Jeannie Watt (8 page)

“It reminds me of her. She was always creating something. Sometimes she would literally forget to go to bed if she was in the middle of a project. She never married, but she had lots of—”

“Cats,” Matt guessed, still holding the sculpture.

“Burros and goats. She made cheese and soap from the goat milk and adopted the burros from the Bureau of Land Management whenever she could.”

That explained the long-eared residents.

“Buddy and Billie are the only burros left. I sold the goats…. The cats are
mine
,” she said darkly. “The place was overrun with mice before I got them.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but I know the cliché.”

“House cats. Not barn cats.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And I wouldn’t exactly call you older.

“Good save.” Tara held out a hand and Matt passed her the penguin. “Well, I’ve really enjoyed this conversation about
you
.”

Matt acknowledged her point with a half smile. “Is there anyone who could come and stay with you tonight?”

Tara frowned. “Not really. I’m feeling a lot better anyhow. I’m sure I can make it through the night on my own.”

“I saw Somers drive by here today. Slowly.”

Tara stilled for a moment and then shrugged before carefully placing the penguin on the table in front of her.

“You don’t have very good locks on your doors and none to speak of on the windows.”

“Never really needed them.”

“You may need them now.” He was silent for a moment. “I want to stay one more night, Tara. I’ll install new locks tomorrow.”

“I don’t need to be protected Matt. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Tara—”

Her expression grew stubborn. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but no more rescues. Okay?”

“Rescues?” Matt felt a stab of irritation, more from her tone than what she said.

Tara pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I knew I’d blow this,” she muttered. “Look, no offense, Connors. I want you to keep working here and, frankly, I kind of enjoy your company, but you’ve been my personal white knight lately.”

“Last night I had to stay.”

“Okay, forget last night. But I’ve taken care of myself since I was twelve. When I do need help, I like to ask for it, and get it on my terms. I don’t want a self-appointed bodyguard.”

Matt wanted to argue, but realized she was right. He had been shoving his way into her life.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Tara continued, “especially now that I know you’re a cop, but honestly, Matt, I don’t need a hero…I need a carpenter.”

T
HERE WAS A THIN LINE
between being ungrateful and stating facts, but watching Matt’s reaction, Tara didn’t think she’d crossed it. Yet.

“I hadn’t intended to be your hero,” he replied in a low voice. His expression was frank, borderline troubled. “But I still think I should stay one more night.”

Tara stared at him, which seemed better than throwing something at him. “And if I don’t agree,” she asked stonily, “are you going to do something stupid like sleep in your truck in the yard?”

He shook his head. “I’ll go back to town.”

“Honestly.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “I think.”

Tara let out a breath. It wasn’t so much that she minded him staying at the place. It was a big house, after all. A guesthouse. No, it was the feeling that she was becoming dependent on this man in ways she hadn’t anticipated that bothered her. But, on the other hand, if Ryan did come back, she wouldn’t mind watching Matt knock the snot out of him. She knew he’d do it so much better than she could.

A corner of her mouth tightened. “One night, and that’s it.”

There was a flash of relief in Matt’s hazel gaze, there and then gone.

“One night,” he agreed.

M
ATT BEAT
T
ARA
to the kitchen the next morning. He was standing at the stove with his back to her when she entered, stirring what she hoped was not oatmeal. Oatmeal was the only hot breakfast Aunt Laura had ever made and Tara had had enough to last a lifetime.

He turned, smiling as he took in her bedraggled appearance. Old sweatpants and one of Nicky’s big T-shirts. Very alluring, no doubt. She’d tried to smooth her hair, but the wisps that had escaped the elastic stubbornly refused to be tamed and she’d given up.

She took comfort, though, from the fact that Matt looked just as disheveled as she did. His hair was tousled and he was barefooted. The dark stubble was back on his face. He wore a shirt, but it was fastened by only one button at midchest, as though he’d thrown it on at the last minute and otherwise she would have found him standing at the stove, wearing only his Levi’s and his glasses. The thought pulled at her and suddenly the scenario seemed just a little too intimate.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.” Other than the fact that he looked downright sexy and she was noticing.

He gave her a look that clearly said,
yeah, right,
and Tara pressed her lips together, half-afraid he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said as she crossed the room to grind the beans for coffee.

“You’re probably just sore because I beat you out of bed.”

Tara gave him a face-saving smirk as she measured the grounds, and he grinned. She turned her back on him as she went to the tap, letting it run until the water was icy cold. Whatever he was cooking smelled great and it wasn’t oatmeal.

“What’s for breakfast?” she finally asked, attempting nonchalance.

“Frittata.”

Her inner cook was immediately interested. This she had to see.

Matt glanced down at her as she peered over his arm into the skillet filled with eggs, potatoes and ham. Heaven help her, despite the rich aroma of the sizzling ingredients, she was also aware of his scent—warm, masculine, somehow both comforting and stimulating.
Oh, man.
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, and Tara felt her cheeks grow warm.

“If you can cook like this, why have you been eating at the casino?”

“Nothing to cook with at Luke’s house, and I didn’t feel like investing for only a couple of weeks.” He gave the pan a little swirl. “I didn’t know if your stomach was ready for something this substantial, but you said no oatmeal.”

“No,” Tara said, drifting back, putting some space between them, “this is fine. Uh, what’s the red stuff?”

He shifted as he used the spatula to loosen the egg at the edge of the pan and Tara took another step back. “Roasted red peppers. I found a jar in the pantry. Hope you don’t mind.”

Tara shook her head. “No. Not at all. I was afraid they were pimentos.”

“Don’t like pimentos?”

“Not much.” She didn’t even own pimentos, for Pete’s sake. She turned and went to get the coffee cups, trying to get a grip on herself, and then jumped about a foot in the air when someone knocked on the back door. Both she and Matt whirled around as Rafe pushed the door open and walked in, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Matt at the stove. His dark eyes immediately shot to Tara.

Matt also cast her a glance, eyebrows raised, but she simply pulled out another cup. No explanations. She didn’t owe anyone anything. She saw Matt shrug before he expertly flipped the frittata. Rafe was frowning at Matt, who had obviously just rolled out of bed.

She filled a cup, handed it to Rafe and motioned to a chair.

“Hey, Rafe,” she murmured with studied casualness as she took the opposite chair. “Have time for breakfast?”

Rafe started to shake his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

“Good. There’s enough for three, isn’t there, Connors?”

“Yep.”

She was about to get up and set the table, when Matt pulled out another plate and placed it in the oven on top of the other two warming there. Then he took a pitcher of orange juice out of the fridge and set it on the table. He looked like a man who knew his way around her kitchen.

Tara read the unspoken questions in Rafe’s eyes, and reconsidered her no-explanation plan.

“Matt gets meals as part of the job,” she said, keeping her voice low enough that she didn’t think Matt could hear.

Rafe’s expression was impassive. “So why is he cooking?”

Tara let out a soft sigh. “I’ve been sick. He spent the night,” she replied, giving up. Rafe would find out anyway. “This is none of your business, Rafe. I don’t need another brother.”

“Tough.”

“It was no big deal.”

Rafe raised one eyebrow. Clearly
he
thought it was a big deal that she’d let a man she barely knew spend the night. Tara stared at her coffee cup.

“So how are you feeling today?” Rafe asked with a slight edge to his voice.

“Fine.” Matt set the frittata on the table along with a bottle of hot sauce.

Breakfast was a rather stilted affair, long on tension, short on conversation. Rafe and Matt engaged in a bit of civilized verbal sparring of the male variety, while Tara ate her meal in silence. She walked Rafe out to his SUV after they finished, for once glad to see him on his way.

He leaned back against the vehicle and studied her through his sunglasses. She’d known Rafe forever. He had been part of her misfit band while growing up, the poor kid from an immigrant Mexican family who wanted to be a cop. They’d even dated briefly in high school, the
only
time she’d dated in high school, before deciding they were meant to be friends. But that didn’t mean he had any say in her life.

“Don’t,” she said warned him.

“Tara, what do you know about this guy?”

“I know he’s a cop,” she replied, hoping the fact that Matt was one of the brethren would slow Rafe down. But he was obviously already aware of it.

“Tara…” He let out a frustrated breath. “There’s more to this guy’s history than you know.”

“Like…”

“Like, he was involved in a critical incident a while ago.”

“What kind of critical incident?”

“It was a shooting followed by a standoff. Connors pulled a John Wayne.”

Tara frowned.

“He took matters into his own hands. It’s a wonder he survived.”

Tara felt a chill. “Maybe he had a reason for pulling this…‘John Wayne.’”

“He probably did. But Tara, what I’m saying is that usually when guys do things like that…well, it might be for reasons other than the obvious. They have something they need to prove, or something they need to live down.”

He paused and let the words sink in. “And sometimes, after situations like that, there are post-traumatic reactions.”

“You’re not saying he’s dangerous?” Tara asked incredulously.

Rafe shook his head. “No. I’m just saying he has a history and he might have some issues. You should be aware of it. I’d feel better if he wasn’t spending the night.”

Tara chewed her lip as she digested the information. Rafe looped an arm around her, pulling her to his side. She leaned her head against him.

“Jealous?” Tara asked in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

Rafe dropped a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “You bet.” His expression grew serious, though, as she stepped away from him. “Call if you have any trouble.”

“I’ll call,” Tara agreed wearily.

Rafe gave her one last long look. “I think this guy is all right, but damn, Tara, you never know.”

M
ATT GLANCED THROUGH
the window at Rafe and Tara as he finished washing the dishes. He had no doubt that Tara now knew whatever Rafe Sanchez had dug up on him. He wondered if that included his father’s history. He wasn’t going to ask.

He still wasn’t certain what Tara and Rafe’s relationship was, either. During breakfast, she’d treated him with the easy camaraderie and congenial disrespect that comes from growing up together, but then they had embraced before Sanchez got into his rig and drove away. He’d kissed her, but not on the lips. There was something there….

His mouth tightened as he turned on the tap water. Tara had made it very clear the night before that he had no business butting into her life. And he had to admit she was right.

T
ARA RUBBED HER FOREHEAD
with the back of her hand, trying to ease the tension that had been building there since breakfast.

A John Wayne.

What kind of John Wayne?

Luke knew Matt, so he must know Matt’s past. He wouldn’t have had Matt working for her unless he trusted him. Therefore, Matt must be trustworthy.

Or so she hoped. She needed Matt to finish the house. But more than that, she was attracted to him.

He was the first man since her awful experience with Ryan who had sparked any kind of reaction in her. And, to her astonishment, she liked having a reaction. It felt good in a secretive sort of way, and it took her mind off mortgages and balloon payments and Nicky’s education. She’d probably never do anything with Matt, but at least she was
interested.

It gave her hope that someday she might feel whole again.

M
ATT DROVE AWAY
from Tara’s house at dusk. She’d firmly eased him out the door after feeding him dinner, and he had gone quietly—because he’d promised to, and because he knew that her perception of him had probably changed drastically since talking to Rafe that morning.

It was for the best, he told himself, unnerved that he was thinking about her differently lately. He’d gotten a glimpse of the hurts and scars Tara was hiding under her tough veneer. And, regardless of her assertion that she didn’t need a white knight, he felt a strong desire to protect her from new wounds. Maybe even to help soothe the old scars.

But he wasn’t the man to do it.

Lisa, his ex-girlfriend, had driven home the point that stress, retribution and relationships do not mix. As things were now, he could walk away, with no one the wiser that Tara was starting to get to him. He had issues he needed to settle in Reno and he didn’t want any distractions in his life when he did.

He felt better about leaving her alone now that all of her doors had new locks—if she actually locked them. The side door had had no lock at all until today. Tara, for being so protective of herself emotionally, was not very security conscious. But he hadn’t seen the white BMW all day, and maybe it had just been a fluke that Ryan had been in the vicinity the other day. All he could do was hope, since it was obvious Tara wasn’t going to let him hang around after hours.

J
ACK WASN’T AT
the meeting.

Tara sucked a breath through her teeth as she searched the crowded convention room. Jack was a hard man to miss. On the plus side, though, she didn’t see Martin Somers, either.

Ryan was obviously taking his place. Drat.

Well, Ryan wouldn’t attack in public. He had an image to uphold—that of poorly used ex-lover and all-around good guy. He would mind his manners.

Tara sat in the first empty aisle seat she came to, next to Lydie Manzo, owner of the Hair Affaire. Nodding a hello, she received a hesitant nod in return. Lydie looked as if she wanted to say something, but Stacia started the meeting before she could speak.

The secretary was reading the minutes when Dottie Gibson bustled in, uncharacteristically late. She had obviously planned to sit next to Lydie, who shrugged helplessly, as though Tara had strong-armed her way into Dottie’s chair. Dottie gave an indignant huff as she realized there was no seat near her friend, reversed course and finally settled two rows behind Lydie.

The meeting continued with an update on correspondence, but Tara could still hear Dottie rustling. The committee reports came next. Various people stood and gave updates. Tara jotted notes.

The last committee report was for the Welcome Back luncheon. Dottie and Lydie were co-chairs, but Dottie rose to speak. The menu the caterer provided had been approved and was adaptable to adding new guests at the last minute. The high school swing choir would sing and, Dottie announced with a girlish laugh, having obviously recovered from the seating incident, they had come up with an interesting luncheon entertainment. A prom-dress parade.

“What exactly is that?” Stacia asked, and Dottie Gibson, queen of the 1966 prom, happily filled in the blanks.

“We have located several vintage prom dresses, including one from the 1930s. We’re having these dresses cleaned and mended and they’ll be modeled during the luncheon by high school girls.”

There was a murmur of approval and Dottie beamed before outlining her plan.

“Weren’t you a prom queen?” Lydie whispered.