Lisa Jackson - The Mccaffertys - Matt

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.”