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

by Lisa Jackson

  “I checked it out,” Kurt said with a quick nod. “It looks like she did a little moonlighting. Every once in a while she wrote articles under a pseudonym—probably because she didn’t want her publisher to find out and give her some grief about it.”

  “What’s the book about?” Kelly asked.

  “It’s the start of a novel.”

  “Not a collection of anecdotes and advice from her column with the Clarion?” Thorne asked.

  “Doesn’t seem like it. There’s a story, and if I were a gambling man, I’d think it was a blend of fiction and fact.”

  “Autobiographical?” Matt asked.

  “I don’t think so. It’s certainly not about her life, but it could have been inspired by someone who wrote in and asked advice, or someone she knew personally, or someone she read about. I don’t know. At this point everything is conjecture. As I said, the Seattle PD has the original disk and the laptop.”

  “But you have copies of everything,” Kelly guessed. “This isn’t the only one.”

  Kurt’s slow grin confirmed her theory. “I said I’d work with you, not give up all my secrets.”

  Kelly didn’t press the issue.

  “I’ll print it out,” Thorne said.

  “Already done.” Kurt reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers just as Slade burst through the front door. Rubbing his hands together, the youngest McCafferty brother walked into the living room, clapped Kurt on the back and was brought up to date. Within minutes he’d poured himself a cup of coffee and, along with the brothers, Kelly and Nicole, scanned the pages of Randi’s book.

  “Who’s this about?” Slade asked.

  “Beats me,” Matt muttered under his breath.

  Kurt lifted a shoulder. “I’d say the names have been changed to protect the guilty.”

  Kelly agreed. The first three chapters were rough, and the remainder of the story compressed into a stripped-down idea surrounding a shady rodeo rider who was being blackmailed into throwing competitions. The main character was a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, who had all his life scraped to get by. Eventually he’d been forced by circumstances to step outside of the law and was sucked into a world of drugs and crime. The upshot was that no matter how hard he tried to free himself of the vicious cycle of crime and dependence, he failed.

  “What an upper,” Slade muttered sarcastically as he scanned the last page.

  “Overblown melodrama,” Matt snorted as he finished reading and tossed his share of the manuscript to Thorne.

  Kelly glanced at Matt. “Or a real story that someone doesn’t want published.”

  “Who would know about it?” Kurt asked.

  “I suppose her agent. Maybe he’s already shopped it around to publishers.” Thorne slung his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders.

  “Maybe,” Matt agreed. “Or maybe not. The trouble is, none of us knows what was going on in Randi’s life. But these—” he motioned to the pages that were being passed from brother to brother “—are pretty much nothing. So she was writing a book. Big deal. So it might have had some basis in fact?” He lifted his eyebrows. “So what?”

  “You didn’t find any notes?” Kelly asked Kurt.

  “Other than what’s on the disk?” He shook his head.

  “Or reference books? Research materials?”

  “There were books all over her den. Hundreds of ’em. And a stack of magazines in one bookcase. I didn’t see anything that I thought significant.”

  Kelly didn’t belabor the point. The Seattle police had already been in the apartment and they’d either missed or dismissed the fact that Randi was writing a book. It was something to check when she got to the city on Puget Sound.

  They discussed the case until there was nothing left to say, then Kelly decided to call it a night. “I’ll keep you posted if I find anything,” she said to the group in general, then, to Kurt, “and I’ll expect the same consideration.”

  “You got it,” he assured her, though Kelly wasn’t confident she could trust him.

  “Good night.” She headed for the door, then thought twice about it. Turning to Matt she said, “Could I see her room?”

  With a shrug of his shoulder, Matt showed her upstairs and quietly opened the door to a small room that had been transformed into the nursery. The baby was sleeping soundly, his breathing audible, and Kelly smiled as she looked down at him. Matt glanced at his nephew and the hard lines of his face softened. “Such a little guy and such a big fuss,” he whispered, tucking a blanket closer to the baby’s chin.

  Kelly’s heartstrings pulled so tight she suddenly couldn’t breathe. Matt’s big hands seemed out of place fingering the dainty satin-hemmed blanket. His tanned, work-roughened fingers should have been awkward but weren’t, and the tenderness with which he adjusted the bedding was surprising. Someday, whether he knew it or not, Matt McCafferty would make one helluva father.

  She darted a look to his face, caught him watching her reaction and, clearing her throat, stepped away from the crib. In the dim glow from the night-light, she searched the walls of the room. A bulletin board that hung near the closet still displayed some of Randi’s childhood treasures: a dried, faded corsage, yellowed pictures of friends splashing in a creek and seated around the remains of a campfire, a couple of shots of Randi astride a black quarter horse, tassels from a graduation cap, a lacy garter and several blue-and-red ribbons tacked haphazardly over the corkboard surface.

  A desk had been shoved into the corner, and in the bookcase resting above the walnut surface were trophies of various sizes all dedicated to horsemanship.

  There was also a dusty cowgirl hat with a rhinestone tiara as the hatband. She fingered the dusty jewels.

  “Randi was a rodeo princess in high school,” Matt explained.

  “So your sister had rodeo fever, too.”

  “It’s in our blood,” Matt admitted. “Every one of us but Thorne. He didn’t have much use for anything to do with ranching or horses or that whole part of Western culture.” He slid a glance in her direction. “He was more interested in making money—in fact, it was his only interest until he met Nicole.”

  “She changed his life.”

  “In a big way.”

  Kelly studied the books on the desk, mostly about horse care and grooming, then with one last sweeping glance, decided she’d learned all she could about Matt’s half sister. If only she would wake up—there were so many questions only Randi could answer. “I guess that’s about it,” Kelly said, with one last smile for the baby as he sighed in his sleep.

  “I’ll walk you.” Matt followed her down the stairs and zipped up his jacket as he walked her through the snow to her rig.

  “For the most part, you were pretty quiet in there,” he observed, hitching his chin toward the ranch house, his breath making a fine cloud in the night air.

  “I suppose.” She glanced over her shoulder to the two-

  storied building where the windows glowed in bright patches against the chill of the winter night. “I wanted to hear what Striker had to say.”

  “So what did you think?”

  She met his gaze in the darkness. “It’s all well and good, but I’m going to double-check everything when I get to Seattle.”

  “You’re leaving?” He was surprised.

  “For a day or two. Compliments of the department.” At the SUV, she paused, sent him a mischievous glance. “I know, you’re gonna miss me,” she teased, but she’d struck closer to home than he wanted to admit.

  “I’ll try to survive.”

  “Do that, cowboy.”

  She smiled and that was all it took. Before he had a chance to think, he grabbed her, hauled her into his arms and slanted his mouth over hers. She gasped and he took advantage of her open mouth, his tongue sliding into her mouth to find hers. There was a second’s resistance, her muscles tensing, and then he felt her melt, her body leaning into his for just a second. Matt closed his eyes, drew her closer still, hi
s hands splaying upon her back, his heart pounding, blood thundering through his ears.

  Somewhere he heard a door open and voices. Kelly froze in his arms, then pushed away. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said, and glanced to the porch. Slade and Kurt stood under the porch light, Slade lighting a cigarette, Kurt standing with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Both men were staring at them.

  “Great,” Matt said, knowing he was going to catch hell from his younger brother.

  “I think we should keep this professional,” she said as if reading his thoughts. She opened the door of her SUV and slid inside.

  “And I think you’re a liar.” He leaned closer to her. “Face it, Detective,” he said, his voice low. “You want me.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  “So I’ve heard.” His grin was cocksure and irreverent.

  “Good night, cowboy.” She hauled the door shut and gritted her teeth. What was it about that man that got under her skin? Why had she let him kiss her again? He was right.

  Jabbing her key into the ignition, she twisted her wrist and the engine sparked on the first try.

  Face it, Detective, you want me.

  Oh, if he only knew. The taste of him was still on her lips and her blood was thundering through her veins. Oh, yes, she wanted him, but she couldn’t have him. The whole idea was ludicrous and completely out of character for her. She switched on the headlights and wipers, then pushed the heater’s control lever to high.

  Nimbly, she swung her car into reverse, her headlights slashed across the lot to land on Matt, standing feet spread apart, arms crossed over his wide chest, eyes trained on her vehicle. She threw the car into drive and stepped on the throttle. Yes, damn it, I want you, but that’s as far as it’s gonna go. You, Mr. McCafferty, are strictly taboo!

  * * *

  Matt braced himself as he walked back to the house. He saw the censure in Slade’s dark gaze. “What the hell was that all about?” Slade demanded. He flicked his cigarette butt into the air and the red ember arced in the darkness to sizzle in a snowbank.

  “What?”

  “You and the policewoman, and don’t try to deny it. I thought you were keeping your eye on the police department to see that they were doing their job.”

  “I am.”

  “By kissing the detective investigating the case?” Slade snorted. “You’re trying to get her into bed, for God’s sake.”

  “Back off, Slade. I’m handling things.”

  “You’re stepping over the line. She needs to be thinking about the attacks on Randi and nothing else. And you—” he poked a thick finger at his brother’s chest “—keep your head on straight.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Matt said sharply, his back muscles tightening.

  “You have a job to do!”

  Matt grabbed his younger brother by the shirtfront. “I said back off and I meant it.” He pushed his face so close to Slade’s that in the porch light he could see the color throb in the scar running along the side of his brother’s face.

  “Hold on. Both of you.” Kurt’s eyes were narrowed and he was gazing down the lane where the taillights of Kelly’s rig had so recently disappeared. “I think this could work out.”

  “How?” Matt demanded, turning his attention onto the detective, though he still wanted to throw a punch.

  Kurt’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed the stubble of his jaw. “Pillow talk.” His gaze took in both brothers.

  Slade’s lips thinned. “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.” Matt’s fist uncurled and he stepped away from his brother, only to level a killing glare at Striker.

  Kurt didn’t back down. “Before you do something we’ll both regret,” he said, “hear me out. We all know that sometimes women say things in bed that they wouldn’t otherwise. This could definitely work to our advantage, as Detective Dillinger is so involved with the case.”

  “That’s not the point,” Matt argued.

  “It’s precisely the point. We’re all working together, right? Toward a common goal. To find out who the hell’s trying to kill your sister, and I figure we can do it by any means possible. So you kiss the woman, so you bed her. Big deal. It’s not as if you have to fall in love with her. She’s here, you live far away, but for the meantime, you could enjoy yourself for a while. At least you’ll find out whatever it is the police might be holding back.”

  “If she talks,” Slade interjected.

  “She will if given the right motivation. They all do.” With that Kurt took off and jogged across the snowy parking lot to his four-wheel drive vehicle, leaving Matt with a bad taste in his mouth.

  “I don’t like him,” he said to Slade.

  “You don’t have to. Just do what he says.” His lips were compressed, his blue eyes harsh. “You want to bed Ms. Dillinger, anyway. Now you’ve got an excuse.”

  Chapter 8

  Kelly stomped on the accelerator and told herself she’d just won the medal for moron of the century. What had come over her? What was she thinking, flirting so outrageously, kissing Matt, for crying out loud? It was just plain nuts! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let herself fall for Matt McCafferty. To let him kiss her was bad enough, but had she let it go at that? Oh, no, she had to challenge him, and even now, ten minutes later, she felt the heat, tingle and impression of his lips against hers.

  “Idiot,” she growled, clenching the steering wheel hard. She drove to Grand Hope as if possessed, parked and stormed up the flight of stairs to her living area. This damned case was making her crazy, that was it. She was losing her perspective.

  She spent the rest of the night going over the computer printout of Randi’s novel, making notes, drumming her fingers, reading passages over and over again, trying to gain some insight into the mind of Matt’s half sister. The McCaffertys’ housekeeper seemed to think this book was important; Kelly didn’t see how. As far as she could tell it was fiction. She found no clues as to the identity of Randi’s attacker, nor did she discover a hint about little J.R.’s father.

  But the rodeo scenario bothered her. Not only had Randi’s father followed the rodeo circuit, but two of her brothers, Matt and Slade, as well. And then there was Randi herself, into barrel racing and crowned a rodeo princess.

  Kelly tapped her pencil against her teeth. So Randi found the whole cowboy thing fascinating, to the point that she’d been involved recently, however briefly, with Sam Donahue, a man who had grown up around these parts and joined the rodeo circuit soon after he’d graduated from high school.

  So how did it all tie into Randi’s book? Or did it? Was it significant? Or another false lead? One of far too many.

  “It’s a waste of time,” she told herself, stretching in her chair at the kitchen table and eyeing the clock. It was well after midnight. She couldn’t keep her eyes open and tumbled into bed where she spent a restless night, tossing and turning and dreaming of a rangy cowboy whose kisses stole the breath from her lungs.

  By the time she’d walked into the office the next morning and dropped the rough draft of Randi’s manuscript on the corner of Espinoza’s desk, she’d tried and failed to push Matt McCafferty out of her mind.

  “This is about all Striker found,” she said as Espinoza picked up the rough draft of the manuscript and riffled through the pages. She placed the disk on top of the printout.

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “Just that she has a vivid imagination.” Kelly leaned against the file cabinet and gave him the blow-by-blow of the night before.

  He skimmed the pages and shook his head. “It bothers me that the Seattle police didn’t find this.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I think you’d better check with them, ask them about Striker when you’re there.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a thick envelope, then slapped it into Kelly’s hand. “Airline tickets,” he explained. “You leave tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “Son of a bitch!�
�� Matt slammed down the receiver and caught a warning glare from Thorne, who was seated at the kitchen table with Nicole, J.R. and the twins as they all were trying and failing to play Go Fish. Nicole was balancing the baby on her lap while the twins slapped cards willy-nilly. Thorne was attempting to teach the four-year-olds the basics of the game while half-drunk cups of cocoa steamed and the bowl of popcorn had been reduced to a few unpopped kernels sitting in a pool of melted butter.

  The scene was way too domestic for Matt. Who would have thought Thorne could become such a family man? But there he was discussing the upcoming wedding with his fiancée, laughing with the twins and taking the time to relax.

  “Trouble?” Thorne asked.

  “Yeah, there was a major storm in the mountains and it took out a lot of the power and phone lines. I can’t get through to Kavanaugh.” He glanced out the window to the dark night beyond and silently swore. He’d worked damned hard for that scrap of land near the Idaho border; it had been his pride and joy, his proof that he could make it on his own, without John Randall’s help. Without anyone’s. He always figured he’d eventually find a good woman to settle down there, raise his family and die on the land he’d claimed as his own. When the time came, he figured his ashes would be scattered in the wind, near the pond by the barn.

  But lately he’d been thinking of giving it all up, relinquishing his dream.

  For what?

  For Kelly Dillinger.

  Hell, what had happened to him in the past couple of weeks?

  “You’ll just have to be patient.” Thorne picked up a card from the discard pile and tossed off another. “Mike will call when he can.”

  Matt didn’t like it. He poured himself a cup of day-old coffee he didn’t want and glared out the window. He needed to get back to his own place, to check on his stock, to reconnect with what was his. Day by day he was feeling less a part of his own spread and more entrenched in life back here in Grand Hope. His brothers, the kids, Randi…and, though he hated to admit it, Kelly Dillinger, all played a big part in his newfound roots at the Flying M.