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That Man Matthews
Ann Evans
Even the best father in the world needs a little help now and then…Cody Matthews can't believe the recent changes in his daughter. Gone is the daddy's little angel; in her place, the devil in blue jeans. As a last resort–since Cody's a man who believes he should be able to cope with family problems on his own–he turns for help to Joan Paxton.But Joan has her work cut out for her. Cody is just as stubborn as his daughter–and just as good at keeping secrets. And unless Joan can uncover the truth, she won't be able to prevent the Matthews family from breaking apart.It's a possibility Joan can't bear to consider. She knows Cody and his daughter belong together…and she wants to believe Cody's conviction–that she belongs with them, too.
What makes Cody Matthews so obnoxious?
Joan smiled at what she’d written across the top of the paper. She was pleased with the harsh directness of her words and wondered if she’d need a second sheet. There were so many things not to like about the man.
Ten minutes later she had a sizable compilation of sins. Feeling in control once more, she scanned the list she’d made.
Overbearing arrogance
Ego the size of a planet
Poor taste in clothes—especially belt buckles
Beautiful bedroom eyes
Lascivious nat—
Wait a minute! Beautiful bedroom eyes? Where had that come from? Those eyes didn’t belong on her list.
Annoyed, she stood up and filled the teakettle. Waiting for the whistle, she leaned against the doorjamb and stared at the list on the table.
All right, so he did have great eyes. She’d give him that one. But they didn’t make up for all his bad qualities.
No. Number four on her list was simply a slip of the pen.
Dear Reader,
Growing up in my house, I remember thinking that my poor father was at a real disadvantage. Females outnumbered him three to one. Even our pets were female.
But Dad was a real trouper. The father/daughter relationship he shared with my sister and me was pretty special. Even though I suspect he would have preferred to be watching golf on TV or out fishing, he still found time to be a guest at our backyard tea parties, a customer at our imaginary shoe store and the first one to sample our latest triumph from the Easy Bake oven.
As I was creating Cody Matthews, my hero for this book, I envisioned him sharing that same kind of bond with his own daughter, Sarah. But what would he do, I wondered, if something happened to change that bond? Something he didn’t understand or have any clue how to handle? Suppose his daughter went from being an angelic daddy’s girl to the devil in blue jeans, all in a matter of weeks.
That’s one of the dilemmas facing Cody in this book. And that’s where Joan Paxton comes in. Even the greatest father in the world needs help now and then, especially if he’s a single parent. Only one problem—Cody is just as stubborn as his daughter. He’d rather wrestle a bull than admit he can’t handle his own child!
Poor Joan. She’s the one who can bring the Matthews family back from the brink of disaster, but she’s got her work cut out for her. I hope you enjoy reading just how she accomplishes bringing Cody and Sarah back together, and most of all, how she finds love along the way.
Ann Evans
That Man Matthews
Ann Evans
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book, a story about fathers, has to be dedicated to one of the best dads I know—my brother-in-law, William Wilson Marsh.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#uf671e3f6-4c59-5858-b3af-522a9f99eca1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u916937c1-1aa7-5add-9559-80cdb9229312)
CHAPTER THREE (#u55c07168-e794-5cac-98cc-2a6140950aec)
CHAPTER FOUR (#uff07a76a-e307-5738-b4c8-ee04e398a46e)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
CODY MATTHEWS took one look at Merlita Soledad’s broad, dark features and immediately recognized trouble ahead.
His live-in Mexican housekeeper was normally a pleasant apple dumpling of a woman, a whirlwind of efficiency when it came to keeping the ranch house organized. She had a generous heart, a bone-crushing hug and an ancient recipe for the best darned chilies rellenos in south Texas. But when she was angry, she had a tendency to mangle the English language, and right now she was grinding it up like a steak in a blender.
“You try it, jefe,” she demanded, her arms planted across her chest, her nostrils flared wide. “You tell me how you like.”
“Lita, if I don’t leave soon, I’m gonna be late for the afternoon flight to Washington.” He tried to give the woman back the plate and fork she’d thrust into his hands when she’d invaded his study. “You know I love your cocoa cake. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Save a piece for me.”
“No,” Merlita said with a firm shake of her head. Her arms tightened, and he caught his first glimpse of the kitchen paring knife she held between her capable fingers. “You taste my cake. It’s important. You, too, Señor Walt.”
Cody didn’t think it wise to argue with a woman who held a knife. He glanced at his father. Walt Matthews cradled a similar plate of the sweet chocolate dessert, but from the crinkle bisecting his forehead, it was clear he didn’t have a clue what was bothering Merlita, either.
With an uncertain smile Cody settled back, hooking one leg over the side of his desk. If the woman was desperate for a compliment, he’d have no trouble giving it, and then he could be away from Luna D’Oro and off to the airport.
He stuck his fork into the wedge of chocolate and scooped a generous helping into his mouth. “Mmm…” he began. “Still my favorite dess…”
The words trailed away as he stopped chewing. Whoa! Sam Houston’s underwear, something was mighty wrong with this batch!
He cast a suspicious look at his plate. The cinnamon and chocolate couldn’t disguise the fact that the cake was just plain awful. He wanted to spit the mouthful in the trash can next to his desk. But Merlita’s dark eyes were throwing off sparks now, and he didn’t dare.
Again he looked to his father for help. Pa had taken a small bite from his own dish. Cody could see he was having trouble swallowing.
“It’s…uh…a little different from your usual, isn’t it?” Cody ventured.
“Sí.”
“Trying a new recipe?” his father asked when he finally appeared to get his tongue under control.
“No,” Merlita said, looking indignant. “Emperor Maximilian ate my great-great-great grandmother’s cake in the Spanish court of kings. I do not change her recipe. But how you like it?”
“Might be a tad overcooked,” Cody suggested, clearing his throat and wishing he had something to wash the taste out of his mouth. “Or maybe the mixing bowl didn’t get cleaned well enough. Some soap-suds—”
“Tu eres loco? I don’t cook in dirty bowls!” Merlita exclaimed in horrified tones. She waved away his words with a broad sweep of the hand that held the paring knife. “It’s the salt. Dos. Two cups.”
“Oh.” Cody and Walter exchanged looks. Neither of them had a clue what went into the making of Mexican cake. Or what to say now. Cody settled on evasion. “Seems like a lot of salt.”
“That’s because it should be sugar. Someone switches the labels on the jars in my cupboard. A funny joker with yellow hair.”
“Oh. I see.” Cody straightened, suddenly understanding. He set the plate down on the only exposed corner of his desktop. Sarah! He should have known. Wasn’t it always Sarah these days? “Lita, darlin’, I—”
“You promised, jefe,” Merlita reminded him, making her point with the tip of the knife. “No more, you say. You say you straighten her out but good. You are el jefe grande around here, but you are not a man of your word.”
“I did talk to her. But I’ll talk to her again—”
“You do more than talk now. This is times three she makes jokes on me. The rubber bug in my guacamole. The bubbling soap pouring out of my washing machine. I can take no more. Comprende? She does not stop? Via con dios, jefe. I go home to Mexico.” The woman’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “And I take my rellenos recipe with me.”
With a clatter of annoyance, the housekeeper scooped up the plates and forks and left the study. She muttered a litany of Spanish complaints all the way to the kitchen.
Cody turned back to his desk, searching through the mess of paperwork for his plane ticket. He smiled at his father, whose faded-blue gaze gleamed with knowing concern. “Don’t say it, Pa,” Cody warned. He didn’t have time right now for a lecture about things he already knew.
“I didn’t say a word,” Walt Matthews protested.
“No, but you’re thinking it.”
“It’s still a free country, ain’t it? Man’s got a right to think whatever he wants.” Leaning heavily on one of the metal crutches that helped him get around, Walt came slowly to join him at the desk. “But I’m not one to stick my nose in where it ain’t welcome.”
Cody looked up with a laugh. “Since when?”
“Fine. Just don’t come looking for me to cook when Merlita up and takes a bus back to Chihuahua.”
“Damn! Where the hell is that ticket?” Cody complained as he threw down an empty envelope. “Someday I’m going to get this desk organized. If I miss this flight, it will be tomorrow afternoon before I can get another one out.”
“That might not be such a bad thing. Give you a chance to talk to Sarah.”
“Pa—”
Walt cut him off with a forestalling hand. “None of my beeswax, I know.”
Cody sighed. Might as well give in. He wasn’t going to get away from Luna D’Oro today without discussing Sarah. “It’s just a little harmless fun, Pa. You remember what I was like as a kid, don’t you? Always trying to pull a fast one on you and Mom and the bunkhouse crew? Nothing Sarah’s done is malicious. In fact, you have to admit that some of her pranks are pretty clever for a twelve-year-old.”
“That isn’t what you said last week when you turned on the air conditioner in the Rover and five pounds of rice flew out the vents and nearly scared you off the road.”
“Surprised, not scared.”
“Same thing.”
Cody rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to argue. Especially when Walt was probably right. Sarah—his sweet, precious baby girl—had turned into a royal pain in the butt in the past couple of months. Mouthy. Disobedient. With enough practical jokes in her bag of tricks to torment the family every day for the next ten years. And he didn’t want to even think about what her final school report was going to look like this year.
He stopped looking for the plane ticket long enough to glance at the picture he kept on his desk. Sarah, of course. The candid shot taken last year at the ranch’s annual cookout.
Pa’s camera had caught her pressed up against Cody, all smiles and girlish delight, hugging him with every bit of the strength and love she had in her. Nothing in that pert little nose and dimpled grin looked even remotely defiant. Her pale sunlit hair was made for angels, not devils. If there was any hint of the stubborn, willful behavior they’d seen lately, it was in the slight clef in his daughter’s chin. She’d inherited it from her mother. It was pure Daphne.
“Here’s your ticket,” his father said, rescuing it from beneath a pile of handbills advertising everything from horse auctions in San Antonio to Stampede Days in Laredo. He handed Cody the folder, and then another right beneath it. “And take this with you on the plane, too. Try reading it this time.”
Cody slipped the plane ticket into the inside pocket of his buckskin jacket. He barely glanced at the flyer his father had shoved into his hand. He knew what the old man was up to.
The flyer contained information about a parenting conference that had taken place two weeks ago in Austin. Struggling to understand what was causing the change in Sarah’s behavior, the two Matthews men had planned to attend, but at the last minute the deal Cody had made for Williston property had looked as if it might fall through. Walt had been forced to go alone.
He’d come back full of excitement and ideas and the flyer—with one name circled on the workshop list. A Virginia teacher and educational therapist named Joan Paxton had conducted a seminar on how to deal with kids suffering from attention deficit disorder. The blurb about her in the brochure was full of the kinds of things Cody hated most—sweeping praise from pompous-sounding academics and vague promises about what her lecture could accomplish. But Pa kept pressing Cody to contact the woman, see if she could give him some one-on-one advice.
Only one thing wrong with that idea, Cody had said. Sarah did not have attention deficit disorder. The flyer had been relegated to the read-when-I-get-around-to-it pile on his desk.
“I’m telling you, son,” Walt interrupted Cody’s thoughts. “The woman had every person in the audience taking notes. She knows her stuff. And if you’d talk to her, she might help us figure out what’s eatin’ Sarah.”
Anxious to be gone, Cody was hardly listening now. Absently he asked, “Why would she be willing to talk to me in particular?”
“’Cause I asked her to.”
That grabbed Cody’s attention. “What? You didn’t tell me that.”
“I went up to her after the workshop and told her how much I enjoyed her speech. We got to talking, and before I left she said she’d be happy to discuss Sarah’s problems with you.”
“How could you do that?” Cody asked. He dragged a hand through his dark hair, striving for patience. “Look, Pa. Sarah is my problem. I don’t want or need any stiff-necked, tight-assed schoolmarm telling me what’s wrong with my kid. I haven’t done such a bad job for twelve years that I need to call in reinforcements now.”
“I’m not saying you have. But what’s wrong with asking for a little help? And come to think of it, have you done anything about hiring a nanny yet?”
“I haven’t had time to call an agency.”
“You haven’t made time.”
Unfortunately that was true. Cody had stalled on that suggestion. The idea of hiring full-time live-in help to raise Sarah rubbed him the wrong way. Sarah was twelve, for God’s sake, not a baby who needed her diaper changed. Which was, by the way, the kind of thing Cody had done for her when she’d needed it. That and a lot of other things. Now, suddenly, he couldn’t handle his own daughter?
“You didn’t have help raising me after Mom died. I didn’t turn out so bad.”
His father shook his head. “No, but I shoulda worked harder on that ornery streak of yours.”
