Most Wanted Dad

“In that case,” he said, stepping up onto the front porch, “you’ll have to make this short walk again this evening.”

Mattie mumbled something under her breath. He caught and ignored the word stupid, not wanting to know whether it had been applied to him, their new neighbor or Mattie herself. He rapped smartly on the door, then pushed the doorbell for good measure. While he was waiting, he looked around at the front of the house. There was a brick loose in the border on the empty flower bed at the front of the porch, and several nails had pulled out of the soffit, leaving the underside of the eave—which needed painting—looking dilapidated. He could see a bit of flashing hanging down at the edge of the roof, too, and one of the window screens was torn. The place definitely needed some work.

Mrs. Slater was either single or married to a remarkably uncaring man.

The door opened, revealing a plump woman with short brown hair who obviously did nothing to enhance her appearance. Her hair was uncombed, her clothing unkempt, none of which detracted from her pretty face. In fact, her eyes were quite stunning, and then he realized he was staring down into them.

“Oh. Ah, I, um, hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

She pushed a hand through her hair. Her eyelashes were golden, he noticed, and her eyes a very bright, very clear blue. She hid a yawn behind her hand. “Don’t you sleep, Officer…?”

He tamped down a spurt of irritation. “Kincaid. Evans Kincaid.”

“Ah, yes. Kincaid. And this, I suppose, is your daughter?” She gave Mattie a swift once-over, her own delicate features arranged in a frown of obvious disapproval. “You’re letting the air-conditioning out,” she said, turning away. “You might as well come in—now that I’m up.”

Mattie shot him a smug look, which he glowered over before pushing her inside and pulling the door closed behind him. The odor of stale cigarette smoke immediately assailed him. He cleared his throat, forestalling a cough, and saw that he was standing in the living room. Mattie had her hand over her mouth and nose but dropped it when he signaled her to do so. Mrs. Slater pulled a blanket and a pillow off the couch, making room for them to sit, which they did, side by side. Mrs. Slater pulled the belt of her robe a little tighter and slid over the arm and into the seat of a recliner positioned directly in front of the TV.

“I’d offer you some coffee, but I don’t have any made yet,” she said, sounding anything but apologetic.

“That’s all right,” Evans quickly assured her. “We’re about to hit the hay ourselves, so coffee’s the last thing we need right now.”

“Oh, right,” she said, “the late shift.”

For a long, awkward moment, silence reigned, then Evans nudged Mattie as surreptitiously as possible with his elbow. She swallowed, revealing her nervousness, and sighed. “I’m real sorry about waking you up last night,” she said in an endearingly small voice.

Amy Slater flashed a decidedly joyless smile. “Well, to be honest with you, the music didn’t wake me. The problem was that I couldn’t hear my television…and I had a terrific tension headache.” She grimaced and blurted, “I’m trying to quit smoking.”

Evans felt an absurd sense of relief. “Well, that explains it,” he said brightly. She immediately took umbrage, her spine suddenly ramrod straight, her nails digging into the arms of her chair. They were attractively long, he noticed, and painted pale pink. They gave her hands a graceful, feminine look. He wondered if she painted her toenails, too, but before he could look to see if her feet were bare, she was taking him to task with her tongue again.

“If you’re implying that the music wasn’t too loud, I have to object. My windows were rattling over here!”

“Oh, come now, it wasn’t quite that—”

“It was every bit that bad!” she insisted, sliding to the edge of her chair. “It’s a wonder that child can still hear!”

Evans strangled a sharp retort, wanting to tell her not to speak of his child as that child. Instead, he heard Mattie telling her quite calmly that she was no child, period.

“And I don’t have to stay here and be insulted!” she concluded, getting smoothly to her feet.

Mrs. Slater followed her up. “I didn’t insult you! I merely said—”

“Sit down!” Evans barked, surprised when Amy Slater promptly popped back down into her chair. Mattie, at whom his order had been aimed, first folded her arms then gave him a belligerent glare before complying. Evans gulped down further orders and leaned forward, elbows on knees, as he reached for a reasonable tone.

“The music was too loud,” he said flatly. “Whether it was as loud as you imply or not, it was too loud. We apologize. Let that be the end of it.”

“Fine,” Amy snipped, lifting her nose and turning her face away.

Evans set his back teeth. “What else would you have us do, Mrs. Slater? There were no physical damages that I can repair, no monetary losses to be incurred. We have apologized. Now, can’t we get along as neighbors should?”

Amy waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not the one who tried to blow the neighbor’s house off its foundation.”

Evans closed his eyes and began to count, then abruptly gave up and took to his feet. “Fine! Let’s go, Mattie. We’re obviously wasting our time here.”

Mattie jumped up and followed him to the door. He went out of it and didn’t look back, Mattie at his heels. He’d really wanted to get along. He had tried to get along. Well, so much for good intentions! It was just his luck to move in next door to a hardheaded woman in the throes of a nicotine fit. When he heard the slam that indicated Amy Slater had the gall to be angry at him, he clenched his fists and kept walking. He didn’t dare comment to Mattie, because if he did, he’d soon be shouting, and that would solve nothing. What he did instead was to fix his mind on the day ahead.

He was going to take a cold shower and crawl into bed for a few hours. That would cool off his temper as well as his body. After a very late “lunch,” he’d take a look at that squeaky hinge on the garage door and tinker with the idle on his pickup. Then he’d watch a little TV, stretch and go for a run as soon as the sun set. After that, it would be time to get ready for work. All in all, a relaxing, enjoyable day. He wondered what Mrs. Slater would be doing with her time. Nothing useful, if the condition of her home was any indication. It was none of his business, at any rate. The best he could do from now on was to keep his distance. Stubborn woman! If she’d played her cards right, she could’ve had her house fixed up in the name of neighborly cooperation, but no, she had to be a shrew. Well, it was no skin off his nose. He had plenty to keep him busy as it was. Her house could fall right down around her for all he cared.

But it was a shame that they couldn’t at least be amicable neighbors.

It was a real shame.

Chapter Two

Amy was toweling her hair dry when she heard the first knock. Who on earth? she wondered. Her sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Griff Shaw, were out of town for several days so Griff could ride in the rodeo, and they always took Danna with them during the summer. Amy’s parents hadn’t said anything about coming down from Oklahoma City; they rarely left home anymore. Her best—and if she were honest, only—friend, Ruthie, should have been at work. She was of half a mind to ignore it. After all, who else could it be except some solicitor or…No, he wouldn’t, not after the way she’d treated him and his daughter this morning. She sighed, pondering again her reaction to her new neighbor. What was it about him that made her want to jump up and run in the opposite direction? It had to be simply a matter of bad timing. He’d come along just when she was trying to quit smoking. Yes, that was undoubtedly it.

Her caller proved persistent, so much so that she finally stuck her head out of the bathroom door and shouted, “Just a minute!” Grumbling, she pulled on denim shorts and a worn, white T-shirt, tugged a comb through her hair, and went barefoot to the door. She couldn’t believe it when she opened up and found that it was, indeed, him standing there. He wore running shorts, a skimpy sleeveless “muscle” shirt and athletic shoes without socks. The man was obviously in fine physical shape. His lower arms and legs, she noticed, were dusted with fine black hairs, and so, too, she suspected, was his upper chest. For some reason that seemed strangely…erotic. Mark, she recalled, had been inordinately proud of his full head of sandy brown hair, but he’d hardly sported a hair on any other part of his body. Now why would she compare the two of them?

“I was hoping that we could start over,” Evans Kincaid was saying.

Amy shook her head to clear it, a movement that Kincaid interpreted as a refusal of his truce. He rolled his eyes, threw up his hands and started to turn away. Impulsively Amy reached out to stop him. This morning’s fiasco could be laid squarely at her feet, after all. “Don’t go,” she said, her hand clamped down over his forearm.

Surprised, he looked at her hand, then lifted his head to beam upon her a smile so bright that it was blinding. “Well, all right.”

She snatched her hand away, suddenly feeling ridiculously shy and disheveled. Her hand crept up to her drying hair. “Um, maybe you’d better come in.”

He stepped inside and closed the door. “Now what?” she wondered, unaware that she’d spoken aloud until he chuckled.

“Ah, how about a cool glass of water?”

“Oh. Right.” Now she was laughing. “Come on back to the kitchen.” She signaled for him to follow and turned away to pad across the living room, past the dining suite, and into the hall. She pulled the door to her bedroom closed, not wishing him to witness its clutter, then turned left into the kitchen. “Actually, I have some iced tea if you’d prefer that.”

“Tea would be great.”

She opened a cabinet door, realized there were no clean glasses there and went to the dishwasher, hoping she’d remembered to run it. Thankfully she had, though she couldn’t remember exactly when that might have been. Taking the tea pitcher from the refrigerator, she dropped a few ice cubes into the glass and poured it full. “It’s already sweetened. Would you like some lemon?”

He shook his head, then sipped the tea and promptly nodded. “Guess I’d better have lemon, after all.”

“Too sweet?” Her mother had always told her that she made syrup, not tea.

He nodded apologetically. “A little.” Obviously it was a lot too sweet.

She rummaged in the refrigerator for a lemon, eventually finding a few dried up slices in a tiny bowl. Biting her lip, she closed the refrigerator and suggested that he might prefer water, after all.

“Oh, this is fine,” he said unconvincingly, whereupon she snatched the glass out of his hand and dumped its contents into the sink. Quickly she rinsed the glass, filled it partway with water and carried it to the freezer for a couple of ice cubes.

“Thank you,” he said when she handed him the glass of water. “May I take a seat?”

“Of course.”