The Mccaffertys: Thorne

† (#litres_trial_promo)A Is for Always #914

† (#litres_trial_promo)B Is for Baby #920

† (#litres_trial_promo)C Is for Cowboy #926

† (#litres_trial_promo)D Is for Dani’s Baby #985

New Year’s Daddy #1004

‡ (#litres_trial_promo)A Family Kind of Guy #1191

‡ (#litres_trial_promo)A Family Kind of Gal #1207

‡ (#litres_trial_promo)A Family Kind of Wedding #1219

§ (#litres_trial_promo)The McCaffertys: Thorne #1364

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Dark Side of the Moon #39

Gypsy Wind #79

Mystic #158

Silhouette Romance

His Bride To Be #717

Silhouette Books

Silhouette Christmas Stories 1993

“The Man from Pine Mountain”

Fortune’s Children

The Millionaire and the Cowgirl

Montana Mavericks: Wed in Whitehorn

Lone Stallion’s Lady

Contents

Prologue (#u25cbae63-8563-5273-a17d-39b617c392ba)

Chapter One (#ua6f6f5eb-16db-5bad-b2ce-dce09290d9b2)

Chapter Two (#u6e725698-69ed-5d98-a9de-969f0c8da805)

Chapter Three (#u6718c2ad-b20e-5b32-9f0d-77749ba9788c)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

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)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

Last Summer

“The truth of the matter, son, is that I’ve got a request for you,” John Randall McCafferty stated from his wheelchair. He’d asked Thorne to push him to the fence line some thirty yards from the front door of the ranch house he’d called home all his life.

“I hate to ask what it is,” Thorne remarked.

“It’s simple. I want you to marry. You’re thirty-nine, son, Matt’s thirty-seven and Slade—well, he’s still a boy but he is thirty-six. None of you has married and I don’t have one grandchild—well at least none that I know of.” He frowned. “Even your sister hasn’t settled down.”

“Randi’s only twenty-six.”

“High time,” J. Randall said. A shell of the man he’d once been, J. Randall nonetheless gripped the arms of his metal chair, often referred to as “that damned contraption,” so tightly his knuckles bleached white. An old afghan was draped over his legs though the temperature hovered near eighty according to the ancient thermometer tacked to the north side of the barn. Across his lap was his cane, another hated symbol of his failing health.

“I’m serious, son. I need to know that the McCafferty line won’t die with you boys.”

“That’s an archaic way of thinking.” Thorne wasn’t going to be pushed around. Not by his old man. Not by anyone.

“So be it. Damn it, Thorne, if ya haven’t noticed I don’t have a helluva lot of time left on this here earth!” J. Randall swept his cane from his lap and jabbed it into the ground for emphasis.

Harold, J. Randall’s crippled hunting dog, gave off a disgruntled woof from the front porch and a field mouse scurried into a tangle of brambles.

“I don’t understand you,” J. Randall grumbled. “This could have been yours, boy. All yours.” He swept his cane in a wide arc and Thorne’s gaze followed his father’s gesture. Spindly legged colts frolicked in one pasture while a herd of mottled cattle in shades of russet, black and brown ambled near the dry creek bed that sliced through what was commonly referred to as “the big meadow.” The paint on the barn had peeled, the windows in the stables needed replacing and the whole damned place looked as if it were suffering from the same debilitating disease as its owner.