Rumors: The McCaffertys

  His throat was thick with emotion as he stood in the tiny sheet-draped cubicle that opened at the foot of the bed to the nurses’ station. His fists clenched impotently, and a quiet, damning rage burned through his soul. How could this have happened? What was she doing up at Glacier Park? Why had her vehicle slid off the road?

  The heart monitor beeped softly and steadily yet he wasn’t reassured as he stared down at this stranger who was his half sister. A dozen memories darted wildly through his mind and though at one time, when she was first born, he’d been envious and resentful of his father’s namesake, he’d never been able to really dislike her.

  Randi had been so outgoing and alive, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her laughter contagious, a girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. Guileless and believing that she had every right to be the apple of her father’s eye, Randi Penelope McCafferty had bulldozed her way through life and into almost anyone’s heart she came across—including those of her reluctant, hellions of half brothers who had sworn while their new stepmother was pregnant that they would despise the baby who, as far as their tunnel-visioned young eyes could see, was the reason their own parents had divorced so bitterly.

  Now, twenty-six years later, Thorne cringed at his ill-focused hostility. He’d been thirteen when his half sister had summoned the gall to arrive, red-faced and screaming, into this world. Thorne had been thoroughly disgusted at the thought of his father and the younger woman he’d married actually “doing it” and creating this love child. Worse yet was the scandal surrounding her birth date, barely six months after J. Randall’s second nuptials. It had been too humiliating to think about and he’d taken a lot of needling from his classmates who, having always been envious of the McCafferty name, wealth and reputation, had found some dark humor in the situation.

  Hell, it had been a long time ago and now, standing in the sterile hospital unit with patients barely clinging to life, his own sister hooked up to machines that helped her survive, Thorne felt a fool. All the mortification and shame Thorne had endured at Randi’s conception and birth had disappeared from the first time he’d caught his first real glimpse of her little, innocent face.

  Staring into that fancy lace-covered bassinet in the master bedroom at the ranch, Thorne had been ready to hate the baby on sight. After all, for five or six months she’d been the source of all his anger and humiliation. But Thorne had been instantly taken with the little infant with her dark hair, bright eyes and flailing fists. She’d looked as mad to be there as he’d felt that she’d disrupted his life. She’d wailed and cried and put up a fuss that couldn’t be believed. The sound that had been emitted from her tiny voice box—like a wounded cougar—had bored right to the heart of him.

  He’d hidden his feelings, kept his fascination with the baby to himself and made sure no one, least of all his brothers and father knew how he really felt about the infant, that he’d been beguiled by her from the very beginning of her life.

  Now, as he watched her labored breathing and noticed the blood-encrusted bandages that were placed over her swollen face, he felt like a heel. He’d let her slip away from him, hadn’t kept in touch because it hadn’t been convenient for either of them and now she lay helpless, the victim of an accident that hadn’t yet been explained to him.

  “You can talk to her,” a soft, feminine voice said to him and he looked up to see Nicole looking at him with round, compassionate eyes. The color of aged whiskey and surrounded by thick lashes, they seemed to stare right to his very soul. As they had when he was twenty-two and she’d been barely seventeen. God, that seemed a lifetime ago. “No one knows if she can hear you or not, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.” Her lips curved into a tender, encouraging smile and though he felt like a fool, he nodded, surprised not only that she’d matured into a full-fledged woman—but that she was a doctor, no less, and one who could bark out orders or offer compassionate whispers with an equal amount of command. This was Nikki Sanders, the girl who had nearly roped his heart? The one girl who had nearly convinced him to stay in Grand Hope and scrape out a living on the ranch? Leaving her had been tough, but he’d done it. He’d had to.

  As if sensing he might need some privacy, she turned back to the chart on which she was taking notes.

  Thorne dragged his gaze from the curve of Nikki’s neck, though he couldn’t help but notice that one strand of gold-streaked hair fell from the knot she’d pinned at her crown. Maybe she wasn’t so buttoned-down after all.

  Grabbing the cool metal railing at the side of Randi’s hospital bed, he concentrated on his sister again. He cleared his throat. “Randi?” he whispered, feeling like an utter fool. “Hey, kid, can you hear me? It’s me. Thorne.” He swallowed hard as she lay motionless. Old memories flashed through his mind in a kaleidoscope of pictures. It had been Thorne who had found her crying after she’d fallen off her bike when she’d been learning to ride at five. He’d returned home from college for a quick visit, had discovered her at the edge of the lane, her knees scraped, her cheeks dusty and tracked with tears, her pride bitterly wounded as she couldn’t get the hang of the two-wheeler. After carrying her to the house, Thorne had plucked the gravel from her knees, then fixed the bent wheel of her bike and helped her keep the damned two-wheeler from toppling every time she tried to learn.

  When Randi had been around nine or ten, Thorne had spent an afternoon teaching her how to throw a baseball like a boy—a curveball and a slider. She’d spent hours working at it, throwing that damned old ball at the side of the barn until the paint had peeled off.

  Years later, Thorne had returned home one weekend to find his tomboy of a half sister dressed in a long pink dress as she’d waited for her date to the senior prom. Her hair, a rich mahogany color, had been twisted onto the top of her head. She’d stood tall on high heels with a poise and beauty that had shocked him. Around her neck she’d worn a gold chain with the same locket J. Randall had given Randi’s mother on their wedding day. Randi had been downright breathtaking. Exuberant. Full of life.

  And now she lay unmoving, unconscious, her body battered as she struggled to breathe.

  Nicole returned to the side of the bed. Gently she shone a penlight into Randi’s eyes, then touched Randi’s bare wrist with probing, professional fingers. Little worry lines appeared between her sharply arched brows. Her upper teeth sank into her lower lip as if she were deep in thought. It was an unconsciously sexy movement and he looked away quickly, disgusted at the turn of his thoughts.

  From the corner of his eye he noticed her making notations on Randi’s chart as she moved to the central area where a nurses’ station had full view of all of the patients’ beds. Like spokes of a wheel the separated “rooms” radiated from the central desk area. Pale-green privacy drapes separated each bed from the others and nurses in soft-soled shoes moved quietly from one area to the next.

  “Why don’t you try to speak with her again?” Nicole suggested quietly, not even glancing his way.

  He felt so awkward. So out of place. So big. So damned healthy.

  “Go on,” she encouraged, then turned her back on him completely.

  His fingers tightened over the rail. What could he say? What did it matter? Thorne leaned forward, closer to the bed where his sister lay so still. “Randi,” he whispered in a voice that nearly cracked with emotions he tried desperately to repress. He touched one of her fingers and she didn’t respond, didn’t move. “Can ya hear me? Well, you’d better.” Hell, he was bad at this sort of thing. He shifted so that his fingers laced with hers. “How ya doin’?”

  Of course she didn’t answer and as the heart monitor beeped a steady, reassuring beat, he wished to heaven that he’d been a better older brother to her, that he’d been more involved with her life. He noticed the soft rounding of her abdomen beneath the sheet stretched over her belly. She’d been pregnant. Now had a child. A mother at twenty-six. Yet no one in the family knew of
any man with whom she’d been involved. “Can…can you hear me? Huh, kiddo?”

  Oh, this was inane. She wasn’t going to respond. Couldn’t. He doubted she heard a word he said, or sensed that he was near. He felt like a fool and yet he was stuck like proverbial glue, adhering to her, their fingers linked, as if someway he could force some of his sheer brute strength into her tiny body, could by his indomitable will make her strong, healthy and safe.

  He caught a glance from Nicole, an unspoken word that told him his time was up.

  Clearing his throat again, he pulled his hand from hers, then gently tapped the end of her index finger with his. “You hang in there, okay? Matt, Slade and I, we’re all pulling for you, kid, so you just give it your best. And you’ve got a baby, now—a little boy who needs you. Like we all do, kid.” Oh, hell, this was impossible. Ludicrous. And yet he said, “I, uh, I—we’re all pullin’ for you and I’ll be back soon. Promise.” The last word nearly cracked.

  Randi didn’t move and the back of Thorne’s eyes burned in a way they hadn’t since the day he learned his father had died. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, he crossed the room and walked through the doors that opened as he approached. He sensed, rather than saw Nicole as she joined him.

  “Give it to me straight,” he said as they strode along a corridor with bright lights and windows overlooking a parking lot. Outside it was dark as night, black clouds showering rain that puddled on the asphalt and dripped from the few scraggly trees that were planted near the building. “What are her chances?”

  Nicole’s steps, shorter by half than his own, were quick. She managed to keep up with him though her brow was knitted, her eyes narrowed in thought. “She’s young and strong. She has as good a chance as anyone.”

  An aide pushing a man in a wheelchair passed them going the opposite direction and somewhere a phone rang. Piped-in music competed with the hum of soft conversation and the muted rattle of equipment being wheeled down other corridors. As they reached the elevator, Thorne touched Nicole lightly on the elbow.

  “I want to know if my sister is going to make it.”

  Color flushed her cheeks. “I don’t have a crystal ball, you know, Thorne. I realize that you and your brothers want precise, finite answers. I just don’t have them. It’s too early.”

  “But she will live?” he asked, desperate to be reassured. He, who was always in control, was hanging on the words of a small woman whom he’d once come close to loving.

  “As I said before, barring any unforeseen—”

  “I heard you the first time. Just tell me the truth. Point-blank. Is my sister going to make it?”

  She looked about to launch into him, then took a deep breath. “I believe so. We’re all doing everything possible for her.” As if reading the concern in his eyes, she sighed and rubbed the kinks from the back of her neck. Her face softened a bit and he couldn’t help but notice the lines of strain surrounding her eyes, the intelligence in those gorgeous amber-colored irises and he felt the same male interest he had years ago, when she was a senior in high school. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be evasive. Really.” She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I wish I could tell you that Randi will be fine, that within a couple of weeks she’ll be up walking around, laughing, going back to work, taking care of that baby of hers and that everything will be all right. But I can’t do that. She’s suffered a lot of trauma. Internal organs are damaged, bones broken. Her concussion is more than just a little bump on her head. I won’t kid you. There’s a chance that if she does survive, there may be brain damage. We just don’t know yet.”

  His heart nearly stopped. He’d feared for his sister’s life, but never once considered that she might survive only to live her life with less mental capabilities than she had before. She’d always been so smart—“Sharp as a tack,” their father had bragged often enough.

  “Shouldn’t she see a specialist?” Thorne asked.

  “She’s seeing several. Dr. Nimmo is one of the best neurosurgeons in the Northwest. He’s already examined her. He usually works out of Bitterroot Memorial and just after Randi’s surgery he was called away on another emergency, but he’ll phone you. Believe me. Your sister’s getting the best medical care we can provide, and it’s as good as you’re going to get anywhere. I think we’ve already had this conversation, so you’re just going to have to trust me. Now, is there anything else?”

  “Just that I want to be kept apprised of her situation. If there is any change, any change at all in her condition or that of the child, I expect to be contacted immediately.” He withdrew his wallet and slid a crisp business card from the smooth leather. “This is my business phone number and this—” he found a pen in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and scribbled another number on the back of his card “—is the number of the ranch. I’ll be staying there.” He handed her the card and watched as one of her finely arched brows elevated a bit.

  “You expect me to contact you. Me, personally.”

  “I—I’d appreciate it,” he said and touched her shoulder. She glanced down at his hand and little lines converged between her eyebrows. “As a personal favor.”

  Her lips pulled into a tight knot. Color stained her cheeks. “Because we were so close to each other?” she asked, gold eyes snapping as she pulled her shoulder away.

  He dropped his hand. “Because you care. I don’t know the rest of the staff and I’m sure that they’re fine. All good doctors. But I know I can trust you.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  “I did once.”

  She swallowed hard. “Let’s keep that out of this,” she said. “But, fine…I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Thanks.” He offered her a smile and she rolled her eyes.

  “Just don’t try to smooth-talk or con me, Thorne, okay? I’ll tell it to you straight, but don’t, not for a minute, try to play on my sympathies and, just to make sure you’re getting this, I’m not doing it for old times’ sake or anything the least bit maudlin or nostalgic, okay? If there’s a change, you’ll be notified immediately.”

  “And I’ll be in contact with you.”

  “I’m not her doctor, Thorne.”

  “But you’ll be here.”

  “Most of the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to run.” She started to turn away, but he caught the crook of her elbow, his fingers gripping the starched white coat.

  “Thanks, Nikki,” he said and to his amazement she blushed, a deep shade of pink stealing up her cheeks.

  “No problem. It comes with the job,” she said, then glanced down at his fingers and pulled away. With clipped steps she disappeared through a door marked Staff Only. Thorne watched the door swing shut behind her and fought the urge to ignore the warning and follow her. Why he couldn’t imagine. There was nothing more to say—the conversation was finished, but as he tucked his wallet back into his pocket, he experienced a foolish need to catch up with her—to catch up with his past. He had dozens of questions for her and he’d probably never ask one. “Fool,” he muttered to himself and felt a headache begin to pound at the base of his skull. Nicole Stevenson was a doctor here at the hospital, nothing more. And she had his number. Big-time. She’d made that clear enough.

  Yes, she was a woman; a beautiful woman, a smart woman, a seemingly driven woman, a woman with whom he’d made love once upon a time, but their affair was long over.

  And she could be married, you idiot. Her name is Stevenson now, remember?

  But he’d checked her ring finger. It had been bare. Why he’d bothered, he didn’t understand; didn’t want to assess. But he was satisfied that she was no longer another man’s wife. Nonetheless she was off-limits. Period. A complicated, beguiling woman.

  He stepped onto the elevator, pounded the button for the floor of the maternity level and tried to shove
all thoughts of Nikki Sanders—Dr. Nicole Stevenson—from his mind.

  But it didn’t work; just as it hadn’t worked years before when he’d left her. Without so much as an explanation. How could he have explained that he’d left her because staying in Grand Hope, being close to her, touching her and loving her made his departure all that much harder? He’d left because he’d had a deep sense of insight that if he’d stayed much longer, he would never have been able to tear himself away from her, that he never would have gone out into the world and proved to himself and his father that he could make his own mark.

  “Hell,” he cursed. He’d been a fool and let the only woman who had come close to touching a part of him he didn’t want to know existed—that nebulous essence that was his soul—get away from him. He’d figured that out a couple of years later, but Thorne had never been one to look back and second-guess himself. He’d told himself there would be another woman someday—when he was ready.

  Of course he’d never found her.

  And he hadn’t even worried about it until he’d seen Nikki Sanders again, remembered how it felt to kiss her, and the phrase what if had entered his mind. If he’d stuck by her, married her, had children by her, his father wouldn’t have gone to his grave without grandchildren. “Stop it,” he growled to himself.

  * * *

  Nicole let out her breath as she walked through the maze that was St. James. She was still unsettled and shaken. Used to dealing with anxious, sometimes even grieving relatives, she hadn’t expected that she would have such an intense and disturbing reaction to Thorne McCafferty.

  “He’s just a man,” she grumbled, taking the stairs. “That’s all.”

  But she met men every day of the week. All kinds from all walks of life and none of them caused anywhere near this kind of response.