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 nurse’s 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
