Rumors: The McCaffertys: The McCaffertys: Thorne

“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.

Was it because he had been her first lover? Because he nearly broke her heart? Because he left her, not because of another woman, not because he had any good reason, just because she didn’t mean enough to him?

“Fool,” she muttered under her breath as she pushed open the door to the floor where her office was housed.

“Excuse me?” a janitor who was walking down the hall asked.

“Nothing. Talking to myself.” She offered the man an embarrassed smile and continued to her office, where she plopped into her desk chair and stared at the monitor of her computer. The notes that had filled her head only an hour earlier seemed scattered to the wind and she couldn’t budge thoughts of Thorne from her brain. In her silly, very feminine mind’s eye she saw him with the clarity of young, loving eyes. Oh, she’d adored him. He was older. Sophisticated. Rich. One of the McCafferty scoundrels—bad boys every one, who had been known to womanize, smoke, drink and generally raise hell in their youths.

Handsome, arrogant and cocky, Thorne had found easy access to her naive heart. The only daughter of a poor, hardworking woman who pushed for and expected perfection, Nicole had, at seventeen, been ripe for rebellion. And then she’d stumbled onto Thorne.

She’d fallen stupidly head over heels in love, nearly throwing all of her own hopes and dreams away on the rakish college boy.

Blowing her bangs out of her eyes she shook her head to dislodge those old, painful and humiliating memories. She’d been so young. So mindlessly sophomoric, caught up in romantic fantasies with the least likely candidate for a long-term relationship in the state.

“Don’t even think about it,” she reminded herself, moving the mouse of her computer and studying the screen while memories of making love to him under the star-studded Montana sky swept through her mind. His body had been young, hard, muscular and sheened in sweat. His eyes had been silver with the moon glow, his hair unkempt.

And now he was some kind of corporate hotshot.

Like Paul. She glanced down at her hands and was relieved to see that the groove her wedding ring had once carved in her finger had disappeared in the past two years. Paul Stevenson had been climbing the corporate ladder so fast, he’d lost track of his wife and young daughters.