That Man Matthews. Ann Evans

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      Joan drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. She felt a sense of panic, as though she were poised on the precipice of a very long drop, but his words had the power to catch her heart. A child in need? When had she ever been able to refuse an appeal like that? She slid past him to turn the doorknob, looking up at him at the last minute. “Ten minutes and a cup of tea,” she said sternly. “I won’t promise you anything more than that.”

      Within the confines of her tiny efficiency Cody Matthews seemed an overpowering presence, an invasion that left her self-conscious and uneasy. She should have known he wouldn’t settle on the couch to wait. Instead, he wandered the room restlessly, as though he could find clues to her personality through the few items she’d bothered to set out. He said nothing, and it made her uncomfortable to watch him touching the fragments of her life in such a dismal setting.

      He studied a small photograph of her parents and herself, an informal shot taken aboard the family sailboat. It was a silly tangle of arms and legs and wind-tossed hair—her father had scrambled into the picture at the last minute—but they were laughing and cuddling close. Many stately, stuffy pictures had been commissioned of Alistair Paxton over the years, but none of them meant as much to Joan as this one.

      “Pa mentioned your father was the Alistair Paxton,” Cody remarked. His finger skimmed across the picture, as though he could make contact through the glass. “He doesn’t look much like the ‘Dean of Diplomacy’ here.” He tossed her a sideways glance that was startlingly direct. “But then, that’s probably why you like it, isn’t it?”

      She replied with a vague nod, a little thrown by his astuteness. Not even Todd had ever guessed the truth of her relationship with her parents. Before the conversation could become any more personal, Joan escaped to the kitchen.

      She ran water into the kettle, then pulled china down from the cupboard. One of the cups clattered as she set it on the counter, tattling a tale of nervousness she’d claimed not to feel. The sound annoyed her. She’d once attended a State Department dinner, met the president, for heaven’s sake. Who was this man Matthews to make her so jittery?

      The water was ready in an irritatingly short time. Taking slow, steadying breaths, she came out of the kitchen bearing two cups and a new resolve to find out what Cody Matthews wanted as quickly as possible.

      He’d made himself comfortable at the dining-room table that doubled as a desk. Like a good friend who’d stopped by for a bit of neighborly gossip. One ankle was crossed over the other knee, and he smiled at her as she joined him.

      Determined to keep the conversation businesslike, she rescued a yellow legal pad and pen from beneath the uncharacteristic litter of paperwork that had been piled up for days on the corner of the table. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

      “Suit yourself.”

      “You said your daughter suffered a concussion?”

      “She’s fine now and back at the ranch.”

      “How did it happen?”

      He took a sip of the tea, not bothering to hide a small grimace of distaste. “She took a nosedive off one of the barn roofs.”

      “Intentionally?” Joan asked quietly, hoping that Sarah Matthews wasn’t the self-destructive type.

      Cody Matthews bit back an agitated response. “Hell, no. Sarah’s not suicidal. She was trying to jump onto the back of her horse, like they do in the movies. She missed.” After a pause, his fierce expression mellowed. “I suppose I ought to start at the beginning. How much did my father tell you about my situation?”

      “He said you have a twelve-year-old daughter who’s been behaving wildly—”

      “Sarah is free-spirited,” he interrupted. “Not wild.”

      “You asked what your father told me.”

      That calm response won a sheepish look from him. “Sorry. Go on.”

      “Your father attended my lecture on attention deficit disorder. He felt it might be the root of Sarah’s problem.”

      “I don’t believe my daughter has attention deficit disorder,” Cody stated.

      The brevity of that answer should have warned her off the subject. Instead, with slow deliberation, Joan set aside her pen, dunked her teabag one last time, then slipped it onto the saucer. She didn’t look at him, but she was determined to persevere. Denial was a common reaction from parents of troubled children, and taking exception to his attitude would serve neither of them well.

      After a moment she said, “I’m not a physician, Mr. Matthews. Nor have I met or even spoken to your daughter. So I wouldn’t presume to offer a diagnosis.”

      “Damn,” he said with a look full of regret. “I’m going to end up apologizing to you more in one day than I have in my entire lifetime. I’m sorry if I sounded defensive. Sarah’s my only child, and I get a little crazy when this subject comes up. She’s a bright, strong-willed kid. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He looked at Joan, as though daring her to disagree. “In fact, I happen to like her that way.”

      “How long has her behavior been what your family considers unacceptable?”

      “Off and on for about two months. Worse lately.”

      That was a good sign. A recent change in behavior might indicate the problem was situational. “Have you spoken to your daughter about it?”

      “I’ve taken away her allowance. Cut her riding privileges. I haven’t spared the discipline, if that’s what you mean.”

      “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, have you talked to her about the way she’s been acting? Tried to discover if there’s a reason behind it.”

      He made an odd face, one full of contradictions. There was regret there, but frustration and annoyance, as well. “Lately Sarah and I have had problems communicating.”

      “What about Sarah’s mother? Has she spoken to her?”

      He shook his head sharply. “Daphne was killed in a plane crash shortly after Sarah was born.”

      “I’m sorry—”

      “Sarah doesn’t ask about her mother. She doesn’t even remember her.”

      Joan didn’t like the way his face had become a chilling mask of banality when there was such bitterness in his voice. Had he loved Sarah’s mother so much—still missing her even now, after all this time—that he could not discuss her? His abrupt statement was patently false, of course. What young girl didn’t want to know everything about a mother who had never been part of her life?

      Joan wanted to ask more, but the hot message glowing in Cody Matthews’s eyes told her that lingering over this line of questioning would gain her nothing. It was absurd and frustrating to feel so much and know so little.

      “Who else makes up your household?”

      “My father. Merlita, our live-in housekeeper. Ranch hands.”

      “No one else?”

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