The past is never too far behindâ¦
The McCaffertys: Thorne
When Thorne McCafferty rushes home to the family ranch, he is thinking only about whether his sister Randi will survive the car wreck that has put her in the hospital. He never expects that Randiâs E.R. doctor will be Nicole Stevenson.
Nicole has never forgotten the teenage passion she shared with Thorneâ¦or the sting of his unexplained rejection. Now sheâs all grown upâbut he still affects her in the very same way. Will they both be able to move beyond their pasts for a second chance at a happy ending?
The McCaffertys: Matt
Matt has never met a woman who wouldnât succumb to the McCafferty charm. But beautiful Kelly Dillinger, the cop assigned to his sisterâs hit-and-run case, proves indifferent to his attention. Her all-business attitude pricks his egoâ¦and fires up his blood. The more she resists, the more determined he becomes to break down her defenses. Matt might think that law enforcement is no place for a lady, but he might soon find himself making a plea for passion.
Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author
âBestselling Jackson cranks up the suspense to almost unbearable heights in her latest tautly written thriller.â
âBooklist on Malice
âWhen it comes to providing gritty and sexy stories, Ms. Jackson certainly knows how to deliver.â
âRT Book Reviews on Unspoken
âProvocative prose, an irresistible plot and finely crafted characters make up Jacksonâs latest contemporary sizzler.â
âPublishers Weekly on Wishes
âLisa Jackson takes my breath away.â
âNew York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller
Prologue
Last summer
âThe truth of the matter, son, is that Iâve got a request for you,â John Randall McCafferty stated from his wheelchair. Heâd asked Thorne to push him to the fence line some thirty yards from the front door of the ranch house heâd called home all his life.
âI hate to ask what it is,â Thorne remarked.
âItâs simple. I want you to marry. Youâre thirty-nine, son, Mattâs thirty-seven and Sladeâwell, heâs still a boy but he is thirty-six. None of you has married and I donât have one grandchildâwell at least none that I know of.â He frowned. âEven your sister hasnât settled down.â
âRandiâs only twenty-six.â
âHigh time,â J. Randall said. A shell of the man heâd once been, J. Randall nonetheless gripped the arms of his metal chair, often referred to as âthat damned contraption,â 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.
âIâm serious, son. I need to know that the McCafferty line wonât die with you boys.â
âThatâs an archaic way of thinking.â Thorne wasnât going to be pushed around. Not by his old man. Not by anyone.
âSo be it. Damn it, Thorne, if ya havenât noticed I donât have a helluva lot of time left on this here earth!â J. Randall swept his cane from his lap and jabbed it into the ground for emphasis.
Harold, J. Randallâs crippled hunting dog, gave off a disgruntled woof from the front porch and a field mouse scurried into a tangle of brambles.
âI donât understand you,â J. Randall grumbled. âThis could have been yours, boy. All yours.â He swept his cane in a wide arc and Thorneâs gaze followed his fatherâs 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 âthe big meadow.â 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.
The Flying M Ranch.
John Randall McCaffertyâs pride and joy. Now run by a foreman as he was too ill and his children too busy with their own lives.
Thorne regarded the rolling acres with a mixture of emotions running the gauntlet from love to hate.
âIâm not getting married, Dad. Not for a while.â
âWhatâs the wait? And donât tell me you need to make your mark. Youâve done it, boy.â Old, faded blue eyes rolled up to look at him, then blinked when rays from a blinding Montana sun were too much. âWhatâre ya worth now? Three million? Five?â
âSomewhere around seven.â
His father snorted. âI was a rich man once. What did it get me?â His old lips folded back on themselves. âTwo wives who bled me dry when we divorced and a bellyful of worry about losinâ it all. No, money isnât what counts, Thorne. Itâs children. And land. Damn it allââ biting his lower lip, J. Randall dug deep into his pocket âânow where in tarnation is thatâ Oh, here we go.â