The Mccaffertys: Thorne. Lisa Jackson

      Self-impressed, rich, corporate bastard. “That’s what everyone wants for their loved ones, Thorne.”

      “The difference is,” he said, “I can afford it.” Her heart sank. Why had she thought she recognized a bit of tenderness in his eyes? Foolish, foolish, idealistic woman. “I’m a damned good doctor, Thorne. So are the others here. This hospital has won awards. It’s small but attracts the best, I can personally assure you of that. Doctors who have once practiced in major cities from Atlanta to Seattle, New York to L.A., have ended up here because they were tired of the rat race….” She let her words sink in and wished she’d just bitten her tongue. Thorne could think whatever he damn well pleased.

      “Let’s go inside. Now, remember, keep it positive and when I say time’s up, don’t argue. Just leave. You can see her again tomorrow.” She waited, but he didn’t offer any response or protest, just clenched his jaw so hard a muscle jumped. “Got it?” she asked.

      “Got it.”

      “Then we’ll get along just fine,” she said, but she didn’t believe it for a minute. Some things didn’t change and she and Thorne McCafferty were like oil and water—they would never mix; never agree.

      She pressed a button and placed her face in the window so that a nurse inside could see her, then waited to be admitted. As the electronic doors hummed open, she felt Thorne’s gaze center on the back of her neck beneath the upsweep of her hair. Without making a sound, he followed her inside. She wondered how long he’d obey the hospital’s and the doctor’s terms.

      The answer, she knew, was blindingly simple.

      Not long enough.

      Thorne McCafferty hadn’t changed. He was the type of man who played by his own rules.

      Chapter Two

      Oh, God, this couldn’t be Randi. Thorne gazed down at the small, inert form lying on the bed and he felt sick inside—weak. Tubes and wires ran from the her body to monitors and equipment with gauges and digital readouts that he didn’t understand. Her head was wrapped in gauze, her body draped in sterile-looking sheets, one leg elevated and surrounded by a partial cast. The portions of her face that he could see were bruised and swollen.

      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 nurse’s 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