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Isabella Trueblood made history reuniting people torn apart by war and an epidemic. Now, generations later, Lily and Dylan Garrett carry on her work with their agency, Finders Keepers. Circumstances may have changed, but the goal remains the same.
Lost
One heiress. Sara Pierce, the missing beneficiary of Violet Mitchum’s will, wants to disappear. When her roommate in a women’s shelter dies suddenly, Sara thinks she’s found a way to erase her past forever. She hasn’t counted on the “accident” that erases her memory.
Found
One knight in shining armor. Dr. Justin Dale finds himself between a rock and a hard place—he’s falling in love with a patient…a woman who knows less than he does about herself. A woman who needs him, not as a doctor, but as a man.
Finders Keepers: bringing families together
Dear Reader,
The Best Man in Texas was a wonderful opportunity to work with an incredible group of authors and editors! It is always a joy and an honor to be offered the chance to work with a terrific team.
Writing about Texas was great fun and it gave me a chance to reminisce about a trip my husband and I took to the state. We traveled through much of the diverse landscape and ended up at a dude ranch. Well, actually, it was more like a dude resort. We had a cabin with a hot tub, fireplace and a butler, so I doubt I can claim to have experienced true Western living. The butler was a nice touch, though.
Sara Pierce was a challenging character to develop. Though I could never imagine the true horrors of living through an abusive marriage, I fully enjoyed creating a woman who had not only survived, but had taken control of her life. What better reward than to find a true hero at the end of the journey. Dr. Justin Dale embodied all the qualities that make being a writer such a marvelous job. Crafting the hero is—secretly—my favorite part of the writing process. I’ll admit, Justin is my ideal fantasy man—gorgeous, intelligent, morally grounded and genuinely kind.
And Justin has many things in common with my husband. Acknowledging the similarity makes me remember why I wanted to write romance. I not only believe in “happily ever after,” I’m lucky enough to have found it in my own life as my husband and I prepare to celebrate twenty years of marriage.
I hope you enjoy the book.
Happy reading!
Kelsey Roberts
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Kelsey Roberts is acknowledged as the author of this work.
Kelsey Roberts is acknowledged as the author of this work.
Words simply cannot express my gratitude to my supportive
and loving husband, Bob, my dear friends, my sister, Linda,
the caring readers, patient editors and members of the writing community for their overwhelming support when I lost my son. Without all of you, I could easily have lost my way. Thank you!
In loving memory of Kyle McKinley Pollero
(November 19, 1985–September 7, 1999)
THE TRUEBLOOD LEGACY
THE YEAR WAS 1918, and the Great War in Europe still raged, but Esau Porter was heading home to Texas.
The young sergeant arrived at his parents’ ranch northwest of San Antonio on a Sunday night, only the celebration didn’t go off as planned. Most of the townsfolk of Carmelita had come out to welcome Esau home, but when they saw the sorry condition of the boy, they gave their respects quickly and left.
The fever got so bad so fast that Mrs. Porter hardly knew what to do. By Monday night, before the doctor from San Antonio made it into town, Esau was dead.
The Porter family grieved. How could their son have survived the German peril, only to burn up and die in his own bed? It wasn’t much of a surprise when Mrs. Porter took to her bed on Wednesday. But it was a hell of a shock when half the residents of Carmelita came down with the horrible illness. House after house was hit by death, and all the townspeople could do was pray for salvation.
None came. By the end of the year, over one hundred souls had perished. The influenza virus took those in the prime of life, leaving behind an unprecedented number of orphans. And the virus knew no boundaries. By the time the threat had passed, more than thirty-seven million people had succumbed worldwide.
But in one house, there was still hope.
Isabella Trueblood had come to Carmelita in the late 1800s with her father, blacksmith Saul Trueblood, and her mother, Teresa Collier Trueblood. The family had traveled from Indiana, leaving their Quaker roots behind.
Young Isabella grew up to be an intelligent woman who had a gift for healing and storytelling. Her dreams centered on the boy next door, Foster Carter, the son of Chester and Grace.
Just before the bad times came in 1918, Foster asked Isabella to be his wife, and the future of the Carter spread was secured. It was a happy union, and the future looked bright for the young couple.
Two years later, not one of their relatives was alive. How the young couple had survived was a miracle. And during the epidemic, Isabella and Foster had taken in more than twenty-two orphaned children from all over the county. They fed them, clothed them, taught them as if they were blood kin.
Then Isabella became pregnant, but there were complications. Love for her handsome son, Josiah, born in 1920, wasn’t enough to stop her from grow-ing weaker by the day. Knowing she couldn’t leave her husband to tend to all the children if she died, she set out to find families for each one of her orphaned charges.
And so the Trueblood Foundation was born. Named in memory of Isabella’s parents, it would become famous all over Texas. Some of the orphaned children went to strangers, but many were reunited with their families. After reading notices in newspapers and church bulletins, aunts, uncles, cousins and grand-parents rushed to Carmelita to find the young ones they’d given up for dead.
Toward the end of Isabella’s life, she’d brought together more than thirty families, and not just her orphans. Many others, old and young, made their way to her doorstep, and Isabella turned no one away.
At her death, the town’s name was changed to Trueblood, in her honor. For years to come, her simple grave was adorned with flowers on the anniversary of her death, grateful tokens of appreciation from the families she had brought together.
Isabella’s son, Josiah, grew into a fine rancher and married Rebecca Montgomery in 1938. They had a daughter, Elizabeth Trueblood Carter, in 1940. Elizabeth married her neighbor William Garrett in 1965, and gave birth to twins Lily and Dylan in 1971, and daughter Ashley a few years later. Home was the Double G ranch, about ten miles from Trueblood proper, and the Garrett children grew up listening to stories of their famous great-grandmother, Isabella. Because they were Truebloods, they knew that they, too, had a sacred duty to carry on the tradition passed down to them: finding lost souls and reuniting loved ones.
“You’re supposed to be in bed, Molly, not sitting at my desk.”
Justin tossed down the leather backpack he used as a combination medical bag and briefcase.
Molly. Molly. Molly. Sara repeated the name over and over in her mind, willing herself to think of it as her own.
“I’m going a little stir crazy,” she admitted. “And I thought the clinic could use some help. You have no organizational skills.”
“Guilty,” he agreed easily.
Sara averted her eyes, afraid some of her lecherous thoughts might be evident in her expression. Getting a grip on her feelings for the handsome doctor was part of her new plan.
“I’m setting up an interface and configuring a single-use station for you.” She reached out and adjusted the screen so Justin could see it more clearly. “You have all the tools right here, you just haven’t been using them effectively.”
“The story of my life,” he commented wryly.
Sara was left wondering if that was some kind of double entendre, hoping maybe it was.
Contents
PROLOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
“HE’S GOING to kill you.”
Ignoring the weave of tubes and electrodes, Violet Mitchum shifted on the gurney so she could peer through the small opening where the well-worn emergency room curtains didn’t quite meet.
Breath snagged in her throat when she caught sight of the woman lying almost close enough for her to touch. Through the small opening in the privacy curtain, Violet was easily able to catalog the young woman’s injuries. Beneath the raw, battered face, she suspected the woman was attractive. Though blood matted the long, pale-brown hair and the woman’s clothes were torn, Violet was quite certain this was not a homeless person or woman forced to sell herself on the street.
What was left of her clothing indicated that, whoever she was, she took an effort in her appearance on a limited budget. There were traces of expertly applied makeup on and around the welts and abrasions marring her face.
“I know that,” she heard the young woman reply wearily. She winced and held tentative fingertips to her rapidly swelling lip.
The attending physician rolled a stool next to the bed. His actions were so smooth from obvious repetition that they resembled an eerie kind of choreography. He was looking down at his patient with what Violet could only classify as frustrated compassion. That sentiment was echoed in his tone.
“Sara,” he began on a rush of air, “let me call the cops. Hank Allen deserves—”
“To rot in hell,” the woman named Sara finished with a spark of forced humor. “I’m taking care of it, Dr. Greene.”
Violet watched as all pretext of professional distance drained from the doctor’s face. “Really? How?”
“He didn’t mean to hurt me,” the woman replied with tenacious conviction. “Besides, he never would have hit me tonight if I hadn’t mouthed off at him first. You’ve known me most of my life, Dr. Greene. I’ve never been very good at keeping my smart remarks to myself.”
Violet stifled the urge to scoff.
“That hardly justifies Hank Allen beating you, Sara.”
She attempted a grin in spite of her puffy upper lip. “I’ve got it under control,” she insisted.
“Really?” the doctor challenged. “I’ve been hearing that same tune for the past three years. You’re a young, intelligent woman, Sara. Why you stay with a husband who beats you makes no sense.”
The young woman broke eye contact with the concerned physician.
“I married him, Dr. Greene. I can’t just walk away from a commitment.”
“You’re right,” the doctor agreed with more than just a measure of disgust. “A few more like tonight and you won’t be walking away. They’ll be carrying you out in a body bag.”
Violet was distracted for the better part of an hour while a physician’s assistant sutured her finger. She felt rather silly about the whole matter. She had come to Louisiana to help her friend Betty recuperate from a hip replacement. And here she was in an emergency room getting stitches because she had not been paying attention while chopping carrots. It seemed an inconsequential injury when compared with the poor girl in the next room.
Violet thought of her own wonderful marriage and couldn’t fathom the life of the young woman in the nearby bed. Violet had been loved—no, cherished. That was marriage.
“Excuse me?” Violet began rather cautiously as she yanked open the flimsy curtain.
Gingerly, the young woman half turned on her side, angling herself so as to get a clear look at Violet through the less swollen of her two eyes. Violet’s initial assessment had been accurate. Beneath her injuries, this woman was stunning. Except for the torment marring those beautiful brown eyes.
The young woman surprised her when she asked, “Do you need help? Should I call the nurse?”
Interesting, Violet thought, that this Sara should be concerned with her when she was clearly in a more serious condition herself.
Violet used her good hand to smooth back a few strands of her hair. It had long ago gone white and she hoped that alone was enough to lend some credence to what she was about to say.
“No, no,” Violet assured her. “I’m simply awaiting a release from the doctor.” She held up her now bandaged hand and turned it as if to prove it functioned.
“Me, too,” she responded on a slightly labored breath.
Never one to mince words, Violet met and held the woman’s gaze. “Your name is Sara, right?”
The woman nodded.
“I suppose you’re going to go back to the man who did this to you?”
Sara’s lids fluttered to shroud her eyes. “Do you always listen in on confidential conversations?”
Spirit, Violet thought. Good sign. “Only when I think I can help.”
“You can’t,” came Sara’s rote-sounding reply. “Anyway, I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Stubbornness. Bad sign. “Your face and your ribs will heal but the problem with your husband won’t,” Violet continued, undeterred. “The doctors can fix your body but only you can fix your life.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, you don’t know me and you don’t know my husband.”
“I don’t have to,” Violet countered. “I know his type. But I’ll admit that you’re something of a puzzle. You seem like a bright, articulate woman. Smart enough to know better than to let a man use you as a punching bag.”
Sara shifted onto her back and Violet thought she saw a shimmer of unshed tears in the woman’s eyes. Violet wasn’t sure if the woman’s emotional control was a good or bad sign.
“You don’t understand,” Sara said after a brief silence.
“So explain it to me,” Violet challenged.
“Hank Allen is under a lot of pressure. He owns several businesses and sometimes the stress just gets to him.”
“You think that justifies beating you?”
“He wasn’t always like this,” Sara defended without real emotion. “He doesn’t mean to get so rough.” She continued to stare at the ceiling.
Violet guessed the practiced excuses were wearing thin even to Sara. “They never are. Batterers are successful because they start out as Prince Charming and wait until later to reveal their warts. And just for your information, warts can be removed for a while, but they usually grow back.”
“I think he really wants to change this time.”
“Is that what you thought all the other times?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sara said, closing her eyes. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment.”
“Only when it’s made honestly,” Violet counseled. “When your Hank Allen stood in front of God and promised to love and honor you ‘till death do you part,’ he was lying. Seems to me your commitment was based on false promises.”
“I can’t leave him,” Sara said. “I have absolutely no money, no assets. I tried to leave once.”
“What happened?”
“Hank Allen reported the car stolen. Everything is in his name. I’m not even authorized to write a check.”
“There are places that can help you. Organizations that—”
“He’d find me.”
Violet thought about her next move for less than a minute. “Let me help.”
Sara’s eyes flew open and she jerked her head around—a motion that obviously caused her some pain. Wincing, she said, “You don’t even know me. I can’t let—”
“All the better,” Violet interrupted. “I’ll give you some money to get yourself away from this mess.”
“He’ll go crazy. Besides, I couldn’t possibly take money from a total stranger.”
“I’m Violet Mitchum from Pinto, Texas. There, now we aren’t strangers.”
“You know what I mean,” Sara argued. “This isn’t your problem. I’ll deal with it, but thank you.”
“There’s a fine line between being stubborn and being stupid, Sara.”
“I’m being neither,” Sara said. “I’m being practical. When the time is right, I’ll leave Hank Allen.”
“But when that time comes, will you still be breathing?”
CHAPTER ONE
“I’M STILL breathing, Violet,” Sara Pierce sighed as she sank lower against the stiff seat of the bus.
But Violet’s wisdom delivered nearly four years earlier had stayed with Sara. The mere fact that she had been so hopeless as to inspire a virtual stranger to take pity on her in a hospital emergency room had been just the push Sara needed. It had taken her months of careful planning and three more beatings, but she had done it.
Each week she had siphoned cash from the grocery allowance Hank Allen grudgingly provided. Sara had packed her bag a few articles of clothing at a time. If he suspected, Hank Allen never let on, but she had lived in mortal fear that he would discover her plan.
He didn’t. Eight months after that fortuitous meeting with Violet Mitchum in the Louisiana hospital, Sara Pierce had walked out on years of abuse.
After a few months in hiding, she had contacted an attorney and started the process of reclaiming her life.
She gave Hank Allen some parting gifts. First, there was a restraining order. When he violated that, Sara pressed charges and Hank Allen went to jail for six months. During his incarceration, she had obtained a divorce that included Hank Allen having to pay her rehabilitative alimony for three years. It seemed only fair that he support her while she returned to finish the college degree she had interrupted to marry that pig.
It seemed as if her life was back on track. She hadn’t seen Hank Allen in more than a year. The alimony had ended a week earlier, the day before she had earned her degree. Sara was ready to begin a new life.
But Hank Allen wasn’t finished with her yet.
She had returned from her graduation ceremony, stepped inside her apartment, and only wished she hadn’t known what hit her. It took one blow for her to recognize the all-too-familiar feel of Hank Allen’s fists.
She was convinced that he would have beaten her to death had it not been for the intervention of a neighbor.
Sara repositioned her travel bag on the seat beside her—she didn’t want any traveling companion on this trip—and crouched behind the dated newspaper she was using to obscure her face.
It seemed rather creepy that she found herself staring at the obituary page. A San Antonio socialite named Eve Bishop was smiling back at her. The wealthy woman’s death apparently warranted almost a quarter-page of the paper. If Hank Allen had been successful, Sara knew her death would have gone unnoticed. She would have been little more than a statistic.
I was a statistic! she thought with incredible frustration. But no more. She had Violet Mitchum to thank for that, which was exactly what she was about to do.
Thank her and ask for help. Sara had learned a lot in the past few years. First and foremost, she had learned that asking for help was sometimes the only way out of a bad situation. Violet’s simple offer that night in the hospital had changed the course of Sara’s life. Now she needed a little more sage advice to salvage what she had struggled so hard to achieve. She hadn’t even bothered to phone Violet—after Hank Allen’s reappearance, all she could think about was fleeing to safety.
Outside the bus window Sara could see the vast expanse of Texas roll by. Since Hank Allen had not dared show his face at the hospital that night four years ago, he had no idea who Violet was. Consequently, he wouldn’t know to look for her in some small place called Pinto. Violet would help her. Sara just knew in her bones that the kindly old woman would help her think of something. Some way to keep Hank Allen out of her life for good.
Sara shifted in the seat. The action caused her bruised ribs to smart. At least it was getting dark now. Dark enough that she no longer had to hide her battered face behind the newspaper. If the other riders noticed her bruises, they gave no outward indication.
She spotted the sign for Pinto outside the window. It made her feel safe. As an added measure of security, Sara remained on the bus until its next scheduled stop in Cactus Creek, a neighboring town. She wasn’t taking any chances this time. This time her plan would work.
No one seemed to notice when she gathered her single bag and exited the bus in the center of Cactus Creek.
“Center” was an accurate description. Cactus Creek appeared to have a main street and very little else. It was perfect. It was also fairly deserted. Aside from a diner, no light shone from the other shops dotting the dusty sidewalk.
Sara reached into her purse and pulled a tattered piece of paper from a side compartment. The writing was faded but still legible. Violet Mitchum had left her address for Sara that night—just in case. The message read “My door is always open.”
“Let’s hope that’s true,” Sara muttered as she walked toward the diner.
The tinkle of a bell greeted her when she pushed the door open, along with the twang of a popular country ballad. The place was deserted save for an attractive couple huddled in the end booth and a waitress seated at the Formica counter, engrossed in a paperback novel.
“Coffee?” the waitress asked without looking up from her book.
Sara would have loved some, but it was already late and she wanted to get to Violet’s as soon as possible. “I need to know how to get to—” she paused and read from the scrap of paper “—Harvester Lane in Pinto.”
The waitress lifted her head, her brows drawn tightly together. “You sure?”
Sara nodded, careful to keep her face turned subtly in profile. It was easier than letting the waitress see her bruises and then having to come up with an explanation.
“Hell of a long walk, and nothing on Harvester but the Mitchum place,” the waitress informed her on a sigh.
“Point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way,” Sara urged. Out of habit, she glanced over her shoulder and scanned the street beyond the window. Seeing no sign of Hank Allen was reassuring.
Knowing she still feared him wasn’t. Especially when she noted the couple sharing coffee. The woman had her back to Sara but the man was facing in her direction. He was dark and handsome, and the way he reached out and patted his companion’s hand was telling. His action seemed to convey genuine compassion and kindness. Sara scoffed inwardly. Like she was an authority on men. Still, she lingered a minute on his thick, wavy brown hair and chocolate-colored eyes. His chiseled face was perfectly sculpted, right down to the slight cleft in his chin and a perfect dimple on his right cheek, which appeared when he flashed an understated smile. Sara knew she was exhausted if she was cataloguing a strange man’s assets.
“Being as it’s late,” the waitress’s voice intruded as she slipped behind the counter, “why don’t I give you a cup of coffee—it’s fresh—and point you in the direction of the boardinghouse.”
Sara read the bright white nameplate pinned to the woman’s tight blouse. “Thank you...Stella. But I really do need to be on my way.”
Stella’s dark eyes were probing as she hesitated, coffeepot in hand. Then, with an accepting shrug, she said, “Suit yourself. Go out the door, take a left and follow Main Street to the stop sign. Main runs right into FM 880. Harvester is on the right a few miles down. Just look for a lattice rose trellis. Can’t miss it.”