Rumors: The McCaffertys: The McCaffertys: Thorne. Lisa Jackson
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the sleeves rolled up, Matt clapped his brother on the shoulder. “How’re you, you old bastard?”
“Same as ever.”
“Mean and ornery and on your way to your next million-dollar deal?” Matt asked, as he always did, but this time the question hit a nerve and gave him pause.
“I can only hope,” he said, unbuttoning his coat, though it was a lie. He was jaded with his life. Bored. Wanted more. He just wasn’t sure what.
“How’s Randi?” Matt asked, his face becoming a mask of concern.
“The same as when you saw her. Nothing new to report since I called you from the hospital.”
“I guess it’s just gonna take time.” Matt hitched his chin toward the living room where lamplight filtered into the hallway. “Come on in. I’ll buy you a drink. You look like you could use one.”
“That bad?”
“We could all use one today.”
Thorne nodded. “So where’s Slade?”
“Feeding the stock. He’ll be in soon. I was just on my way to help him, but since you’re here, I figure it won’t hurt him to finish the job by himself.” Matt flashed his killer smile, the one that had charmed more women than Thorne wanted to count.
Matt had been described as tall, dark and handsome by too many local girls to remember. The middle of the three McCafferty brothers, Matt’s eyes were so deep brown they were nearly black, his skin tanned from spending hours outdoors, and the shadow covering his jaw was as dark as their father’s had once been.
Sinewy and rawhide tough, Matt McCafferty could bend a horseshoe at a forge as well as he could brand a mustang or rope a maverick calf. Raw. Wild. Stubborn as hell.
Matt belonged here.
Thorne didn’t.
Not since his parents had divorced.
“Look at you.” Matt gave a sharp whistle. One near-black eyebrow cocked as he fingered the wool of Thorne’s coat. “Since when did you become a fashion statement?”
Thorne snorted in derision. “Don’t think I am. But I happened to be at work when Slade got hold of me.” Thorne hung his coat on an aging brass hook mounted near the door. The long wool overcoat seemed out of place in the array of denim, down and sheepskin jackets. “Didn’t have time to change.” He pulled at the knot in his tie and let the silk drape over his shoulders. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Good question.” Together they walked into the living room where the leather couches were worn, an upright piano gathered dust, and two rockers placed at angles near blackened stones of the fireplace remained unmoving. His great-grandfather’s rifle was mounted over the mantel, resting on the spikes of antlers from an elk killed long ago. “There’s not a lot to tell.”
Matt opened the liquor cabinet hidden in cupboards beneath a bookcase filled with leather-backed tomes that hadn’t been read in years. “What’ll it be?”
“Scotch.”
“Straight up?”
“You got it…well, I think.”
Matt scrounged around in the cabinet and with a snort of approval withdrew a dusty bottle. “Looks like you’re in luck.” He reached farther into the recesses of the cabinet, came up with a couple of glasses and, after giving them each a swipe with the tail of his shirt, poured two healthy shots. “I could get ice from the kitchen.”
“Waste of time. Unless you want it.”
Matt’s smile was a slow grin. “I think I’m man enough to handle warm liquor.”
“Figured as much.”
Thorne took the drink Matt offered and clicked the rim of his glass to his brother’s. “To Randi.”
“Yep.”
Thorne tossed back his drink, unwinding a bit as the aged liquor splashed against the back of his throat then burned a fiery path to his stomach. He rotated his neck, trying to relieve the kinks in his neck. “Okay, so shoot,” he said, as Matt lit tinder-dry kindling already stacked in the grate. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Wish I knew. Near as the police can tell, Randi was involved in a single-car accident up in Glacier Park. No one knows for sure what happened and the cops are still lookin’ into it, but, from what anyone can piece together, she was alone and driving and probably hit ice, or swerved to miss something—who the hell knows what, a deer maybe, your guess is as good as mine. The upshot is that she lost control and drove over the side of the road. The truck rolled down an embankment and—” he studied the depths of his glass “—she and the baby are lucky to be alive.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “Who found her?”
“Passersby—Good Samaritans who called the local sheriff’s department.”
“You got their names?”
Matt reached into his back pocket and withdrew a piece of paper that he handed to Thorne. “Jed and Bill Swanson. Brothers who were on their way home from a hunting trip. The deputy’s name is on there, too.”
He read the list of names and numbers, his eyes lingering for a second when he came to Dr. Nicole Stevenson.
“I figured we should keep a list of everyone involved.”
“Good idea.” Thorne tucked the piece of paper into his pocket. “So do you have any idea what Randi was doing at Glacier or anywhere around here for that matter? The last I heard she was in Seattle. What about her job? Or the father of the baby?”
Matt finished his drink. “Don’t know a damned thing,” he admitted.
“Well, that’s gotta change. The three of us—Slade, you and I—we’ve got to find out what’s going on.”
“Fine with me.” Matt’s determined gaze held his brother’s.
“We’ll start tonight.” The gears were already turning in Thorne’s mind. “As soon as Slade gets in, we’ll start making plans. But first things first.”
“Randi and the baby’s health,” Matt guessed.
“Yep. We can start digging around in her private life as much as we want, but it doesn’t mean a damned thing if she or the baby don’t pull through.”
“They will.” Matt was cocksure as the front door banged open and Slade appeared.
“Thanks for all the help,” the youngest brother grumbled as he marched into the room smelling of horses and smoke. He found a glass and poured himself a stiff shot.
“You managed,” Matt guessed.
Thorne rolled up his sleeves. “Why are you so sure that Randi and her boy will be okay?”
One side of Matt’s mouth lifted. “Because they’re McCaffertys, Thorne. Just like us—too ornery not to pull through.”
But Thorne wasn’t convinced.
Chapter 4
“Don’t want to dance,” Molly insisted as Nicole shepherded both her daughters from the preschool and into the SUV. The rain had stopped in the night and an October sun peered through high, thin clouds.
“Why not?”
“Don’t like it.” Molly climbed into her car seat and started hooking the straps together while Mindy waited for her mother to snap her into place.
“Next year you can play soccer and we’ve got swim lessons in the spring. Until then, I think we’ll stick with dance. I already paid for the lessons and they won’t hurt you.”
“I like to dance,” Mindy said, casting her