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

THE TRUTH ABOUT JANE DOE

Linda Warren

To the hero in my life,

my husband, Billy, my Sonny.

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER ONE

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.

With a soft sigh she pressed the gas pedal. She drove to the garage and got out.

Pete Watson stepped onto the long wooden porch that covered the front of the house. The screen door banged shut behind him. He stood over six feet, his skin weathered by sun and hard work. In his seventies, he was still a striking figure, with his handlebar mustache, cowboy hat and spurs that jangled when he walked. An Old West hero, standing toe-to-toe with Wyatt Earp and Matt Dillon. That was how C.J. saw him—her hero, her protector, giving her a home when her parents—whoever they were—hadn’t wanted her.

Pete and Maggie had tried to adopt her, but the authorities said they were too old to adopt a baby. They had waited and waited for Social Services to find her a permanent home. Over the years numerous couples had applied, but at the last minute each was turned down for some reason or other. The Watsons couldn’t understand it, but it had all worked out for the best. She’d stayed on with the people who’d wanted her.

Noticing her black outfit, Pete frowned, his shaggy eyebrows knotted together in disapproval. One finger curled the end of his gray mustache. He always did that when he was upset.

C.J. chewed her lower lip and walked up the stone path. Then she sat on the top step, tucked her dress beneath her and waited for the inevitable.

Pete sat down beside her, his spurs spinning with a familiar melodious sound. “You went to his funeral, didn’t you?”

She swung her hair over her shoulder and turned to look at him. “Yes.”

Pete removed his hat and scratched his head. He had long gray hair, thinning on top. “Girl, why do you put yourself through such misery?”

She swallowed past the constriction in her throat. “He was a friend. I had to say goodbye.”

“Friend?” he bellowed, jamming his hat back on his head. “He was the Townsends’ lawyer, hired to take away from you what was given out of kindness.”

She raised her chin a fraction. “He wasn’t trying very hard. He wanted the Townsends to dismiss the case, to accept their mother’s will. That’s why it’s been months and nothing has been done.”

He shook his head. “Matt Sloan was a good man, I’ll give you that. He had a soft spot for you, no doubt about it, but he was the enemy, girl. You have to remember that.”

C.J. knotted her fingers together and gazed off to the hilly landscape in the distance. Miles and miles of Cober land, but a small part of the enormous tract now belonged to her. Who would have thought that Victoria Cober Townsend, matriarch of the wealthiest family in Cober County, would leave a thousand acres and a hundred thousand dollars to Christmas Jane Doe? Victoria’s family was outraged and determined to break the will at any cost. Their lawyer, Matthew Sloan, Sr., had been C.J.’s ally in a sea of enemies. Now that he was dead, she wondered what the Townsends’ next move would be.

“Pete.”

“Hmm?” He leaned back on his elbows, his eyes following hers to the Cober landscape.

“Why do you think she did it? I mean, really? She knew it would upset her family, but she still did it. Why?”

He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. He knew. The whole town knew the story. He shook his head again. “Got no idea. She was just a good lady always trying to help people, and like Matt Sloan, she had a soft spot for you.”

“Yes,” C.J. murmured, remembering the old lady’s white hair and beautiful blue eyes. “Whenever she saw me, she’d always stop and chat for a few minutes. She’d ask about you and Harry, and she never failed to tell me how pretty I was becoming.” C.J. gave a troubled sigh and pushed her long hair away from her face with both hands. “Do you think she knew my parents?”

Pete leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes thoughtful. “You know the rumors as well as I do, girl.”

“That Rob or John Townsend is my father.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth. John Townsend, a retired U.S. senator, had paraded his women in front of his wife. Throughout his political career, he’d brought home his so-called secretaries and aides for lengthy weekends. Why Victoria put up with such behavior had been a mystery to everyone. Their son, Rob, was equally known for his many affairs, chasing women in five counties and several states, even after his marriage. The thought of being the offspring of one of their meaningless affairs was repugnant. Her need to know, though, was greater than any revulsion she felt toward the Townsends.

She frowned. “I can’t see her being so generous to a bastard child of her husband’s, but if she’d learned something about Rob and one of his girlfriends, it might be the answer to all my questions.”

“We’ll never find out now, will we? She’s gone.”

“That’s what’s so frustrating. Why couldn’t she tell me what she knew?”

“Presuming she knew something.”

“Oh, Pete!” she snapped. “She knew something, or all this—” she gestured toward the thousand acres “—wouldn’t be mine.”

His brown eyes grew pensive and for a moment he was silent. “Victoria Cober Townsend was a very kind lady,” he mumbled.

C.J. stuck a hand in front of his face. “Have you got blinders on or something? No one’s that kind.”

“Maybe,” he admitted absently, then asked, “did you see Sloan’s boy at the funeral?”

The soft curve of her mouth tightened a fraction. “Yes, he was with his mother.” Matthew Sloan, Jr., was a man no woman would overlook. Even with her limited experience she realized that. A vivid picture surfaced in her mind. A tall dark-haired man, with prominent features that held a certain sensuality. She detected a slight arrogance in his step and his manner, except when he’d helped his mother. Loving and caring, she’d immediately thought—but she knew better. Rumor had it that the famed New York attorney ripped people apart in the courtroom. She’d do well to remember that.

“Heard in town he’s gonna clear up all his father’s open cases before he heads back to New York.”

Her lips compressed into a thin line. “Yes,” she murmured. Matthew Sloan, Jr., would not be a friend the way his father had been.

Pete voiced her thoughts. “He ain’t like Matt Sloan. He ain’t gonna care about you. He’s gonna care about winning. That boy always liked to win.”

C.J. had heard Matt say the same thing about his son. Matthew Sloan, Jr., didn’t like to lose and he rarely did. In her heart she knew the Townsends would eventually hire big guns to bring her down. Going down wasn’t in her plans, though. If she’d learned anything in her life, it was how to survive. The land and money would give her independence and security, and they showed her that Victoria had thought of her as a person in her own right. Matthew Sloan, Jr., would not snatch it away from her without the biggest fight of his life.

A gunshot echoed in the distance. C.J. and Pete exchanged a knowing look, both aware that Harry was out hunting. “I’m not eating whatever he’s killed this time,” C.J. said with a grin. “Armadillos and rattlesnakes aren’t exactly to my taste. I prefer the food at the supermarket.”

“Whoever your parents are, they have highfalutin’ taste,” Pete grumbled.

Did they? she wondered. What were they like, these mysterious people who’d left her on a stranger’s doorstep? Over the years she’d run through a range of emotions—sadness, anger, rage, confusion. Now she just had a burning desire to know the truth. To know why her mother had abandoned her and left her to face an unforgiving world alone. Why didn’t she want me? That question taunted her dreams and tormented her waking hours, but the answer always eluded her.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the answer was now within her grasp. Victoria Townsend’s will had stirred things up. People were talking, asking questions. That was fine. She wanted them to talk, to remember. Then, and only then, would the truth emerge.

MATTHEW POURED ANOTHER CUP of coffee and glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. He wasn’t used to going to bed this early. In New York his head rarely hit the pillow before two in the morning, but here life was different. No crowds, noise or bright lights. Just a simple way of living he remembered well.

Growing up in Coberville, he had always yearned for something more. Excitement. Adventure. After graduating from Harvard, he knew his parents had secretly wanted him to come back to Coberville and practice law with his father. But his dreams were bigger than Coberville. Although he admired his father, he hadn’t wanted to be a small-town lawyer. He’d been lured by New York—facing interesting legal challenges, big courtroom drama and, of course, the big bucks had something to do with it, too. Sometimes, though, he wondered what he was trying to prove.

He sighed, knowing it made little difference. Whatever his choices, his parents had always loved and supported him. Now it was time to return some of that support. His mother needed him. But how long could he stay here?

Matthew’s thoughts shifted to his dad. Thank God he’d gotten home in time to see him before his death. Emphysema from years of smoking had finally taken its toll on his lungs. He could barely breathe or speak, but he had gripped Matthew’s hand with fierce determination, uttering, “Case.” Matthew assured him he would take care of all his clients, and the stress on his face had eased.

Glancing up now, he saw his mother standing in the doorway. Belle Sloan, a petite woman with curly salt-and-pepper hair, wore a sad expression on her usually serene face.

Matthew was instantly on his feet. “What is it, Mom?”

“Oh, nothing.” She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand as she walked to the refrigerator and removed a carton of milk. “I just couldn’t sleep. I can’t get used to that empty space beside me.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Matthew hugged her. “It’s going to take time.”

“I know.” She pushed out of his arms and poured milk into a pan. “A glass of warm milk, and I’ll be fine.”

Matthew had his doubts about that. He wished he could soothe her pain and take the sadness from her eyes, but there was nothing he could do and that hurt him the most.

They sat at the kitchen table, Matthew sipping his coffee and his mother her milk. He glanced around, realizing this big warm kitchen hadn’t changed since he was a kid. White cabinets trimmed in blue, a darker blue counter, stove and a large oak table where all their problems had been solved.

“Your dad had a beautiful funeral, didn’t he?” his mom asked, breaking through the comfortable silence.

His father had been buried more than a week ago, and every day she asked him the same thing. Tonight, for some reason, the question triggered thoughts of the young woman in black. He had been meaning to ask about her.

“Yes, it was a very special funeral. The whole town turned out.” He smiled reassuringly, then said, “Mom, there was a young woman at the funeral. I didn’t recognize her. She was completely dressed in black. Even her hair was black and hung below her waist.”

Belle took a nervous swallow of her milk. “That has to be the Doe girl.”

“Doe? You mean the baby who was left on Pete Watson’s doorstep?”

“Yes.”

The Doe girl. How could he have forgotten the little girl who’d paralyzed a town? Until she mysteriously appeared on the Watsons’ doorstep, the people in Coberville had been close and friendly. The abandoned baby changed things. People began to look at each other a little differently, and they distanced themselves from the child. She represented a dark side of the community and they didn’t know how to deal with her. So they left her alone.

Christmas Jane Doe. God, how she’d changed. He remembered a small thin girl with thick black braids and a face that never smiled. The last time he’d seen her she was about six, sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus. The other children were teasing her, calling her names. She held her back rigid and stared straight ahead, never reacting to their words. Much as she had at the funeral, he thought. Some things never change. But C. J. Doe certainly had. The little waif had turned into a beautiful woman.

“That must have been twenty-five or more years ago.” His mother’s words interrupted his reflections. “You know, I don’t think Pete or Harry was at the funeral. But I guess that’s understandable under the circumstances. It’s so sad the way we all grew apart. So sad.”

His mother was rambling. She did that a lot these days. He tried to make sense of her words and failed.

“What circumstances?”

She glanced up, her face puzzled, as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. “Oh,” she said, and blinked, obviously collecting her composure. “The Townsend case. Your dad was their lawyer.”

He still wasn’t following her. “Dad did a lot of work for the Townsends.”

With a nervous hand she set the glass of milk on the table. “I don’t like talking about that girl and the mystery that surrounds her. It’s depressing, and your dad and I never saw eye to eye about her.”

His eyes narrowed. “You and Dad argued about this girl?” In all the years he’d been growing up, he couldn’t ever remember his parents arguing. They had a unique way of talking things out.

“We didn’t actually argue. I just felt he knew something about the girl he wasn’t telling me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head and got to her feet.

“I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Matthew kissed her cheek and watched her leave the room, his curiosity running riot. He would’ve sworn his father had never kept anything from his mother. What did he know about the Doe girl that was so confidential he couldn’t talk about it? Matthew ran a hand through his hair. While he was here, he intended to meet Christmas Jane Doe and find out for himself.

CHAPTER TWO

COBERVILLE WAS A QUIET community of fewer than five thousand people. A three-story limestone courthouse in the Second Empire style sat in the middle of a town square. Main and Cober streets ran parallel, and just about every business in town was located on one of those two streets, except for larger stores like Wal-Mart and H.E.B., which were located on the outskirts of town. Matt Sloan’s office was across from the courthouse in a nineteenth-century building typical of the business district.

Matthew stood in the middle of his father’s office, soaking up the atmosphere. Shelves filled with law books lined one wall and filing cabinets were up against another. On the third wall, beside the large window, hung family pictures. Files cluttered the desk and in the single ashtray was a half-smoked cigar. This big cluttered office was the essence of his dad. He remembered visiting here after school, and the way his dad had always smiled and said, “Come on in, son. I could use a second opinion.”

He had spent many afternoons here, reading, watching his dad labor over the letter of the law. He could almost hear his voice. “Never forget that people are human and never take their opinions or feelings lightly.” Had he lost those finer aspects his father had taught him? He ran his finger along the edge of the large oak desk, hoping he hadn’t.

Even after his dad had retired as judge, he never forgot about people and their emotions, their needs. People kept calling him, wanting his advice. So he’d come out of retirement and reopened his old office and practiced law part-time.

Matthew took a deep breath and glanced around at the general chaos of the office. Before he could decide what to do next, the front door opened and Miss Emma, his dad’s secretary of forty years, walked in.