“But John Randall’s only daughter, Randi—she’s a real firecracker—takes after the old man. No wonder she was named after him.”
Jamie tried to ignore the comments about Slade and concentrated on his half sister. She remembered Randi as being smart, sassy and McCafferty-stubborn.
“She’s got her own daily column, ‘Solo’ or ‘Being Single’ or something,” Chuck had continued. “Writes for a Seattle newspaper. There’s some talk of syndication, I think. And Thorne mentioned that she could have been working on a book at the time of the accident.”
“Thorne McCafferty used to work here, didn’t he?” Jamie had asked, twiddling her pen and not liking the turn of the conversation. Especially not any reference to Slade.
“Yes, yes, that’s right. He was a junior partner years ago. Then went out on his own. Moved to Denver. But he still throws us a bone once in a while. So, I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be a plum to nail down the corporate account, steal it away from that Denver firm he deals with?” Chuck’s eyes had sparked with a competitive fire Jamie hadn’t witnessed in a while.
“I thought you were going to retire.”
“In a couple of years, yes,” he’d admitted, winking at her. “But why not go out in a blaze, hmm? It’ll only make my share of the firm worth more, hence my retirement...we could buy a sailboat and sail to Tahiti or Fiji or—”
“I’ll still have a job.”
“Not if you marry me.”
She’d squirmed. Chuck had been pressuring her lately and she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. There had been a time when she’d thought that enough money could buy happiness, that the reason Slade McCafferty hadn’t been interested in her was because she was poor, from the wrong side of the tracks and didn’t have the social status of Sue Ellen Tisdale. But over the years she’d changed her opinion about financial success and its rewards. She’d met plenty of miserable millionaires.
“Listen.” Chuck had rapped his knuckles on the desk as he’d straightened. “Think about it when you’re in Grand Hope. Being Mrs. Chuck Jansen wouldn’t be all that bad, not that I’m pressuring you.”
“Right,” she’d said, and managed a smile.
“We’ll talk when you get back.” He’d said it with the same confidence he oozed in a courtroom.
“What a mess,” Jamie muttered to herself as she adjusted the thermostat while, presumably, back in Missoula, Chuck was waiting, expecting her to get off the fence and accept his proposal.
But she couldn’t. Not yet.
Why?
Chuck was smart. Educated. Clever. Good-looking. Wealthy. His share of the business was worth a bundle and then there was his stock portfolio and two homes.
He also has a bitter ex-wife, her mind nagged. And three college-age kids. He doesn’t want any more.
Jamie thought of Randi McCafferty and her newborn son, the way the baby’s eyes had twinkled in adoration at his mother. Her heartstrings tugged. God, how she wanted a baby of her own, a baby to love. Could she marry Chuck, become a stepmother to nearly grown children, never raise a daughter or son of her own, one she conceived with a husband who made her heart pound and brought a smile to her lips? For a second Slade’s face flashed through Jamie’s mind. “Oh, stop it,” she growled at herself in frustration. Just because she’d been thrown back here and had to face him, she’d started fantasizing. “You’re pathetic, Parsons. Pa-thetic.” She started to unpack the groceries, but couldn’t forget how surprised she’d been at Slade’s easy manner with his twin nieces and tiny nephew. Who would have thought?
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 email 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, s
mothering 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 emails,” 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.”
“Maybe it is,” he said. “Juanita said you were working on a book.”
“So I’ve heard. But...” She sighed loudly. “I can’t remember what it’s about.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to find the damned laptop, won’t we? Striker’s still working on it.”
“Striker. Oh, great,” she muttered as Slade left her.
In the kitchen, he yanked his jacket from a hook near the back door and walked outside. The late-afternoon sky was already dark, the air brisk.
Overhead, clouds threatened to dump more snow. Not that he cared. He climbed into his pickup, started the engine and cranked on the wheel. He’d drive into town, have a drink and...and what?
See Jamie again ran through his mind.
“Damn it all to hell.” He threw the truck into First and reached for his pack of smokes. He’d always gotten himself into trouble where women were concerned and he knew, as the tires slid on a slick patch of packed snow, that he hadn’t changed over the years.
He could deny it to himself up one side and down the other, but the truth of the matter was, he intended to see Jamie again and he intended to do it tonight.
* * *
Shivering, Jamie changed into soft jeans and her favorite old sweatshirt before she clamored down to the kitchen where she found a pan, washed it, heated the soup and crushed oyster crackers into the beef and vegetable broth. She imagined Nana sitting across the table from her, insisting they say grace, watching her over the top of her glasses until Jamie obediently bowed her head and mouthed a prayer.
It wasn’t that Jamie hadn’t believed in God in those days, she just hadn’t had a lot of extra time to spend on her spiritual growth—not when there were boys to date, cars to carouse in and cigarettes to smoke. It was a wonder she’d graduated from high school, much less had been accepted into college.
“God bless the SATs,” she said, smiling at her own prayer. “And you, Nana, wherever you are. God bless you.” She left the dishes in the sink, then started cleaning, room by room, as the ancient furnace rumbled and heat slowly seeped into the house. She’d considered hiring a cleaning service, but figured the scrubbing was cathartic for her and somehow—wherever she was—Nana would approve. “A little hard work never hurt anyone,” she’d lectured when Jamie had tried to weasel out of her chores.
Nita Parsons had realized her granddaughter was a troubled girl who had one foot headed to nowhere good. And she had decided she wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Jamie as she had with Jamie’s father, an alcoholic who had abandoned his wife and daughter two days after Jamie’s eighth birthday. Barely nine years later, Jamie’s single mother had gotten fed up with a rebellious teenage daughter who seemed hell-bent on ruining both their lives.
That’s when Nana had stepped in.
And how had Jamie repaid her? By giving her grandmother more gray hairs than she’d already had.
“Sorry,” Jamie whispered now as she rubbed polish into the base of a brass lamp. She intended to scrub Nana’s hardwood and tile floors until they gleamed, paint the rooms in the soft yellows Nana had loved and repair what she could afford.
And then sell the place?
Inwardly Jamie cringed. She could almost hear the disappointment in her grandmother’s voice. How many times had she heard Nana say, “This will be yours one day, Jamie, and don’t you ever sell it. I own it free and clear and it’s been a godsend, believe me. When times are lean, I can grow my own food. Twenty acres is more than enough to support you, if you’re smart and work hard. I don’t have to worry about a rent payment or a landlord who might not take a shine to me.” She’d wagged a finger in front of Jamie’s nose on more than one occasion. “I’ve lived through wars and bad times, let me tell you, and I was one of the lucky ones. The people who had farms and held on to them, they did okay. They might have had patches on their sleeves and holes in their shoes but they had full bellies and a roof over their heads.”
Jamie had thought it all very dull at the time and now as she wiped at a network of cobwebs behind the living room blinds, she felt incredible guilt. Could she really sell this place, the only real home she’d had growing up? And what about Caesar? Could she offer up the roan to some stranger for a few hundred dollars? Biting her lip, she looked at the rocker where Nita had knitted and watched television, the coffee table that was cluttered with crossword puzzle books and gardening magazines and the bookshelf that held her grandfather’s pipes, the family Bible and the photo albums. In the
corner was Nana’s old upright piano, and the bench, smooth from years of sitting with students.
Nostalgic, Jamie glanced out the window.
A shadow moved on the panes.
Her heart nearly stopped. The shadow passed by again and then, behind the frosted glass a tiny face emerged—gold head, whiskers, wide green eyes.
“Lazarus!” Jamie cried, recognizing her grandmother’s precious pet as he jumped onto the windowsill. He cried loudly, showing fewer of the needle-sharp teeth than he had in the past.
Grinning, Jamie sprinted to the front door, pulled it open and flipped on the porch light. Cold air followed the cat inside. “What are you doing here, old guy?” she asked as Lazarus slunk into the living room and rubbed against her legs. She gathered him into her arms and felt tears burn the backs of her eyelids. When Nana had died, the neighbors, Jack and Betty Pederson, had offered to take in the aging cat, Jamie had never expected him to show up.
“You escaped, did you?” she said, petting his silky head. “You’re a bad boy.”
His purr was as loud as it had been when he was a kitten. “Like a damned outboard motor,” her grandfather, when he’d been alive, had complained.
Now, the sound was heavenly. “Come on, I’ve got something for you,” she whispered, kicking the door open and starting down the hall. Lazarus trotted after her. In the kitchen she poured a little milk into a tiny bowl, took the chill off of it on the stove and set the dish on the floor. “There ya go.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard footsteps on the front porch. The doorbell chimed. “Uh-oh,” she said to the cat. “Busted.”
She expected to find a frantic Betty or Jack on the front porch. Instead, as she peered through one of the three small windows notched into the door, she recognized the laser-blue eyes of Slade McCafferty.