Lisa Jackson - The Mccaffertys - Slade

Ironic, she thought, touching her flat abdomen. But, once upon a time…

“Don’t even go there,” she chastised herself, stocking the cupboard with a few cans of soup and a box of crackers, then stuffing a quart of milk and jug of orange juice into the old refrigerator.

She remembered turning into the lane of the Flying M this afternoon. Her nerves had been stretched tight as piano wire, her hands sweating inside her gloves. But that had been just the start of it. Finally facing Slade again—oh, Lord, that had been the worst; more difficult than she’d even imagined.

He’d changed in the past fifteen years. His body had filled out, his shoulders were broader, his chest wider, though his hips were as lean as she remembered. At that thought, she colored, remembering the first time she’d seen him without clothes—at the swimming hole when he’d yanked off his cutoffs, revealing that he hadn’t bothered wearing any underwear. She’d glimpsed white buttocks that had contrasted to his tanned back and muscular legs, and caught sight of something more, a part of male anatomy she’d never seen before.

Oh, God, she’d been such an innocent. Of course he’d changed physically. Hard-living and years had a way of doing that to a body. Slade’s face was more angular than it had been; a thin scar ran down one side of his face, but his eyes were still as blue as a Montana sky.

She’d noticed that he’d limped slightly. And there was something in his expression, a darkness in his eyes, that betrayed him, a shadow of pain. Okay, so he had his war wounds; some more visible than others. Didn’t everyone? She folded the grocery sack and slipped it into the pantry.

She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between Sue Ellen and him, though she imagined Sue Ellen was just one of dozens. The McCafferty boys had been legendary in their conquests. Hadn’t she been one?

“Who cares,” she growled as she picked up her coat and hung it in the hall closet where Nana’s vacuum cleaner still stood guard. All the McCafferty boys had been hellions, teenagers who had disregarded the law. Slade had been no exception. While Thorne had been an athlete, and toed the line more than either of his brothers, Matt had been rumored to be a lady-killer with his lazy smile and rodeo daring, and Slade had gained the reputation of a daredevil, a boy who’d fearlessly climbed the most jagged peaks, kayaked down raging rivers and skied to the extreme on the most treacherous slopes—all of which had been accomplished over his father’s vehement protests.

But it had been a thousand years ago. She’d been a rebellious girl trying to fit in. Not a grown woman with a law degree. Sensible, she reminded herself. These days she was sensible.

And sometimes she hated it.

* * *

“DON’T LECTURE ME,” Randi ordered as Slade walked into the den. She was seated at Thorne’s computer, glasses propped on the end of her nose, the baby sleeping in a playpen in the corner.

“Did I say a word?”

“You didn’t have to. I can see it in your face. You’re an open book, Slade.”

“Like hell.” He propped a hip against the edge of the desk. “I think you and I need to clear the air.”

The corners of her mouth tightened a fraction. “Just a sec.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “You can’t believe how much e-mail I’ve collected…” With a wry smile, she clicked off and added, “It’s great to be loved. Now, as I was saying, don’t start in on me about the baby’s father. It’s my business. So if that’s what you mean by ‘clearing the air,’ let’s just keep it foggy.”

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“So you keep reminding me, over and over.” Something darkened her eyes for a heartbeat. Fear? Anger? He couldn’t tell, and the shadow quickly disappeared. Standing slightly, she leaned over the desk, pushing aside a cup of pens and pencils. “I get enough advice from Thorne. And Nicole. And Matt and even Juanita.” Pointing an accusing finger at his nose, she said, “From you, I expect understanding.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me to understand.”

“That I need some space. Some privacy. Come on, Slade, you know what it’s like for the whole damned family to be talking about you, worrying about you, clucking around like a bunch of hens. It’s enough to drive a sane person crazy. That’s why you and I both moved away from Grand Hope in the first place.”

“So who says you’re sane?”

“Oh, so now you’re a comedian,” she quipped, smothering a smile as she took off her glasses and leaned back into her chair. Large brown eyes assessed him. “What’s with that private detective?”

“Striker?”

“Yeah, him. I hear he’s your friend.”

“He is.”

“Humph.” She frowned, fluffing up her short locks with nervous fingers. “There’s a reason they’re called dicks, you know.”

He snorted. “Testy, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. We don’t like being watched around the clock, spied upon, our lives being dissected. Tell him to lay off. I don’t like him digging around in my personal life.”

“No way, kiddo. It was my idea to bring him into the investigation.”

“And it was a bad one. We don’t need him.” She was adamant. “We’ve got the sheriff’s department. Detective Espinoza seems to be doing a decent enough job. Kelly should never have quit the department to work with Striker.”

Something was going on here; something Randi wasn’t admitting. “Is it Striker you don’t like? Or P.I.s in general?”

“Both. Aren’t the police enough?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Kurt’s just trying to help us find the bastard who wants you dead. You might be a little more helpful, you know. It’s like you’re hiding something.”

“What?”

“You tell me.”

“I would if I could,” she snapped. “But that’s just not possible right now. However, if I remember anything, anything at all, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Yeah, right. Then try concentrating on something besides people I dated fifteen years ago.”

Randi’s eyes narrowed. “It bothers you, doesn’t it? What happened with Jamie?”

“I haven’t thought about it much.”

“Until now.” His sister’s smile was nearly wicked. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he said, knowing as the word passed his teeth it was a lie. Jamie had gotten to him. Already. And he felt an unlikely need to explain himself, to set the record straight about the Sue Ellen thing.

Or is that just an excuse to see her again? Face it McCafferty, you haven’t been interested in a woman since Rebecca, but one look at the lady attorney and you’ve barely thought of anything else.

“So what’re you working on?” He pointed at the computer and shoved his nagging thoughts aside.

“Catching up on a billion e-mails,” she said. “I’ve been out of the loop awhile. It’ll take days to go through all of these and I’ve got to get my own laptop back. This one is Thorne’s and I don’t think he appreciates me monopolizing it as it’s his main link to his office in Denver.”

“He’s got a desktop ordered. It should be here any day.”

“That’ll solve some problems.”

“Where’s your laptop?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know…I can’t remember…but…why don’t you ask Kurt Striker. I hear both he and the police have been in my apartment. Damn.” She raked her fingers through her short, uneven hair, and when she looked up at Slade, her expression was troubled. “I’m really not trying to be a pain, Slade. I know everyone’s trying to help me, but it’s so frustrating. I feel like it’s really important for me to get back home, to look through my stuff, to write on my own computer, but I can’t remember what’s on the damned thing, probably just ideas and research for future columns, but I feel like it could help—that it might be the reason some psycho is after me.”