That Man Matthews

“No.”

“Does she get enough sleep?”

“The kid sleeps like a rock.”

“No insomnia? No nightmares?”

“Nightmares? No. Where are you going with this?”

“Sometimes the symptoms of ADD can mimic other problems. You have to eliminate other possibilities that could be causing this behavior. Dyslexia, for instance. Or anxiety. Even depression.”

Cody made a face at that. “Sarah isn’t dyslexic, and she has nothing to feel anxious or depressed about.”

“Mr. Matthews, do you or any other family members suffer from ADD?”

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

Another sore subject, she thought. But she had to be honest with the man. For Sarah’s sake. “It tends to run in families. What about on her mother’s side?”

“We don’t have much contact with her mother’s side of the family. But from Daphne…no.”

Hesitation in that short answer caused her to snap a direct look his way, but judging by the look on Cody Matthews’s face, this, too, was forbidden territory. She sighed, setting her pencil down. When she spoke, her tone was soft, carefully neutral. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to help much. No single question or test can determine if a child has ADD. Have you considered taking Sarah to someone who can give her a complete neurological examination? Someone who can also work up a detailed history of Sarah’s past?”

The soft illumination from the dining-room light revealed an evasiveness on his face. His eyes and mouth had become almost too indifferent, too implacable, yet there was an odd vulnerability in the mask of his features. As annoyed as she was with this deception, she felt moved by his desperation, because a man like Cody Matthews couldn’t begin to fathom a once-loving child who now indulged in an insolent indifference to reason.

He looked down at his hands to see that he had made fists of them, and his brow furrowed as though he found the sight surprising. He played with the handle of his teacup, and she watched him wrestle with his reluctance. “I don’t want someone poking and prying into family business, upsetting Sarah with a bunch of questions. I just want my daughter back.”

The admission seemed torn from him, and he fell silent, into the pit of what he probably considered parental failure. Observing him, Joan felt sure there was a weight of sorrow here she didn’t fully comprehend, some dark, unknown current too strong to chance exploring.

She could see now why his father had said Cody Matthews was likely to balk at outside help, why he had deliberately sabotaged their first meeting. He was a proud man, a proud parent. He’d obviously been determined to immerse himself in practicalities, weathering Sarah’s stormy behavior with a pragmatic unsentimentality until the worst was over. Unfortunately the worst had stayed and stayed, until the man was left with no more choices.

Matthews had turned his head, pretending an interest in the scratch of a magnolia branch outside the window. Without thinking, Joan laid her hand on his forearm to recapture his attention.

“Mr. Matthews, there’s no shame in a father admitting he doesn’t understand his daughter. The fact that you’re trying to help her now, that you’re willing to consider other alternatives, is a very positive sign….”

The words trailed away as his head swung back, his glance falling to his arm where her hand still lay. He looked at her, and she thought the blue of his short-sleeved shirt turned his eyes almost turquoise, so brilliant against the sooty blackness of his lashes. There was something new in the look he gave her, something besides frustration and fatigue. It brought a quick, suffocating tightness to her chest, alarming in its intensity, yet carrying with it the gentleness of a caress.

His head tilted toward her as though in puzzlement, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “My father thinks you’re some kind of miracle worker. Are you?”

“No,” she murmured, suddenly barely able to draw breath.

He smiled, no more than a lazy curl of his lips. She wasn’t sure whether it was one of acceptance or subtle mockery, but it was absurdly charming nonetheless, a smile made to make a woman melt. More disturbing, Joan realized how easily she could fall victim to it.

“I’m a man in need of miracles, Joan Paxton. Work just this one,” he said in a silken tone, “and whatever you want most in life, I’ll see to it that it’s yours.”

It was all silly imagination, wasn’t it? The way his words seemed to work in some secret place within her. She felt as though her center of balance had radically altered, and that all the forbidden fantasies of last night’s dream were on the verge of materializing into life.

His eyes were still on her. She lost the courage to hold his gaze and lowered her head—to discover that her hand was still poised on his arm. The hard muscled flesh felt warm. The feathering of crisp, dark hair tickled her palm. She disengaged her hand so quickly that an outsider might have thought she’d burned herself.

She rose abruptly. The stack of paperwork on the corner of the table slid to the carpet. Willing away her awareness of him, she picked up their cups in a rush that surely must have been embarrassingly noticeable. “What I’d like is a little more tea. How about you?”

By the time she finished speaking she was in the kitchen, so she didn’t catch his response. She knew it was ridiculous, but the thought of rejoining him in the dining room, where the energy in the air moved like an invisible tide, seemed more than she could manage at the moment. Instead, she asked from the safe distance of the kitchen doorway, “Did you say you wanted another cup?”

He was bending to retrieve the paperwork from the floor, but he lifted his head long enough to give her a wry glance. “No, thank you. I’m not really a tea drinker.”

She turned back to the kitchen counter, concentrating on pouring water from the kettle. The odd intensity that had crackled between them only moments ago had passed, but the silence was becoming uncomfortable. She should say something, shouldn’t she? But just when she found an innocuous topic, he stunned her with his next words.

“So, you’ll come to my ranch?”

Sure she’d heard incorrectly, she returned to the kitchen doorway, kettle in hand. “What?”

He was sorting through the jumble of paper, stacking it neatly into piles. “I want to hire you to come to Luna D’Oro. You can evaluate Sarah in person.”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“I have obligations here.”

“No, you don’t. I told you, I know all about your quitting your job, moving out on your boyfriend. One of your fellow teachers—Marilyn, I think her name was—seemed fascinated by the whole thing. She didn’t have all the reasons why, but she liked to talk, and I know when to listen.”

“I’ll definitely have to speak to her about that.”

“Money’s not an issue,” he continued. His blue eyes sparkled.

The still-hot kettle was almost unnoticed in her hand, and she repositioned her fingers around the handle. “It doesn’t have anything to do with money. I don’t have the qualifications you’re looking for.”

“I disagree. Do you think that when it comes to Sarah, I’d take suggestions from just anyone? I checked your credentials. In addition to teaching, you act as an educational therapist for your school. You were invited to take part in that seminar in Austin because of a paper you had published in Higher Education. You know your stuff. And while I may not agree with your findings, I think you’d be impartial. Objective.”

“It takes time to do a complete evaluation.”

“You can take as long as you like. You don’t have a new job to start until the fall, do you? And only if you get that position in Oregon.”

“I’m definitely crossing Marilyn’s name out of my address book,” she muttered.

“But you’ll come?”

“It isn’t just Sarah who would have to be evaluated. It’s important to know how she interacts with others in the family. It would mean a huge emotional investment from every member of the household.”

“I’ll make sure everyone cooperates.”

She gave him a tight challenging look. “Including you?”

“If I have to.”

She withdrew to the kitchen with the excuse that the kettle needed fresh water. While she ran tap water into it, she stared at the wall, thinking.

It was so odd, really, to be mouthing so many objections to Cody Matthews’s idea, yet at the same time, to be overcome by a moment of complete exhilaration and conviction. She could help Sarah Matthews. She could help father and daughter develop coping skills if it turned out the child did have ADD. She’d experienced such conviction before, but never without gathering more information, and certainly never without at least meeting the child in question. But somehow, she just…knew.