The Mccaffertys: Matt

“I know, I know, but it just doesn’t seem like a job for a woman.” He held up his hands as if warding off the verbal blow he was certain was heading his way. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken, Dad, none at all. You’ve just denigrated every woman police officer I know, but am I offended? Oh, no-o-o. Not me.”

“Fine, fine, you’ve made your point,” he said with a chuckle. “Just don’t let anyone give you a bad time. None of the boys you work with and especially none of the McCaffertys.”

“Can’t we just forget about them?” Eva asked.

“Impossible.” He cranked the wheelchair into the living room and returned with a copy of the Grand Hope Gazette, folded to display an article on the third page of the main section, an article about Thorne McCafferty’s small plane crash. “And this is after a couple of weeks have passed.” He skimmed the article. “Seems as if there’s some question as to whether or not there was foul play involved, and this here reporter thinks maybe the plane crash and the sister’s wreck might be related. Bah. Sounds like coincidence to me.” He glanced up at Kelly, his bristly white eyebrows elevated, inviting her opinion.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the case.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Kelly. We’re family.”

“And I’ll confide in you when I need to, okay? Now…I’ve got to run. Duty calls.”

She bussed each of her parents on the cheeks, then hurried outside to her car. The snow had stopped falling, but because of the dark clouds, she couldn’t see a solitary star in the dark heavens. Her breath fogged in the air, her windshield was frozen, and she shivered as she cranked on the ignition.

Like clockwork, the engine fired and she drove away from the warm little bungalow with its patches of golden light and wide front porch. Her parents were aging, more rapidly as the days went by. Her father had never been his robust self after the gunshot blast that had ruined his career and crippled him for life, and her mother, strong woman that she was, had never complained, had taken care of a convalescing, depressed husband and two young daughters. She’d landed a job with John Randall McCafferty as his personal secretary to help make ends meet. John Randall had promised her raises, promotions, bonuses and a retirement plan, but his fortunes had changed, and after his second divorce and a downturn in the economy, he’d been left with nothing but the ranch. Eva had lost her job and all the promises of a substantial nest egg had proved to be empty, the money that was supposed to have been set aside dwindled away by bad investments—oil wells that had run dry, silver mines that had never produced, stock in start-up companies that had shut down within months of opening their doors.

There had been talk of a lawsuit, but Eva hadn’t been able to find a local attorney ready to take on a man who had once been a political contender in the area, a man who had been influential and still had connections to judges, the mayor and even a senator or two.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Kelly told herself. She drove across the town where she’d grown up, wheeled into the parking lot of her row house and used the remote to open her garage door.

Though there hadn’t been a lot of money in her family, she’d grown up with security and love from both her parents. That was probably more than any of the McCafferty children could say. She climbed up the stairs to her bedroom on the upper floor, changed into her flannel pajamas and a robe, then made herself a cup of decaf coffee and sat at the kitchen table, scouring the notes she’d taken on Randi McCafferty’s accident and Thorne McCafferty’s plane crash.

So many questions swirled around John Randall’s only daughter and no one, it seemed, could come up with the answers. Kelly had interviewed all the brothers, everyone who worked on the Flying M Ranch, all of Randi McCafferty’s friends in the area. All the while she’d kept in contact with the Seattle police, who had handled interviewing Randi’s friends and associates there, in the city where Randi had lived and worked. It wasn’t usual procedure, but this case was different with Randi being pregnant, giving birth, then lying comatose in the hospital, her half brothers crying foul play.

But until Randi McCafferty came out of the coma, the mystery shrouding the youngest of John Randall’s children would most likely remain unsolved.

Kelly glanced down at the notes she’d taken and two questions loomed larger than the others. First and foremost, who was the father of Randi’s son, and second, was she writing a book and what was it about?

Doodling as she sipped her coffee, she thought about the case, then, as a headache began to cloud her mind, she finished her coffee and leaned back in her chair. In her mind’s eye she saw Matt McCafferty as he had been at the office and later in the hospital. Chiseled features, dark eyes, square jaw and hard, ranch-tough body. He came on like gang busters, looking as if he was ready to spit nails, but there was more to him, deeper emotions she’d witnessed herself as he’d stood over his sister’s bedside. Feelings he’d tried to hide had crossed his features. Guilt. Worry. Fear.

Yes, she decided, there was more to Cowboy Matt than met the eye.

She stretched and yawned, scraped her chair back and started for the bedroom when the phone jangled loudly. She picked it up on the extension near the bed and glanced at the clock. Eleven forty-seven. “Hello?” she said into the receiver, knowing it was bound to be an emergency.

Espinoza’s voice boomed over the line. “Kelly? We’ve got a situation. Meet me down at St. James Hospital ASAP.”

“What happened?” she asked, already stripping off her robe.

“It’s Randi McCafferty. Someone just tried to pull the plug on her.”

CHAPTER THREE

Somewhere a phone was ringing, jangling, intrusive, but the woman, naked to the waist, her uniform tossed over the back of a chair in the unfamiliar room, didn’t seem to notice.

Brring!

She walked forward, tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and flashed him a naughty smile. With a wink, she said, “So come on, cowboy, show me what you’re made of.” Her dark eyes sparked with a wicked, teasing fire and her lips were full, wet and oh so kissable.

Aching, he reached forward to pull her close and lose himself in her.

Brring!

Matt’s eyes flew open. He’d been dreaming. About Kelly Dillinger, and he was sporting one helluva proof of arousal. He blinked, the image disappearing into the shadows of the night. Down the hallways of the old ranch house, the phone blasted again. Groggily, he glanced at the digital display of his clock. Nearly twelve. Meaning whoever was calling wasn’t waking up the McCaffertys with good news.

Randi. His heart nearly stopped. Slapping on the light, he didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust but yanked on the pair of jeans he’d tossed over the foot of the bed and threw a sweatshirt over his head. He was striding barefoot down the hall when the door to the master suite was flung open, and Thorne, wearing boxer shorts, his cast and a robe he hadn’t bothered to cinch, was hobbling toward the stairs.

“That was Nicole from the hospital. Someone tried to kill Randi,” he said tersely.

“What?”

“Someone put something into her damned IV.”

“Hell!” Matt broke out in a cold sweat. His mind began running in circles. “Is she okay?”

“Far as anyone can tell,” Thorne said, frowning darkly. By this time they were both working their way toward the center staircase.

“How could that happen?”

“No one’s sure yet. It’s pandemonium down there. Her heart stopped beating. They had to use paddles.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“My thoughts exactly.” Thorne stopped at the door to Slade’s room and pounded hard, then shoved it open to find their youngest brother half dressed, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of a flannel shirt.

“I heard the phone ring. Figured it was bad news,” Slade muttered.

“You figured right.” Thorne filled him in quickly and the youngest McCafferty’s expression clouded over.

“For the love of Mike, we told them this would happen! The police are out to lunch, for God’s sake!” He swung a fist in the air. “Who’s doing this?”

“And why?” Thorne’s gray eyes narrowed with cold fury.

“Let’s go.” Slade stuffed his shirttails into his jeans.

“We all can’t go to the hospital,” Thorne pointed out as Slade swore a blue streak and reached for a pair of hiking boots. “Someone’s got to stay with J.R. and the girls.”

“That’s your job,” Matt decided. “You’re gonna be stepfather to the twins and you’re not a helluva lot of use, anyway, what with the bad leg.”

“But I can’t just stay here and—”

“Don’t argue. We’ve heard it all before,” Matt said. “You think you’re in charge of ‘the Randi situation,’ the one calling the shots. But you’re laid up, whether you like to admit it or not. So you have two choices. Wake up the baby and Nicole’s daughters and drag them out in the freezing cold to a hospital that’s sure to be chaos, or stay here and wait for one of us to call or relieve you.”

Thorne’s gray eyes darkened. Thick black eyebrows slammed together in frustration. “But I think—”

“For once just trust us, okay? We can handle things.” Matt was already halfway to his room, where he found his socks, boots and a pair of gloves. He yanked them on as Thorne filled the doorway, his shoulders nearly touching each side of the frame.