The Mccaffertys: Slade

CHAPTER THREE

“WELL, THAT WENT SWIMMINGLY,” Jamie rumbled under her breath as she carried her briefcase and a sack of groceries into her grandmother’s house. Driving into town from the Flying M she’d second-guessed herself and cursed C. William “Chuck” Jansen a dozen times over for assigning her to the McCafferty project.

“Since you’re heading to Grand Hope anyway, I thought you could help the firm out,” Chuck had said as he’d sat familiarly on the corner of the desk in her office, one leg swinging, his wing-tip gleaming in the soft lighting. His boyish smile had been wide, his suit expensive, his shirt, as always, starched and crisply pressed. He’d tugged at his Yves St. Laurent tie. “I think it would be a good idea to put a face on Jansen, Monteith and Stone for the McCafferty family. John Randall McCafferty was an excellent client of the firm and the partners would like to keep the McCaffertys’ business. Maybe even get a little more. Thorne McCafferty is a millionaire several times over in his own right, and the second son, Matt—he owns his own place. He’s basically a small-time rancher, but he also seems to have some of that McCafferty-Midas touch. The third son…”

Jamie recalled how Chuck’s brows had knit and his lips had folded together thoughtfully while she had conjured up a few unwelcome memories of Slade and nearly snapped her pen in two. “Well, there’s always one in the family, I suppose. The third son, Slade—he never amounted to much. Lots of potential, but couldn’t get it together. Too busy raising hell. He drove race cars and rode rodeo and even led expeditions for extreme skiing, I think. Always on the edge, but never getting his life together.

“But John Randall’s only daughter, Randi—she’s a real firecracker—takes after the old man. No wonder she was named after him.”

Jamie tried to ignore the comments about Slade and concentrated on his half sister. She remembered Randi as being smart, sassy and McCafferty-stubborn.

“She’s got her own daily column, ‘Solo’ or ‘Being Single’ or something,” Chuck had continued. “Writes for a Seattle newspaper. There’s some talk of syndication, I think. And Thorne mentioned that she could have been working on a book at the time of the accident.”

“Thorne McCafferty used to work here, didn’t he?” Jamie had asked, twiddling her pen and not liking the turn of the conversation. Especially not any reference to Slade.

“Yes, yes, that’s right. He was a junior partner years ago. Then went out on his own. Moved to Denver. But he still throws us a bone once in a while. So, I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be a plum to nail down the corporate account, steal it away from that Denver firm he deals with?” Chuck’s eyes had sparked with a competitive fire Jamie hadn’t witnessed in a while.

“I thought you were going to retire.”

“In a couple of years, yes,” he’d admitted, winking at her. “But why not go out in a blaze, hmm? It’ll only make my share of the firm worth more, hence my retirement…we could buy a sailboat and sail to Tahiti or Fiji or—”

“I’ll still have a job.”

“Not if you marry me.”

She’d squirmed. Chuck had been pressuring her lately and she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. There had been a time when she’d thought that enough money could buy happiness, that the reason Slade McCafferty hadn’t been interested in her was because she was poor, from the wrong side of the tracks, and didn’t have the social status of Sue Ellen Tisdale. But over the years she’d changed her opinion about financial success and its rewards. She’d met plenty of miserable millionaires.

“Listen.” Chuck had rapped his knuckles on the desk as he’d straightened. “Think about it when you’re in Grand Hope. Being Mrs. Chuck Jansen wouldn’t be all that bad, not that I’m pressuring you.”

“Right,” she’d said, and managed a smile.

“We’ll talk when you get back.” He’d said it with the same confidence he oozed in a courtroom.

“What a mess,” Jamie muttered to herself as she adjusted the thermostat while, presumably, back in Missoula, Chuck was waiting, expecting her to get off the fence and accept his proposal.

But she couldn’t. Not yet.

Why?

Chuck was smart. Educated. Clever. Good-looking. Wealthy. His share of the business was worth a bundle and then there was his stock portfolio and two homes.

He also has a bitter ex-wife, her mind nagged. And three college-age kids. He doesn’t want any more.

Jamie thought of Randi McCafferty and her newborn son, the way the baby’s eyes had twinkled in adoration at his mother. Her heartstrings tugged. God, how she wanted a baby of her own, a baby to love. Could she marry Chuck, become a stepmother to nearly grown children, never raise a daughter or son of her own, one she conceived with a husband who made her heart pound and brought a smile to her lips? For a second Slade’s face flashed through Jamie’s mind. “Oh, stop it,” she growled at herself in frustration. Just because she’d been thrown back here and had to face him, she’d started fantasizing. “You’re pathetic, Parsons. Pa-thetic.” She started to unpack the groceries, but couldn’t forget how surprised she’d been at Slade’s easy manner with his twin nieces and tiny nephew. Who would have thought?

Ironic, she thought, touching her flat abdomen. But, once upon a time…

“Don’t even go there,” she chastised herself, stocking the cupboard with a few cans of soup and a box of crackers, then stuffing a quart of milk and jug of orange juice into the old refrigerator.

She remembered turning into the lane of the Flying M this afternoon. Her nerves had been stretched tight as piano wire, her hands sweating inside her gloves. But that had been just the start of it. Finally facing Slade again—oh, Lord, that had been the worst; more difficult than she’d even imagined.

He’d changed in the past fifteen years. His body had filled out, his shoulders were broader, his chest wider, though his hips were as lean as she remembered. At that thought, she colored, remembering the first time she’d seen him without clothes—at the swimming hole when he’d yanked off his cutoffs, revealing that he hadn’t bothered wearing any underwear. She’d glimpsed white buttocks that had contrasted to his tanned back and muscular legs, and caught sight of something more, a part of male anatomy she’d never seen before.

Oh, God, she’d been such an innocent. Of course he’d changed physically. Hard-living and years had a way of doing that to a body. Slade’s face was more angular than it had been; a thin scar ran down one side of his face, but his eyes were still as blue as a Montana sky.

She’d noticed that he’d limped slightly. And there was something in his expression, a darkness in his eyes, that betrayed him, a shadow of pain. Okay, so he had his war wounds; some more visible than others. Didn’t everyone? She folded the grocery sack and slipped it into the pantry.

She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between Sue Ellen and him, though she imagined Sue Ellen was just one of dozens. The McCafferty boys had been legendary in their conquests. Hadn’t she been one?

“Who cares,” she growled as she picked up her coat and hung it in the hall closet where Nana’s vacuum cleaner still stood guard. All the McCafferty boys had been hellions, teenagers who had disregarded the law. Slade had been no exception. While Thorne had been an athlete, and toed the line more than either of his brothers, Matt had been rumored to be a lady-killer with his lazy smile and rodeo daring, and Slade had gained the reputation of a daredevil, a boy who’d fearlessly climbed the most jagged peaks, kayaked down raging rivers and skied to the extreme on the most treacherous slopes—all of which had been accomplished over his father’s vehement protests.

But it had been a thousand years ago. She’d been a rebellious girl trying to fit in. Not a grown woman with a law degree. Sensible, she reminded herself. These days she was sensible.

And sometimes she hated it.

* * *

“DON’T LECTURE ME,” Randi ordered as Slade walked into the den. She was seated at Thorne’s computer, glasses propped on the end of her nose, the baby sleeping in a playpen in the corner.

“Did I say a word?”

“You didn’t have to. I can see it in your face. You’re an open book, Slade.”

“Like hell.” He propped a hip against the edge of the desk. “I think you and I need to clear the air.”

The corners of her mouth tightened a fraction. “Just a sec.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “You can’t believe how much e-mail I’ve collected…” With a wry smile, she clicked off and added, “It’s great to be loved. Now, as I was saying, don’t start in on me about the baby’s father. It’s my business. So if that’s what you mean by ‘clearing the air,’ let’s just keep it foggy.”

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“So you keep reminding me, over and over.” Something darkened her eyes for a heartbeat. Fear? Anger? He couldn’t tell, and the shadow quickly disappeared. Standing slightly, she leaned over the desk, pushing aside a cup of pens and pencils. “I get enough advice from Thorne. And Nicole. And Matt and even Juanita.” Pointing an accusing finger at his nose, she said, “From you, I expect understanding.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me to understand.”

“That I need some space. Some privacy. Come on, Slade, you know what it’s like for the whole damned family to be talking about you, worrying about you, clucking around like a bunch of hens. It’s enough to drive a sane person crazy. That’s why you and I both moved away from Grand Hope in the first place.”

“So who says you’re sane?”

“Oh, so now you’re a comedian,” she quipped, smothering a smile as she took off her glasses and leaned back into her chair. Large brown eyes assessed him. “What’s with that private detective?”

“Striker?”

“Yeah, him. I hear he’s your friend.”

“He is.”

“Humph.” She frowned, fluffing up her short locks with nervous fingers. “There’s a reason they’re called dicks, you know.”

He snorted. “Testy, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. We don’t like being watched around the clock, spied upon, our lives being dissected. Tell him to lay off. I don’t like him digging around in my personal life.”

“No way, kiddo. It was my idea to bring him into the investigation.”

“And it was a bad one. We don’t need him.” She was adamant. “We’ve got the sheriff’s department. Detective Espinoza seems to be doing a decent enough job. Kelly should never have quit the department to work with Striker.”

Something was going on here; something Randi wasn’t admitting. “Is it Striker you don’t like? Or P.I.s in general?”

“Both. Aren’t the police enough?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Kurt’s just trying to help us find the bastard who wants you dead. You might be a little more helpful, you know. It’s like you’re hiding something.”

“What?”

“You tell me.”

“I would if I could,” she snapped. “But that’s just not possible right now. However, if I remember anything, anything at all, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Yeah, right. Then try concentrating on something besides people I dated fifteen years ago.”

Randi’s eyes narrowed. “It bothers you, doesn’t it? What happened with Jamie?”

“I haven’t thought about it much.”

“Until now.” His sister’s smile was nearly wicked. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he said, knowing as the word passed his teeth it was a lie. Jamie had gotten to him. Already. And he felt an unlikely need to explain himself, to set the record straight about the Sue Ellen thing.

Or is that just an excuse to see her again? Face it McCafferty, you haven’t been interested in a woman since Rebecca, but one look at the lady attorney and you’ve barely thought of anything else.

“So what’re you working on?” He pointed at the computer and shoved his nagging thoughts aside.

“Catching up on a billion e-mails,” she said. “I’ve been out of the loop awhile. It’ll take days to go through all of these and I’ve got to get my own laptop back. This one is Thorne’s and I don’t think he appreciates me monopolizing it as it’s his main link to his office in Denver.”

“He’s got a desktop ordered. It should be here any day.”

“That’ll solve some problems.”

“Where’s your laptop?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know…I can’t remember…but…why don’t you ask Kurt Striker. I hear both he and the police have been in my apartment. Damn.” She raked her fingers through her short, uneven hair, and when she looked up at Slade, her expression was troubled. “I’m really not trying to be a pain, Slade. I know everyone’s trying to help me, but it’s so frustrating. I feel like it’s really important for me to get back home, to look through my stuff, to write on my own computer, but I can’t remember what’s on the damned thing, probably just ideas and research for future columns, but I feel like it could help—that it might be the reason some psycho is after me.”

“Maybe it is,” he said. “Juanita said you were working on a book.”

“So I’ve heard. But…” She sighed loudly. “I can’t remember what it’s about.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to find the damned laptop, won’t we? Striker’s still working on it.”

“Striker. Oh, great,” she muttered as Slade left her.

In the kitchen, he yanked his jacket from a hook near the back door and walked outside. The late-afternoon sky was already dark, the air brisk.

Overhead, clouds threatened to dump more snow. Not that he cared. He climbed into his pickup, started the engine and cranked on the wheel. He’d drive into town, have a drink and…and what?

See Jamie again ran through his mind.

“Damn it all to hell.” He threw the truck into first and reached for his pack of smokes. He’d always gotten himself into trouble where women were concerned and he knew, as the tires slid on a slick patch of packed snow, that he hadn’t changed over the years.

He could deny it to himself up one side and down the other, but the truth of the matter was, he intended to see Jamie again and he intended to do it tonight.