Linda Warren - The Truth About Jane Doe

“What can I do for you, Mr. Sloan, Jr.?” She said his name slowly, drawing out each syllable in a mocking sort of way. She was baiting him, trying to throw him off guard. C. J. Doe wanted the upper hand. As he watched her toss her hair over her shoulder and felt a warmth curl through his stomach, he had to admit she probably already had the upper hand.

“The Townsends would like to make an offer. As you know, they’re eager to get back the land Victoria left you.”

She didn’t respond, just stared at him with unwavering eyes.

Matthew came right to the point. “They’re willing to offer you a million dollars.”

“The land is not for sale.”

“A million dollars, Miss Doe. Think what you could do with all that money. You can travel, leave Coberville, make a new life for yourself.”

“And what would I be called in this new life, Mr. Sloan, Jr.?”

He was taken aback by the question and for once words failed him.

“Money can’t buy my true identity,” she told him. “I would still be Christmas Jane Doe.”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever thought you might be adopted? Have you ever wished you were adopted? Okay, I won’t go there. But have you ever wondered from whom you got certain traits? I guess we all have. In my case, I don’t have to do much wondering. I look like my mother and act like my father, or so I’ve been told. My brothers and I all have brown eyes and brown hair. We’re all different but share a number of characteristics. That’s being part of a family; it’s in our genes.

But what if your background was a blank sheet? No parents, no one to tell you who you looked or acted like…

I thought about this when I read an article in the paper about a baby girl being found on someone’s doorstep. She had no past, no identity; no one knew who she was or where she came from. I sincerely hope she was adopted by a loving family and has a wonderful life. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. How would she deal with life, especially once she was old enough to understand? How would people treat her? Would she feel driven to find her biological parents?

That’s how Christmas Jane Doe came to me. You’ll read C.J.’s story in the following pages—complete with a handsome hero and a twenty-first-century fairy-tale ending! After such a beginning, she deserved no less.

Hope you enjoy learning The Truth About Jane Doe.

Linda Warren

To the hero in my life,

my husband, Billy, my Sonny.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

A CRISP MARCH WIND tugged at the tall stately cedars that stood guard over the Coberville cemetery. Their fanlike branches swayed with faint sighs, befitting the arrival of another funeral procession.

A long black hearse rolled through the gates. An endless stream of cars and trucks followed, lining the graveled entrance and highway. The whole town had turned out to pay its last respects to Matthew Sloan, Sr.—neighbor, friend, confidant and judge to the small Texas town for more than forty years.

Family and close friends gathered beneath a green canopy. Others huddled together on the lawn. Words of love and praise rang out and blended with the wind.

The service over, Matthew Sloan, Jr., escorted his mother to their car. Soft sobs and sad whispers rippled through the crowd. Belle Sloan trembled and Matthew’s arms tightened around her. He hoped he could get her home before she broke down. His parents had been so close, and he worried that his father’s death was going to be too much for her.

He helped his mother into the passenger seat. “Are you all right, Mom?”

Watery blue eyes focused blankly on him. “I’ll be fine, son,” she answered, her voice shaky.

She touched his face in a loving gesture. Matthew tried to smile, tried to reassure her, but smiles and words were hard to come by today. His father’s passing had left a tremendous void.

On his way to the driver’s side, he paused a moment to look back at the grave. People were getting into their cars, the wind catching at their clothes. Time to leave, time to get on with living. A sick feeling churned his stomach. He wondered if that was possible. Just then he noticed a solitary figure standing to one side of the cemetery—a young woman dressed completely in black. Wind whipped long black hair around her like a shield. People rushed by her. No one spoke or acknowledged her presence. She held her back straight and her head high. Her beauty touched something inside him, and for a moment Matthew couldn’t drag his eyes away. Who was she? What was she doing at his father’s funeral?

AFTER THE LAST CAR had driven off, Christmas Jane Doe walked to the grave and knelt in the fresh dirt, laying a single white rose among the array of flowers already there.

She folded her hands and said a silent prayer, then stared at the casket and asked, “What did you know about my birth? Why couldn’t you share your secret with me?” She swallowed hard, trying to accept the finality. “I guess you had your reasons. Thank you for being so nice to me. Goodbye, my friend. Rest in peace.” Getting to her feet, she walked to her truck, face devoid of emotion.

C.J. TOOK THE CORNER on two wheels, tires screeching. The Watsons’ entrance loomed ahead and she didn’t slow down. She was thankful the gate was open. Dust swirled behind her like a thunderstorm, matching the anger inside her.

So many emotions fueled her anger: grief, frustration, despair. She would never see or talk to Matt Sloan again. He would never tell her what he knew about her birth. She’d been certain that he knew something. Now everything seemed so hopeless. But she couldn’t give up. She had to keep searching. Finding the truth was the most powerful driving force in her life.

She would uncover the secret of her birth and…and what? Would that change things? Would people treat her differently? She didn’t think so.

She had been the subject of backroom gossip in Coberville ever since her mother abandoned her as an infant on Pete and Maggie Watson’s doorstep on Christmas Day twenty-six years ago. No one knew who she was or where she came from. People called her simply C.J. and treated her with an indifference that always got to her, as it had today. Their behavior hurt deeply, but she would never let them see her tears.

About a hundred yards from the house, she slammed on the brakes. Dust blanketed the truck like fog. She needed a few minutes to curb her emotions before she saw Pete and Harry.

When Maggie had died years ago, Harry, Pete’s older brother, had moved in with them from his place on the creek to help them deal with the loss. Harry had an intensely protective streak toward C.J. He didn’t like anyone upsetting her. He was known to have a short fuse and she didn’t want him fighting her battles. She could look after herself. Taking a calming breath, she counted to ten—a trick she’d learned as a kid when children taunted her.

She slowly relaxed and gazed at the small house she shared with Pete and Harry. Her favorite place. Her home, or the closest she would ever get to a real home. The cabin, built in the 1800s by Harrison Watson, Pete and Harry’s great-grandfather, was made of sturdy logs and stone and stood high on a hill nestled among large oak trees. Halfway down the hill a small lake shimmered in the welcoming rays of sunlight. Some of the best horseflesh in Texas grazed contentedly in a green coastal meadow between the house and the lake. Rosebushes with blooms of red and white climbed a barbed-wire fence that separated the house from the corral and barn to the south. Maggie’s flowers. C.J. smiled wistfully. How she longed for Maggie’s presence.