by Lisa Jackson
“I’ve never been one to steer clear of trouble.”
“I know.” She sighed, remembering how many of her friends had tried to warn her off Thorne way back when. The McCafferty boys were known as everything from rogues to hellions who always managed to find more than their share of trouble. “Look, I’ve got to go—”
He grabbed the crook of her elbow. “I meant it when I said thank you, Nicole. And I really am sorry.”
“For—?”
“For taking off on you way back when.”
Her heart jolted a bit when she realized his thoughts had taken the same wayward path as her own. As the wind ripped the hood from her head, she warned herself not to trust him. “That was a long, long time ago, Thorne. We—well, I was a kid. Didn’t really know what I wanted. Let’s just forget it.”
“Maybe I can’t.”
“Well, you did a damned fine job of it for a lot of years.”
“Not as fine as I’d hoped,” he said. “Look, I’d just like to set the record straight.”
“Now?” She glanced away from him and felt her pulse skyrocketing as the sleet ran down her neck. “How about another time? When we’re both not in danger of freezing?”
His fingers gave up their possessive grip and she yanked open the door. Hoisting herself behind the wheel, she pulled the door shut and plunged her key into the ignition. With a flick of her wrist, she tried to start the engine. It ground, then died. She pumped the gas, all too aware that Thorne hadn’t moved. He stood outside the driver’s door, his bare head soaked, his long coat dripping, as she tried again. The engine turned over slowly, revved a bit and then sputtered out.
Three more flicks of her wrist.
Three more grinding attempts until there was no sound at all. “No,” she muttered, but knew it was over. The damned rig wasn’t going to move unless she got behind it and started pushing. “Great. Just…great.” And Thorne was still standing there, like a man without a lick of sense who wouldn’t come in out of the freezing rain.
He opened the door. “Need a ride?”
“What I need is a mechanic—one who knows a piston from a tailpipe!” she grumbled, but reached for her purse and slid to the ground. “Failing that, I suppose a ride would be the next best thing.” She locked the SUV, abstained from kicking it and turned. He took her hand in his, linking cold, wet fingers through hers as they dashed to his pickup. She told herself not to make any more of this than what it was, just an old friend offering help. But she knew better.
Once inside the cab, she swiped water from her face and directed him through town as the defroster chased away the condensation on the windows. He drove carefully, negotiating streets that were slick with puddles of ice as the radio played softly.
“So tell me about yourself.” Headlights from slowly passing cars illuminated the bladed angles of his face and she reminded herself that he really wasn’t all that handsome, that he was a corporate lawyer, for God’s sake, the kind of man she wanted to avoid.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“How you got to be a doctor.”
“Medical school.”
He arched a brow and she laughed. “Okay, okay, I know what you mean,” she admitted, glad to have broken some of the ice that seemed to exist between them. “Guess I wanted to prove myself. My mother always told me to aim high, that I could achieve whatever I wanted and I believed her. She insisted I have a career where I didn’t have to rely on a man.” And Nicole knew why. Her own father had taken off when she was barely two and no one had seen or heard from him since. No child support. No birthday cards. Not even a phone call at Christmas. If her mother knew where he was, she’d never said and her answer to all of Nicole’s questions had never wavered. “He’s gone. Took off when we needed him most. Well, we don’t need him now and never will. Trust me, Nicole, we don’t want to know what happened to him. It really doesn’t matter one way or another if he’s dead or alive.” At that point in the speech she’d usually bend on a knee to look her young daughter straight in the eye. Strong maternal fingers had held firm to Nicole’s small shoulders. “You can do anything you want, honey. You don’t need a deadbeat of a father to prove that. You don’t need a husband. No—you’ll do it all on your own, I know you will and you can do and be anything, anyone you want. The sky’s the limit.”
In the last few years Nicole had wondered secretly if her need to succeed, her driving ambition, her quest to make her mark was some inner need to prove to herself that she could make it on her own and that the reason her father left had nothing to do with her.
Of course at seventeen, after meeting Thorne McCafferty, she’d fallen head over heels in love and been ready to chuck all her plans—her dreams and her mother’s hopes—for one man…a man who hadn’t cared enough for her to explain what had gone wrong.
Until now.
She sensed it coming. Like the clouds gathering before a storm, the warning signs that Thorne hadn’t given up his need to explain himself were evident in the set of his jaw and thin line of his mouth.
He waited until the second light, then slowed the truck and turned down the radio. “I said I wanted to explain what happened.”
“And I said I thought it could wait.”
“It’s been nearly twenty years, Nikki.”
She closed her eyes and her heart fluttered stupidly at the nickname she’d carried with her through high school, the only name he’d called her. “So why rush things?” Don’t be taken in, Nicole. He used you once and obviously he thinks he can do it again.
He let her sarcasm slide by. “I was wrong.”
“About?” she said in a voice so low, she thought he might not have heard her.
“Everything. You. Me. What’s important in life. I thought I had to go out and prove myself. I thought I couldn’t get entangled with anyone or anything—I had to be free. I thought I had to finish law school and make a million dollars. After that I thought I’d better keep at it.”
“And now you don’t?” She didn’t believe him.
“And now I’m not sure,” he admitted, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the interior of the cab started to fog.
“Sounds like midlife crisis to me.”
He shifted down and took a corner a little too fast. “Easy answer.”
“Usually right on.”
“You really believe that?”
She leaned back in the seat and stared out the window to the neon lights of the old theater, and wondered why she was in this discussion. “Let’s just say I’ve experienced it firsthand.”
“Oh.”
“And I swore to myself that the next midlife crisis I was going to suffer through was going to be my own.”
He parked at the curb in front of her little bungalow and she reached for the door handle. “I suppose I could ask you in for some coffee, or cocoa or tea or something.”
“You could.”
She hesitated, one hand on the door handle. “Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea.”
“And why’s that?”
She tilted up her chin a bit. “Because this is getting a little too personal, I think.”
“And you’d rather keep it professional.”
“It would be best for everyone. Randi—the baby—”
To her surprise one side of his mouth lifted in a sexy, damnably arrogant slash of white. “Is that the reason, Doctor, or is it that you’re scared of me?”
No, Thorne, I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of me. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Why should I stop now?” He reached for her, dragged her close and started to kiss her, only to stop short, his mouth the barest of whispers from hers. His breath fanned her face. “Good night, Nikki.” Then he released her. She opened the door and nearly fell out of the truck. Embarrassment washed up her cheeks as she strode to the door and felt him watching her, waiting until she made it inside. Then he threw his truck into gear and took off, disappearing through the veil
of silvery sleet.
Chapter 6
“Damn!” Thorne slammed down the receiver and stared out the window to a winter-crisp day where evidence of last night’s storm still glistened on the grass and hung from the eaves in shimmering icicles. A headache pounded behind his eyes. He’d been on the phone all morning, guzzling cups of coffee as bitter as a spinster’s heart.
He’d bedded down in his old room, the one that had abutted his folks’ suite and his brothers had, by instinct, claimed the bedrooms where they’d been raised. But when he’d awoken this morning he’d been alone in the house.
During the intervening hours, he’d called the hospital, hoping for a report of improvement in Randi and the baby’s condition. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed. His sister was still comatose and the baby, though stable, was still in danger. He’d hooked up his laptop computer to the antiquated phone lines and looked up everything he could on little J.R.’s condition. From what he could determine, everything that could be done to counteract the meningitis was being done at St. James. He’d even managed to call the office, check in with Eloise and tell her that he hoped a portable office would be set up here, in his father’s den, by the end of the day. He wondered what John Randall would’ve done in a similar situation and, thinking about his father, removed the gift he’d been given from his pocket. The ring winked in the sunlight and Thorne folded his hand over the silver-and-gold band.
“I want you to marry. Give me grandchildren.” John Randall’s request seemed to bounce off the walls of this old pine-paneled room that still smelled faintly of the elder McCafferty’s cigars and Nicole’s image came to mind, the only woman he’d ever dated that he’d considered as a mother for his children. And that thought had scared him nearly twenty years ago. It still did because nothing had changed. Oh, there had been a lot of women since he’d dated her; Thorne hadn’t been celibate by any means, but no one woman had come close to touching his heart.
Until he’d seen Nicole again.
Not that he wanted a wife or mother for his children or—
What was he thinking? Wife? Children? Not him. Not now. Probably not ever…and yet…the reason he was thinking this way was probably because of his father’s dying request, his father’s wedding ring, and the fact that his own mortality wouldn’t go on forever. Randi’s situation was proof enough of that.
Oh, for the love of God. Enough with these morbid thoughts. He looked around this room again and wondered how many deals had been concocted here in the past. How many family or business decisions dreamed up while John Randall had puffed on a black market Havana cigar, rested the worn heels of his boots on the scarred maple desk and leaned back in a leather chair that had been worn smooth by years of use?
This damned metal band had been his father’s wedding ring, a gift from Larissa, Thorne’s mother, on their wedding day. John Randall had worn it proudly until Larissa had found out about Penelope, the younger woman whom her philandering husband had been seeing. The woman who had broken up a marriage that had already been foundering. The woman who had eventually given John Randall his only daughter.
And now Thorne’s mother, too, was dead, a heart attack just two years ago taking her life.
Thorne slid the ring into his pocket and reached for the phone again. He dialed Nicole’s number and hung up when her answering machine picked up. Drumming his fingers on the desktop he wondered if she’d managed to get her car towed, if she’d found another means of transportation and how, as a single mother of four-year-old twins she was getting along. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he reminded himself, bothered nonetheless. He wondered about her marital state—about the man who had been her husband, then forced himself to concentrate on the problems at hand—there were certainly enough without borrowing more. Nicole was a professional, a mother, and a levelheaded woman. She’d be fine. She had to be.
He heard the sound of the front door opening and the heavy tread of boots. “Anyone here?” Slade yelled, his uneven footsteps becoming louder.
“In the den.”
Slade appeared in the doorway. He was wearing beat-up jeans, a flannel shirt and a day’s worth of whiskers he hadn’t bothered to shave. A denim jacket with frayed cuffs was his only protection against the weather. He held a paper coffee cup in one hand. “Good mornin’.”
“Not yet, it isn’t.”
Slade’s countenance turned grim. “Don’t tell me there’s more bad news. I called the hospital a couple of hours ago. They said there was no change.”
“There isn’t. Randi’s still in critical condition and the baby’s holding his own.” Thorne rounded the desk and snapped off his laptop, turning off his link to the outside world—news, weather and stock reports. “I was talking about everything else.”
“Such as?”
“To begin with, your friend Striker hasn’t returned any of my calls, Randi’s editor at the Clarion is always ‘out’ or ‘in a meeting.’ I think he’s avoiding me. I’ve talked to the sheriff’s department, but so far there’s nothing new. A detective is supposed to call me back. The good news is that the equipment I ordered for this office is due to arrive today, and the phone company’s gonna come in and install a couple of lines. I’ve talked to an agency specializing in nannies as we’ll need one when J.R. gets home—”
“J.R.?” Slade repeated.
“I call the baby that.”
“After Dad?” Slade asked, obviously perplexed.
“And Randi.”
Slade gave out a long, low whistle. “You have been busy, haven’t you?”
Thorne elevated an eyebrow and remembered that this was his youngest brother, the playboy, a man who had never settled down to any kind of responsibility.
“All I’ve had time for this morning is a call into Striker and a couple of cups of weak coffee down at the Pub’n’Grub. I ran into Larry Todd down there.”
“Why does his name sound familiar?”
“Because he was the man who ran this place when Dad became ill.”
Thorne settled into his father’s chair and leaned back until it squeaked in protest.
“Get this. Randi kept Larry on when she inherited the bulk of this place.”
Thorne remembered, though he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. He’d been in negotiations for the Canterbury Farms subdivision at the time and had been dealing with land use laws, an environmental group, the city council and an accounting nightmare because one of his bookkeepers had been caught embezzling off the previous project. On top of all that, John Randall had died and Thorne, though he’d known his father was dying, had been stricken by the news and assuaged by grief. He hadn’t cared much about the sixth of the ranch he’d inherited and had left Randi, who owned half of the acres and the old ranch house, to run the place as she saw fit.
“But just last week, Randi called Larry up, told him she didn’t need him any longer and that she’d pay him a couple of months’ severance pay.”
Thorne’s head snapped up. “Why?”
“Beats me. Larry was really ticked off.”
“When did this happen?”
“A day before the accident.”
“Did she hire anyone else?”
“Don’t know. I just found out about it.”
“Someone would have to come and look after the stock.”
“You’d think.” He saw movement outside the window and watched Matt hiking the collar of his jacket more closely around his neck as he made his way to the back door. Slade frowned. “Guess I’d better help out with the cattle. I told Larry we’d hire him back, but he’s pretty mad. I thought Matt might talk to him.”
“Let’s see.”
They convened in the kitchen where Matt had set his hat on the table and had flung his jacket over the back of a ladder-back chair. He was in the process of pouring himself a cup of coffee. “There’s nothing to eat around here,” he grumbled as he searched in the refrigerator, then the cupboard. He dragged out an old jar of instant c
reamer and poured in a healthy dose as Slade and Thorne filled him in on everything they’d already discussed.
“We need Larry Todd back on the payroll,” Thorne said to Matt. “Slade ran into him today and thought you might talk to him.”
Matt studied the contents of his cup and nodded slowly. “I can try. But he called me after Randi let him go, and to say he was a little ticked off is an understatement.”
“See what he wants,” Thorne suggested.
“I’ll give it a shot.”
“Convince him.”
“I’ll try.” Matt slowly stirred his coffee. “But Larry’s been known to be stubborn.”
“We’ll deal with that. I’ve got a call in to Juanita to see if she’ll come on board again,” Thorne said.
“She might be working for someone else by now. Randi let her go after Dad died.” Matt hoisted himself onto the counter and his feet swung free.
“Then we’ll have to make it attractive enough that she’ll come back.”
“Might not be that easy,” Slade said, sipping coffee from his paper cup. “Some people feel obligated to stay with their employer.”
“Everyone can be bought.”
Slade and Matt exchanged glances.
Thorne didn’t waver. “Everyone has a price.”
“Including you?” Matt asked.
Thorne’s jaw hardened. “Yep.”
Slade snorted in contempt. “Hell, you’re a cynic.”
“Aren’t we all?” Thorne said, undeterred. “And we’ll need a nurse. When Randi and the baby get here, we’ll need professional help.” He was running through a mental checklist. “I’ll call a law firm I used to deal with.”
“A law firm?” Slade shook his head. “Why in the world would we need lawyers?”
“For when we find the boy’s father—he might want custody.”