“Advice to the lovelorn,” Thorne supplied. Drops of frigid rain drizzled down the small windows and a wind, screaming of winter, tore through the valley.
“It’s a lot more than that,” Matt said defensively. “It’s general advice to single people. Things like legal issues, divorce settlements, raising kids alone, dealing with grief and new relationships, juggling time around career and kids, budgeting…hell, I don’t know.”
“Sounds like you do,” Thorne said, realizing that Matt had maintained a stronger relationship with their half sister than he had. But then that hadn’t been difficult.
“I take a paper that prints her column. It’s been syndicated, y’know. Picked up by a few independents as far away as Chicago.”
“Is that right?” Thorne felt a sharp jab of guilt. What did he know about his sister? Not much.
“Yeah, she adds her own touch—her quirky humor—and it sells.”
“Since when did she become an expert?” Slade wanted to know.
“Beats me.” Matt scratched the stubble on his chin. “Looks like she could’ve used some pearls of wisdom herself.”
Thorne kicked at a bale, causing it to split open. Why hadn’t Randi come to him, explained about the baby, confided in him if her life wasn’t going well? His back teeth ground together and he reminded himself that maybe she didn’t know things weren’t on track, maybe this baby was planned. “Okay, so what else did you find out?” he asked, refusing to wallow in a sea of guilt.
Slade lifted a shoulder. “Not a hell of a lot. Her co-workers, of course, all figured out she was pregnant. She couldn’t really hide it. But none of them admitted to knowing the father’s name.”
“You think they’re lying?” Thorne asked.
“Not that I could tell.”
“Great.”
“No one even thinks she was dating anyone seriously.”
“Looks serious enough to me,” Matt grumbled.
Slade reached across the manger and pushed one cow’s white face to the side so a smaller animal could wedge her nose into the hay. “Move, there,” he commanded, though the beast didn’t so much as flick her ears. Wiping his hand on the bleached denim of his jeans, he said, “Randi’s editor, Bill Withers, said that she’d planned to take a three-month maternity leave, but he’d assumed she’d stay in town, because she told him that as soon as she was on her feet and she and the baby were settled in, she was going to work out of her condominium. She had enough columns written ahead that they’ll run for a few weeks. Then, she’d be back at it again, though she didn’t plan to start going into the office until after the first of the year.”
“So there was no trouble at work?”
“None that anyone is saying, but I get the feeling that there was more going on than anyone’s willing to admit.”
“Par for the course. Reporters, they’re always ready to snoop into anyone else’s business—they’ve already been calling here, you know. But ask them about what they know and all of a sudden the First Amendment becomes the Bible.” Matt snorted and picked up the used strands of baling twine. “Does anyone at her office know anything about her accident?”
“Nope.” Slade dusted his hands. “They were shocked. Especially the ones she was supposedly closest to. Sarah Peeples, who writes movie reviews gasped and nearly fell through the floor, from the sound of her end of the conversation. She couldn’t believe that Randi was in the hospital and Dave Delacroix, he’s a guy who writes a sports column for the paper, thought I was playing some kind of practical joke. Then once he figured out I was on the level, he got angry. Demanded answers. So, basically, I drew blanks.”
“It’s a start,” Thorne said as they finished up. The wheels had been turning in his mind from the moment he’d heard about Randi’s accident; now it was time to put some kind of plan into action. Slade forked the last wisps of hay into the manger. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said as he traded his pitchfork for a broom. “Pour me a drink.”
“Will do.” Thorne followed Matt outside and dashed through rain cold enough that he knew winter was in the air.
Once in the house again, Matt built another fire from last night’s embers and Thorne poured them each a drink. As they waited for Slade, they sipped their father’s Scotch and worried aloud about their headstrong sister and wondering how they would take care of a newborn.
“The problem is, none of us know much about Randi’s life,” Thorne said as he capped the bottle.
“I think that’s the way she wanted it. We can beat ourselves up one side and down the other for not being a part of her life, but that was Randi’s choice. Remember?”
How could he forget? At their father’s funeral in May, Randi had been inconsolable, refusing any outward show of emotion from her brothers, preferring to stand in an oversize, gauzy black dress apart from the rest of the family, while a young preacher, who knew very little of the man in the coffin, prayed solemnly. Most of the townspeople of Grand Hope came to the service to pay their respects.
She had to have been four months pregnant at the time. Thorne would never have guessed as they paid their last respects on the hillside. But then he’d been lost in his own black thoughts, the ring his father had given him the summer before hidden deep in his pocket.
John Randall hadn’t been a churchgoing man. Under the circumstances, the young minister whose eulogy had been from notes he’d taken the day earlier, had done a decent enough job asking that the blackheart’s soul be accepted into heaven. Thorne wasn’t certain God had made such a huge exception.
“Randi’s kept her life pretty private.”
“Haven’t we all?” Matt remarked.
“Maybe it’s time to change all that.” Thorne ran a hand through the thin layer of dust that had collected on the mantel.
“Agreed.” Matt lifted his glass and nodded.
The front door banged open. A gust of cold wind blew through the hallway and Slade, wiping the rain from his face, hitched himself into the living room. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch.
“Any word on Randi?” Making his way across the braided rug, Slade found an old-fashioned glass in the cupboard and without much fanfare, poured himself a long drink from the rapidly diminishing bottle of Scotch.
“Not yet. But I’ll check the answering machine.” Matt crossed the room and disappeared down the hallway leading to the den.
“She’d better pull out of this,” Slade said, as if to himself. The youngest of the three brothers, Slade was also the wildest. He’d left a trail of broken hearts from Mexico to Canada, if rumors were to be believed and never had really settled down. While Matt had his own ranch, a small spread near the Idaho border, Slade had put down no roots and probably never would. He’d done everything from race cars, to ride rodeo, and do stunt work in films. The scar running down one side of his face was testament to his hard, reckless lifestyle and Thorne had, at times, wondered if the youngest McCafferty son harbored some kind of death wish.
Slade stood in front of the fire and warmed the backs of his legs. “What’re we gonna do about the baby?”
“We take care of him until Randi’s able.”
“Then we’d better get this place ready,” Slade observed.
“The orthopedist called earlier,” Matt said, entering the room. “As soon