thought as she hung up. Ever since she’d given birth she’d done nothing more than worry. She was worse than her half brothers and that was pretty bad. Thorne was the oldest and definitely type A. But he’d recently married Nicole and settled down with her and her twin girls. Randi smiled at the thought of Mindy and Molly, two dynamic four-year-olds who looked identical but were as different as night and day. Then there was Matt, ex-rodeo rider and serious. Had his own place in Idaho until he’d fallen in love with Kelly, who was now his wife. And then there was Slade. He was a rebel, hadn’t grown up worrying about anything. But all of a sudden he’d made it his personal mission to “take care” of his younger, unmarried sister and her child.
A few months ago Randi would have scoffed at her brothers’ concerns. But that had been before the accident. She remembered little of it, thank God, but now she had to figure out who was trying to harm her. She could accept Striker’s help, she supposed, but was afraid that if she did, if she confided in anyone, she would only be jeopardizing her baby further and that was a chance she wasn’t about to take. Regardless of her brothers’ concerns.
Frowning, she remembered Matt and Kelly’s wedding and the reception afterward. There had been dancing and laughter despite the cold Montana winter, despite the charred remains of the stable, a reminder of the danger she’d brought upon her family. Kelly had been radiant in her sparkling dress, Matt dashing in a black tuxedo, even Slade—who’d been injured in the fire—had forgone his crutches to dance with Jamie Parsons before whisking her away to elope on that snow-covered night. Randi had dressed her son in a tiny tuxedo and held him close, silently vowing to take the danger away from her brothers, to search out the truth herself.
Two days later when a breathless Slade and Jamie had returned as husband and wife, Randi had announced she was leaving.
“Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?” Matt had demanded. He’d slapped his hat against his thigh and his breath had steamed from his lungs as all four of John Randall McCafferty’s children had stood near the burned-out shell of the stable.
“This is beyond insanity.” Thorne had glared down at her, as if he could use the same tactics that worked in a boardroom to convince her to stay. “You can’t leave.”
“Watch me,” she’d baited, meeting his harsh gaze with one of her own.
Even Slade, the rebel and her staunchest ally, had turned against her. His crutches buried beyond their rubber tips in a drift of snow at the fence line, he’d said, “Don’t do it, Randi. Keep J.R. here with us. Where we can help you.”
“This is something I have to do,” she’d insisted, and caught a glimpse of Striker, forever lurking in the shadows, always watching her. “I can’t stay here. It’s unsafe. How many accidents have happened here? Really, it’s best if I leave.” All of her brothers had argued with her, but Striker had remained silent, not arguing, just taking it all in.
Until last night. And then all hell had broken loose.
So she’d left and he’d followed her to Seattle. Now she realized she’d have one helluva time getting rid of him. It galled her that her brothers had hired him.
“What makes you think you’ll be safer in Seattle than Grand Hope?” Thorne had asked as she’d packed her bags in the pine-walled room she’d grown up in. “You’re still not healed completely from the accident. If you stayed here, we could all look after you. And little J.R, er, Joshua, would have Molly and Mindy to play with when he got a little bigger.”
Randi’s heart was torn. She’d eyed her bright-eyed nieces, Molly bold and impudent, Mindy hiding behind Thorne’s pant leg, and known that she couldn’t stay. She had things to do; a story to write. And she knew that if she stayed any longer, she’d only get more tangled up with Striker.
“I’ll be all right,” she’d insisted, zipping up her bag and gathering her baby into her arms. “I wouldn’t do anything to put Joshua in danger.” As she’d clambered down the stairs, she’d heard the twins asking where she was going and had spied their housekeeper, Juanita, making the sign of the cross over her ample bosom and whispering a prayer in Spanish. As if she would haul her own child into the maw of danger. But they didn’t understand that in order for everyone to be safe, she had to get back to her old life and figure out why someone was trying to harm her.
And Joshua. Don’t forget your precious son. Whoever it is means business and is desperate. She noted that Striker was still seated in his truck. Waiting. Damn the man. Quickly she closed the blinds, then took a final glance around the small nursery. Hardwood floors that were dusty, a cradle stuck in a corner, a bookcase that was still in its box as “some assembly” was required and she hadn’t had time.
Because you were in the hospital.
Because you nearly died.
Because someone is determined to kill you.
Maybe, just maybe, your brothers have a point.
Maybe you should trust Kurt Striker.
Again she thought of the night before. Trust him? Trust herself?
What other choice did she have?
Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. If Kurt could figure out where she’d hidden Joshua, then the would-be killer, whoever he was, could as well. Her insides knotted. Why would anyone want to harm her innocent baby? Why?
It’s not about Joshua, Randi. It’s about you. Someone wants you dead. As long as the baby isn’t with you, he’s safe.
She clung to that notion and set about getting her life in order again. She made herself a cup of instant coffee and dialed the office. Her editor was out, but she left a message on his voice mail, checked her own e-mail, then quickly unpacked and changed into a clean sweater, slacks and boots. She wound a scarf around her neck and finger combed her short hair, looking into the hall mirror and cringing. She’d lost weight in the past five months, indeed she now weighed less than before she’d gotten pregnant, and she was having trouble getting used to the length of her hair. She’d always worn it long, but her head had been shaved before one of her lifesaving surgeries to alleviate the swelling in her brain and the resulting grow-out was difficult to adjust to though she'd had it shaped before leaving Montana. Instead, she went into the bathroom, found an old tube of gel and ran some of the goop through her hair. The result was kind of a finger-in-the-light-socket look, but was the best she could do. She was just rinsing her hands when her doorbell buzzed loudly several times, announcing a visitor. She didn’t have to be told who was ringing the bell. One quick look at her watch showed her that it had been one hour and five minutes since she’d last faced Striker. Apparently the man was prompt.
And couldn’t take a hint.
“Great,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a towel and discarding it into an open hamper before hurrying to the front door. What she didn’t need was anyone dogging her, bothering her and generally getting in the way. She was a private person by nature and opposed anyone nosing into her business, no matter what his reasons. Reining in her temper, she yanked open the door. Sure as shootin’, Kurt Striker, all six feet two inches of pure male determination, was standing on her doorstep. His light brown hair had darkened from the raindrops clinging to it, and his green eyes were hard. Wearing an aging bomber jacket and even older jeans, he was sexy as hell and, from the looks of him, not any happier at being on her stoop than she was to find him there.
“What’s with ringing the bell?” she asked, deciding not to mask her irritation. “I
