.