The Mccaffertys: Matt

The guy was getting to her. Again. He had a way of nettling her—getting under her skin and irritating her. Kind of like a burr caught beneath a horse’s saddle. McCafferty straightened, swept his hat from his head and raked stiff fingers through his near-black, wavy hair. “Before someone actually dies.”

“The feds are involved in the plane crash.”

“That doesn’t seem to be helping a whole helluva lot.”

“We’re doing everything in our power to—”

“It’s not enough,” he cut in. Again fire flared in his eyes. “Are you in charge of this investigation, Detective?” he asked, casting a glance at the badge she wore so proudly. He was crushing the brim of his Stetson in fingers that blanched white at the knuckles.

She held on to her patience, but just barely. “I think we’ve been over this before. Detective Espinoza has been assigned the case. I’m assisting him, as I was the first on the scene of your sister’s wreck.”

“Then I’m wasting my time with you.”

That stung. Kelly gritted her teeth and stood.

“Tell Espinoza I want to talk to him.”

“He’s not in right now.”

“I’ll wait.”

“It might be a while.”

Matt McCafferty looked as if he might explode. He dropped his hat on a nearby folding chair and leaned over her desk again, shoving some file folders out of the way as he pushed his face closer, so that the tip of his nose nearly touched hers. The air seemed to crackle. The smell of wet suede, horses and a faint hint of pine reached her nostrils. Snow had melted on the shoulders of his sheepskin jacket, and there were a few damp spots on his face. His fists opened and closed in frustration on the desktop. “You have to understand, Detective, this is my family we’re talking about,” he said in a low whisper that had more impact than if he’d raged. “My family. Now, the way I see it, my sister was nearly killed, and not only that but she was nine months pregnant at the time.”

“I know—”

“Do you? Can you imagine what she went through? She went into labor when her Jeep careered over that embankment and crashed. She was just lucky someone came along and called 911. Between the paramedics and the doctors over at St. James Hospital and a lot of help from the man upstairs, she pulled through.”

“And the baby survived,” she pointed out, remembering all too clearly the condition of mother and son.

Matt wasn’t about to be deterred. Like a runaway freight train gathering steam, he kept right on. “After a bout of meningitis.”

Her fingers coiled over a pen on the desk. “I understand all this—”

“Fortunately little J.R. is a McCafferty. He’s tough. He pulled through.”

“So he’s fine,” she reminded him, trying to keep emotions out of the conversation, which, of course, was impossible.

“Fine?” He snorted. “I guess you might say so, except that he needs his mom, who is still comatose and lying in a hospital room.” For a brief second Matt McCafferty actually seemed as if he cared about his nephew, and his brown eyes darkened in concern. That got to Kelly, though she refused to show it. Of course he was worried about the kid—McCaffertys always looked after their own. To the exclusion of all others. “And that’s not all, Detective,” he added.

“I’m sure not,” she drawled, and he scowled at her patronizing tone.

“It’s a miracle that Thorne survived the plane crash and ended up with only a few cuts and bruises and a broken leg.”

Amen to that. Thorne was the eldest McCafferty brother, a millionaire oilman who hailed from Denver. He’d been flying the company jet back to Grand Hope, hit bad weather and gone down.

“The way I see it, either the McCaffertys are having one helluva string of bad luck, or someone’s out to get us.”

“Randi was driving and hit an icy patch. Your brother was flying alone in the middle of a snowstorm. Bad luck? Or bad judgment?”

“Or, as I said, a potential murderer on the loose.”

“Who?” she asked, meeting his glare, not backing down an inch though she was beginning to sweat, and the office, filled by his presence, seemed even smaller than usual.

“That’s what I was hopin’ you’d tell me.”

God, he was close to her. Too close. The desk between them seemed a small barrier.

“Believe me, Mr. McCafferty—”

“Matt. Call me Matt. There’re too damned many McCaffertys to call us by our last name.”

She wouldn’t argue that point.

“And somehow I have the feelin’ that you and I, we’ll be workin’ real close together on this one. I intend to stick to you like glue until you find out who the hell is behind this, so we may as well cut the formalities.”

The thought of working closely with anyone named McCafferty stuck in Kelly’s craw, and this one, this damnably sexy, cocksure cowboy, was the most irritating of the lot, but she didn’t have much choice in the matter. “All right, Matt. As I was saying, we’re trying our best here to find out the truth behind both accidents. Everyone in the department is busting their hump to figure this mess out.”

“Not fast enough,” he growled.

“And none of us, me especially—” she hooked a thumb at her chest “—needs anyone looking over her shoulder.” She stuffed the pen in the mug on her desk. “Didn’t you hire your own private detective?”

His thin lips tightened a fraction.

“A man by the name of Kurt Striker?” She folded her arms across her chest.

He nodded. “We thought we needed more help.”

“So what has he got to say?”

“That he thinks there’s foul play,” McCafferty said, his eyes narrowing on Kelly as if he couldn’t quite figure her out. Tough. She was used to men distrusting her as a detective because she was a woman, and that’s what Matt McCafferty was saying; she could read it in his eyes. Well, that was just too damned bad. She wasn’t about to be bullied or intimidated. Not by anyone. Not even one of the high-and-mighty McCaffertys. Matt’s father, John Randall, had once been a rich, powerful and influential man in the county, and his descendants thought they could still throw their collective weights around. Well, not here.

“Has Striker got any proof that someone’s behind the accidents?” she asked.

Hesitation.

“I didn’t think so.” She slipped from the desk. “That’s it. Now, listen, I have work to do, and I don’t need you barging in here and making demands and—”

“Striker says there’s some paint on Randi’s rig. Maroon. Maybe from the other car when she was forced off the road.”

“If she was forced off,” Kelly reminded him. “She could have scraped another vehicle in a parking lot at home in Seattle for all we know. And we already know about the paint, so don’t come in here and insinuate that the department is inefficient or incompetent or any of the above, because we’re just being thorough. Got it?”

“Listen—”

“No, you listen to me, okay?” Her temper was stretched to the breaking point as she stepped around the desk and went toe-to-toe with him. “This force is doing everything in its power to try and find out what happened to your sister and your brother. Everything! We don’t take either accident lightly, believe you me. But we’re not jumping off the deep end here, either. Your sister’s Jeep could have hit ice. It’s just possible she lost control of the vehicle, it slid off the road up in Glacier and she ended up in the hospital in a damned coma. As for your brother, he was taking a big chance with his life flying a small craft in one helluva snowstorm. The engines failed. We’ll determine why. We haven’t yet ruled out foul play. We’re just being careful. The department can’t afford to go off half-cocked and making blind assumptions or accusations.”

“Meanwhile someone might be trying to kill off my family.”

“Who?” she demanded as she rounded the desk again, plopped down in her worn chair and took up her pen. Yanking a yellow legal pad from the credenza behind her, she dropped it on the desk and sat ready, ballpoint pressed against the clean sheet of paper. “Give me a list of suspects, anyone you know who might hold a grudge against the McCafferty clan.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “There are dozens.”

“Names, McCafferty, I want names.” She hoped she sounded professional, because he was cutting a little too close to the bone with his damned insinuations.

“You should know a few,” he said, and though she wanted to, she didn’t allow herself to rise to the bait.

“Don’t beat around the bush.”

“Okay, let’s start with your family,” he shot out.

Kelly’s back went up. “No one in my family has any ax to grind with your brother or half sister.” She raised her eyes and met the simmering anger in his.

“Just my dad.”

“Lots of people had problems with him. But he’s gone. And my family aren’t potential murderers, okay? So let’s not even go there.” She bit out the words but wouldn’t give in to the white-hot anger that threatened to take hold of her tongue. The nerve of the man. “Now…” She clicked the pen again. “Who would want to harm your sister, Randi, and your brother Thorne?”

Some of the anger seemed to drain from him. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m sure Thorne’s made his share of enemies. You don’t get to be a millionaire without someone being envious.”

“Envious enough to try and kill him?” Kelly said.

“Damn, I’d hope not, but…” He closed his eyes for a second. “I don’t know.”

That, at least, sounded honest. “He’s based out of Denver, isn’t he?”

“He was. The corporate headquarters are there.”

“But he’s moving back here and getting married.” It wasn’t a question, but Matt nodded and Kelly noticed the way his dark hair shone under the humming fluorescent lamps. He unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a flannel shirt stretched over a broad chest. Black hairs sprang from the opening at the neck. She tore her eyes away, gave herself a swift mental kick for noticing any part of his male anatomy and scribbled down some notes about Thorne, the oldest of the brothers.

“Yeah, he’s marrying Nicole Stevenson.” Matt managed a half smile that was incredibly and irritatingly sexy. “Lots of people are losing that particular bet.”

Kelly understood. Thorne, like his brothers, had been a confirmed bachelor. He, along with Matt and the youngest brother, Slade, had raised holy hell in high school and cut a wide swath through the local girls. Rich, handsome and smart to the point of arrogance, they’d soon been regarded as the most eligible bachelors in the county and thereby broken more than their share of hearts. Matt, in particular, had earned the reputation of being a ladies’ man. Love ’Em and Leave ’Em McCafferty.

But now it seemed that the first of the invincible and never-to-be-wed brothers was about to fall victim to matrimony. The bride was an emergency room doctor at the local hospital, a single mother with twin girls.

“Okay, so what about your sister?” she asked, trying to keep her mind on business. “Any known enemies?”

Annoyance pulled the smile off of Matt’s cocky jaw. This wasn’t new territory. Ever since the accident, the sheriff’s department had been looking into Randi’s life. “I don’t know,” Matt admitted. “I’m sure she had her share. Hell, she wrote a column for the Seattle Clarion.”

“Advice to the lovelorn?” Kelly filled in.

“More than that. It’s more like general, no-nonsense advice to single people. It’s called—”

“‘Solo.’ I know. I’ve got copies on file,” she said, not admitting that she’d found his sister’s wry outlook on single life interesting and amusing. “But most of the advice she gave was about a single person’s love life.”

“Ironic, wouldn’t you say?” Matt said, walking to the far side of the room and shaking his head. Turning, he leaned his shoulders against a bookcase. “She gave out all this advice—the column was syndicated, picked up by other papers as well—and yet she winds up pregnant and nearly dies behind the wheel and no one even knows who the father of her kid is.”

“I’d call that more than ironic, I’d call it downright odd.” She clicked her pen several times, then motioned to the one empty chair on the far side of her desk. “You could have a seat.”

He eyed the chair just as the phone in her office rang.

“Excuse me.” Lifting the receiver, she said, “Dillinger.”

“Sorry to bother you, but Bob is on the line,” Stella said, still sounding nervous from her failed attempt to keep Matt McCafferty in line.

“I’ll talk with him.” She held up a hand toward Matt as Roberto Espinoza’s voice boomed over the wires. He was out at the Haines farm and was reporting that they’d found Dora, carrying her cat as she trudged through the snow in her housecoat and slippers, following a trail that cut through the woods to a steep slope where, she had explained to Detective Espinoza, her father had taken her sledding as a girl.

“A sad case,” Bob said on a sigh, then added that Dora was now on her way to St. James Hospital by ambulance. The paramedics who had examined her were concerned about exposure, frostbite and senility, which could translate into something deeper. Her husband, Albert, was beside himself. “I’m heading over to St. James myself and I’ll see you when I’m finished there,” Bob added.

“I’ll meet you,” Kelly said, and glanced at the McCafferty brother filling up a good portion of her office. “When you’ve got a minute you might want to speak to Matt McCafferty. He’s here now.” While Matt listened, his expression intense, Kelly explained the concerns of the McCafferty family to her boss.

“Arrogant son of a bitch.” Espinoza let out a whistling breath. “As if we’re not doing everything humanly possible.” She heard the click of a lighter and then a deep sigh. “Tell him to cool his jets. I’ll see him as soon as I’m finished dictating a report on Dora.”

“Will do.” Kelly hung up and relayed the message. “He’ll see you soon. In the meantime you’re supposed to stay cool.”

“Like hell. I’ve been cool way too long and nothing’s being done.”

She let that one slide. As far as Kelly was concerned the meeting was over. She stood and reached for her hat and coat, then flipped open the blinds. “I’ve got work to do, McCafferty. Detective Espinoza said he’d call you and he will.” She opened the door and stood, silently inviting him to leave. “Got it?”

“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 TWO

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.