her eyebrows. “Now don’t go getting your nose out of joint. Herman’s not feeling well and I’m taking him to the vet.”
“Herman bad. Herman bad,” the parrot said.
Matthew eyed the green bird, his plumage shot here and there with yellow and orange, and said the first thing that entered his head. “The phrase chicken-fried comes to mind.”
“Matthew Sloan, Jr., bite your tongue,” Miss Emma scolded, and grabbed her purse. “I’ll take him to Doc Lowe’s right now.”
“And take him home afterward, because I don’t want to listen to him babbling all day.”
Miss Emma flashed him a sharp glance, then picked up the cage. “You know, young Matthew, you’re too wound up. You should let go and have some fun. Find yourself a girl, get married and have some kids. Don’t let life pass you by like I did.”
“Herman bad. Herman bad. Pretty boy. Pretty boy.”
The parrot’s words followed him into his office. He wasn’t wound up. And his life wasn’t anything like Miss Emma’s. She had taken care of her sick mother until the old woman died, and after that she’d begun to work for his father. By then all the eligible bachelors were gone, and Miss Emma had become an old maid before she knew it.
Wound up. Dammit, he had to admit he was. He was coiled so tightly inside he felt as if he was going to explode. The past month had been horrendous—his dad’s illness, then death, and taking care of his mom. Now he had to deal with his dad’s caseload while worrying about his own. Everything seemed to be crowding in on him.
With a deep sigh he rubbed both hands over his face and sank into his chair. He had lived with pressure all his life, so he should be used to it. Living in his father’s shadow hadn’t been easy; the very best had always been expected of him. That was probably the main reason he’d chosen New York to practice law. He had wanted to live his own life, and to do that he’d had to leave Coberville, Texas.
He groaned. Had he been trying to prove something to his dad all these years—that he was a better lawyer, had a more exciting life and made more money? Matthew raked his hands through his hair. If he had been, he’d fallen short somewhere along the road, because his dad had been happy and content while those feelings still eluded him. Maybe his dad was right, and a person could never shake his roots.
That thought reminded him of C. J. Doe. All her life, she’d been searching for her roots, while he… Had he been running from his? He didn’t like to think so because he loved his father, and Coberville had a way of getting into his blood.
God, this soul-searching was driving him insane. Something about coming home always had him questioning his motives and the reasons for everything he’d done in his life. But he was doing what he wanted to do—practicing criminal law. And he was doing it where he wanted to do it—in New York. Happiness and all the rest would follow. Wouldn’t it?
Scooting his chair forward, he decided it was time to get his mind back on business. The Townsend case could be a problem and keep him in Coberville longer than he wanted to stay. He stared at the telephone. Should he call the Townsends? No, he’d told C. J. Doe he’d give her a couple of days. Maybe she’d realize how foolish she was being. But he knew that hope was in vain. Her pride, the same pride he’d witnessed in her as a child, wouldn’t let her. She was going to hold on to the land, making his life miserable. He’d be forced to take it away from her. The mere prospect knotted his stomach. Why couldn’t she just accept the damn money and get on with her life?
He leaned forward and picked up a pencil, tapping it against the desk. Suddenly all his frustrations welled up inside him and he threw the pencil. It bounced off the phone and landed on the carpet near the door.
Matthew stared at the pencil, then slowly raised his eyes to see C. J. Doe standing in his doorway. For a moment he was sure he’d imagined her, conjured her up. Last night she’d flitted in and out of his dreams with her long black hair cascading around her and green eyes beckoning.
Now her long black hair fell in a heavy braid down her back. Tight jeans molded her legs and hips. A green shirt intensified the color of her eyes—liquid green eyes that weren’t beckoning. They were somber and staring at him.
Slowly he got to his feet. “Miss Doe, come in.”
C.J. stepped farther into the room, then stopped. “Miss Emma wasn’t at her desk so I—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupted. He couldn’t resist a grin.
“Just be grateful she’s gone or she’d be making you sit there for a while.”
“Miss Emma’s a stickler for procedure, all right. Your dad used to tease her about it,” she said, enjoying the grin on his face. The New York lawyer had a devastating smile.
How did she know so much about his dad? Matthew wondered. As he shook that thought from his mind, he gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”
“No, thank you, I won’t be staying that long.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything else. The offer had to be the reason she’d come here. He could have sworn she’d never change her mind, but money was always a good persuader. Disappointment ran through him, and he didn’t understand why. Because if C. J. Doe took the offer, it was going to make his life a whole lot easier.
“I assume you’re here about the offer,” he prompted.
Her eyes narrowed. “Have you seen the Townsends?”
“No. I told you I’d give you a couple of days.”
“Good.” The lovely lines of her face relaxed. “I have a counteroffer.”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to make a counteroffer,” she repeated.
He shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought you were here to accept the money.”
Fine eyebrows darted up in surprise. “Afraid not. Money doesn’t mean that much to me.”
“Then…why are you here?”
“I just told you.” Her voice became strained. “I have an offer of my own.”
“What?” he asked. What did she have to offer the Townsends?
She took a deep breath. “I will release my claim on the land and money on one condition.”
He tried not to let the shock show on his face. After all, he was a professional and good at hiding his emotions. He massaged his temple with a forefinger. “What condition?”
Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “That Rob and John Townsend take paternity tests.”
“I see,” he said quietly. His mind racing, he picked up a pen and studied it as if it was twenty-four-carat gold.
“The land and money would have been nice, but since I’ve never had either, it doesn’t matter that much. What matters most to me is finding my parents. I feel Mrs. Townsend wanted that for me, too.”
C.J. had a one-track mind—finding
