Deep In The Heart Of Texas

There was a long, strained silence after her question. Then he answered, “I’ve already granted you one favor. That’s about all you’re going to get.”

His voice didn’t deter her. She had to know. “It’s just a small favor.” Especially compared to the fact that he’d rescued her…

He said nothing, just sat as if turned to stone.

“You see,” she persisted, “if we’re going to face death together, I figure I should at least know your name.”

After a moment he asked, “Why is my name so important?”

“Because you were willing to die for me back there. A stranger. I need to know your name for my own peace of mind.”

His name. How long had it been since he’d heard his own name? Years. He didn’t want to tell her his name, but he could feel the word surging to his throat against his will. Before he could speak she said, “It starts with a J, doesn’t it?”

The gun, he thought. She saw the initials on the gun.

“John, Joshua, Jeremy,” she said, guessing. “Jeffrey, Joseph, Judd—no, none of those. Let’s see…”

“Jacob.”

Dear Reader,

The setting of my first book, The Truth About Jane Doe, was fictional, although drawn from my experiences of living in a small Texas town. But the setting for this story, Deep in the Heart of Texas, is real—as real as the Texas bluebonnets that appear along the highways in early spring.

When Jacob and Miranda’s story took shape in my mind, I knew the setting had to be someplace serene and tranquil. Someplace where Jacob could renew his spirit and Miranda could find strength and courage. I naturally thought of the Texas Hill Country, with its rolling hills, spring-fed streams and abundant wildlife.

Most people who’ve never been to Texas think that it’s dry, flat and hot, but Texas is as diverse as it is vast—with coastal waters, prairies, brush country, hills and more. Each region is unique and special, as the Hill Country is to Jacob and Miranda, who find each other and find love with each other under extraordinary circumstances.

Only the Hill Country is real; everything else is fictional, and any errors you find are strictly mine. I hope you enjoy this trip to a beautiful part of Texas with Jacob and Miranda!

Thanks for reading my books.

Linda Warren

P.S. I’d love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 5182, Bryan, Texas 77805, or e-mail me at LW1508@aol.com.

Deep in the Heart of Texas

Linda Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As always, to the love of my life, my husband, Billy, my Sonny.

And

To my family for their love and encouragement, in particular four ladies who are always there for me: Robin, Melinda, Diannia and Betty Boop.

And

To my friends, old and new, who have surprised me with their heartfelt support, especially the Smetana community.

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

SHE WAS GOING TO DIE.

No!

Everything in Miranda Maddox fought that horrifying thought. But the bitter cold seeped into her bones and a blinding fear crept over her cramped body. As she struggled to move, the tight ropes around her ankles and wrists cut into her flesh. Nausea churned in her stomach and she took several deep breaths. She couldn’t throw up. She couldn’t. With the gag in her mouth, she’d choke on her own vomit.

Oh, God, who did this to her? Who’d tied her up and left her in this awful place to die? She didn’t know where she was, but she knew by the smell, the cold and the darkness that it was a place of death. She began to wonder if maybe she was already dead.

A warm feeling washed over her and her thoughts drifted. Her head fell to her chest. Sleep. Yes, she would sleep. And soon she’d awaken from this terrible nightmare. She tried to reassure herself but couldn’t still the ominous feeling.

She was going to die. And she knew it.

A FRIGID NORTH WIND blew through the Texas Hill Country. The tall, broad-shouldered man walking through the woods hardly noticed the cold. He endured it the way he did everything else. Life to him was a matter of survival. For more than five years he’d lived in these hills, away from society, his only companion his dog, Bandit. That was the way he wanted it. People called him eccentric or crazy, but that didn’t bother him. As long as he was left alone, the world outside meant nothing to him.

His mountain boots were almost silent on the cold hard ground. The only audible noises were the occasional rustle of dried leaves and the whistle of the wind.

He moved through the thick woods with an ease and grace uncommon for a big man. Well over six feet, he wore heavy jeans, a dark plaid flannel shirt and a black overcoat that whipped around his legs. His long dark hair, full beard dashed with gray and a hat pulled low over his eyes gave him a sinister appearance. A rifle rested on his shoulder, the butt in the palm of his hand.

People in these parts called him the hermit. The few unfortunate enough to encounter him always took a second look, but no one was brave enough to take a third. Everyone was afraid of him. Which was fine with him.

Bandit, a small black-and-white dog of unknown breed, ran ahead, sniffing the ground in search of supper. Suddenly Bandit stopped, smelled some bushes, then turned to bark at him.

He quickly readied his rifle. “Okay, boy, flush him out, and let’s see what we’ve got for supper.”

Bandit ignored his master, barking sharply, instead.

“What?” he asked, and he wondered if Bandit was losing his touch or just getting lazy. As he moved closer, he understood Bandit’s confusion. He picked up a branch and noticed the slanted cuts on the wood. The bushes weren’t growing naturally. They’d been cut by someone and piled high.

He studied the bushes for a moment, then shook his head. “This is none of our concern, boy. Let’s get moving.” He always minded his own business; he stuck to that rule religiously.

Walking on, he tried not to think about the peculiar bushes, but found he couldn’t. These hills were deserted. No one else lived here. He had crossed his fence line some time ago and was now on Clyde Maddox’s property, or at least a part of the man’s huge ranch, a part where Maddox didn’t even run cattle because it was so isolated. Then who’d cut these branches to make them look like bushes? And why?

It was none of his business, he told himself again. His only concern was finding supper. He stopped as he realized Bandit wasn’t following him. Bandit stood staring at the bushes, then began frantically digging at the ground.

“You stupid dog! Get over here.”

Bandit growled in an agitated manner and continued his digging.

He headed back to the bushes.

Bandit paused a moment to bark at him.

“There’s nothing here for us, boy. Let’s go.”

Bandit barked several more times.

He and Bandit had a unique relationship. At times they understood each other.

“It’s bushes, nothing else,” he replied, although he knew that couldn’t be true.

Bandit kept barking, pausing only long enough to growl deep in his throat.

The man drew a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I’ll show you.” He laid his rifle against a tree and began to pull the branches away. Bandit scurried beneath his feet trying to tunnel under the bushes.

“You stupid dog,” he said again as he removed the last branch. Few things in life surprised him anymore, but when he saw what was before him, his eyes opened a little wider.

A door with a big lock gave entrance to a small shack built into the side of the hill. He remembered the low-flying planes he heard occasionally in the night. Could someone be dropping drugs? Dogs had an uncanny sense of smell for drugs. Maybe this was where the drugs were stored until they could be moved. On that thought came another. How were they moved? The only way to get here was on foot or by horseback.

None of this mattered because it was none of his business. But the idea of someone bringing drugs into his backyard bothered him. A lot.

Bandit jumped at the door, trying to get in.

“Stop it, boy,” he ordered.

Bandit obeyed with obvious reluctance.

He shot Bandit a narrow-eyed glance, knowing what the dog wanted, but feeling in his gut that he should walk away and leave this place.

Bandit rubbed against his leg and whined, a deep pitiful sound. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “I’ll show you what’s behind the door.”

He drew a pistol from his shoulder holster. Aiming at the lock, he squeezed the trigger. The loud pop echoed through the trees with a startling sound. A deer jumped up and ran farther into the woods. A rabbit burrowed deeper into a hole.

Throwing down the broken lock, he opened the door. Bandit darted into the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; once they had, he could see there were no drugs. A sense of foreboding ran through him as he saw a person sitting in one corner, feet and hands tied, mouth gagged. What the hell was going on?

Bandit licked the person’s face, which was very odd because Bandit never made friends with anyone. When they made trips to the country store, the dog always growled at everyone.

Bending his head, he entered the small area. The room felt claustrophobic and stifling, despite the thirty-degree temperature outside. The darkness prevented him from seeing anything but the shape of a person.

Bandit barked anxiously.

“Okay,” he replied, and picked up the slumped figure. The body trembled, either from the cold or from fear, he didn’t know which. But judging by the softness in his arms he knew it was a woman. Sudden painful memories flashed across his mind. He thought he’d forgotten all those feelings, and he didn’t appreciate remembering them now.

Carrying the woman outside, he placed her on the ground. She was young, somewhere between twenty and thirty. The wind tousled her already disheveled blond hair. Her sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers were smeared with dirt. The sherry-brown eyes that stared back at him were glazed. He’d seen that look before—she’d been drugged. Slowly her eyes cleared, then swiftly filled with fear. The kind of fear he’d seen many times. She was afraid of him.

MIRANDA MADDOX blinked at the brightness of daylight, the glare hurting her eyes. She squirmed and tried to move, but her body was cold and cramped, and it was so much easier just to sleep. She’d been floating, drifting…yet something was different now. With extreme effort she forced her eyes to focus.

Oh, God. Terror filled her heart as she stared at the man peering down at her. She shrank away from his threatening presence. Long dark hair touched his shoulders. A full beard and mustache covered his face. A worn felt hat shaded his eyes. Who was he? Why had he done this to her? And what did he plan to do to her now?

Fear and exhaustion trembled through her weary bones, and a scream rose in her throat. The scream lodged against the gag in her mouth. A dizzy feeling assailed her, and she felt as if she was going to pass out again. What did this man want with her? She didn’t even know him.

He saw the fear in her eyes and knew what she was thinking. Holding up one hand, he said, “Listen, lady, I’m not the one who put you in that room. My dog found you, and I just opened the door.”

At the mention of Bandit, the dog eagerly licked her face. Her blond head tilted toward the animal, but her eyes never left the man’s face.

His voice was deep and strong and full of masculine nuances. A man’s man. A man’s voice. A voice to heed, to be wary of, and yet, she felt, a voice to trust. How did she know that? she asked herself. He was a complete stranger.

Then suddenly she realized who he was. Her father called him the hermit. He lived alone and roamed these hills. She’d never seen him before, but people were afraid of him, and now she understood why. Her father had called him crazy, a raving lunatic. In her frightened state, that was all her mind could recall.

But the hermit said he hadn’t kidnapped her. For some odd reason she believed him. Maybe it was the way he looked at her—not as if she was a woman but a trapped animal. Fast on those strange thoughts came another. If he hadn’t kidnapped her, then who had? Who’d done this to her?

The hermit drew a big hunting knife from its sheath around his waist. Miranda cringed away from him.

“I’m going to cut your ropes,” he told her in a soothing voice. One easy slash and the rope fell away from her ankles. Then he sliced through the rope on her wrists, behind her back. She wearily moved her aching shoulders and rubbed her sore wrists, her eyes still on the hermit.

He brought the knife to her face, and she jerked backward.

“I’m only cutting the bandanna tied around your mouth. Do you understand?”

Miranda nodded and he quickly slit the cloth. She swallowed several times and licked dry lips.

He got to his feet, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “I don’t know who you are or why someone put you in that room, but if I were you, I’d get out of here as fast as I could. Whoever went to all that trouble will be back.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The closest place is the Maddox ranch. Just keep walking due south and you’ll reach it in about a day and a half, maybe two days. Depends on how fast you walk.”

Two days! Due south! What was he talking about? She didn’t know south from north. Two days!

The hermit tipped his hat, picked up his rifle and walked off, the dog at his heels.

Paralyzed, Miranda stared at his broad back. He was leaving her here! She glanced around at the dense thicket, heard the wind whistle eerily through the trees and felt the cold as it stung her cheeks. She shook so badly her teeth rattled. Oh, God, he couldn’t leave her in this wilderness. She tried to stand and fell flat on her stomach, her legs too numb to support her.

He heard a faraway sound and stopped. Riders. Two. They were coming for the woman.

He looked back. She was trying to crawl on her hands and knees. “Please, help me,” she begged, one hand stretched toward him as her weak body failed.

The soft melodious voice touched something buried inside him. God, he hadn’t heard a voice like that in years, and he didn’t want to hear it now. He didn’t want anything to do with her or her problems.

The pounding of hooves against the earth grew stronger. At that moment, the woman heard the sound. “Oh, no, they’re coming back! Please help me. They’ll kill me.” She struggled to get to her feet.

He watched her futile efforts. Bandit whined in his throat. “Be quiet,” he told the dog to no avail. The whining increased, angering him. Dammit, he didn’t need this. But much as he wanted to walk away, even Bandit knew he wouldn’t leave her here to die.

He hurried toward her and knelt down. “I’ll hide you until they’re gone. That’s all. After that, you’re on your own. Understand?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you, but I can’t get up. My legs are too weak.”

He laid his rifle down, scooped her into his arms, ran into the thicket and up a hill. He stood her on her feet beside a large oak. “Hold on to the tree. I’ll be right back.”

Running down to the shack, he used a branch to cover their tracks, then picked up his rifle. He gave the place a last once-over and made a dash for the woman.

“Don’t make a sound, not one word,” he told her, frowning at Bandit. “Quiet, boy.”

As he finished speaking, two riders came into view. Aware that something was wrong, they jumped off their horses and ran into the shack. They came out cursing and waving their arms in anger. The words were muted, but the curses carried on the wind.

His spine stiffened as he recognized the men. He glanced at the young woman and wondered at her connection to the men below.

“Do you recognize them?” he asked.

She squinted. “I can’t make out their faces from here,” she whispered.

That didn’t tell him a whole lot and didn’t make him feel any better.

“Damn.”

“What?” she asked, gripping the tree.

“They’re not giving up. They’re scouring the bushes, searching. I have a feeling they’re not leaving until they find you.”

“Please don’t let them find me.” Miranda stared into his dark eyes—eyes that held a fire and a warmth she felt all the way to her soul. This man would not hurt her. She only prayed he would help her.

He looked away from the pleading in her eyes. “I don’t get involved in other people’s lives. That’s why I live in these hills alone.”

She touched his arm in a silent appeal, and he flinched.

He hadn’t been touched in so long that it caught him off guard, but he almost immediately regained his composure. He knew he had a decision to make.

Bandit rubbed against his leg. He shoved him away. Between that stupid dog and her, he was becoming the crazy person everyone thought he was.

“Please help me,” she begged again. She didn’t make the mistake of touching him this time.

That desperate note in her voice weakened his resolve. Getting involved with her might jeopardize his freedom. But he couldn’t leave her here, at the mercy of the men below.

The two men continued their search. They obviously intended to find the woman. There was one place they wouldn’t look. His cabin. He had no choice. He had to hide her until they were gone. That was as far as he was willing to go.

He knelt in front of her. “Put your arms around my neck and climb onto my back.” She was too weak to walk and he could think of no other way.

Miranda didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he’d spoken. “Thank you,” she whispered. She did as he instructed, locking her arms tightly around his neck. His dark beard brushed her hands with featherlike touches, and a fresh outdoor scent mixed with wool filled her nostrils.

This time he was prepared for the softness of her hands, and it didn’t bother him. Within minutes they were off through the woods.

Miranda clung to him as he darted through the thicket with a deftness and swiftness that surprised her. He seemed to be part of these woods—the trees, bushes and undergrowth. Her rescuer was different from anyone she’d ever known, and very strong. She could feel the muscles rippling in his back.

When they reached a rickety old fence, Miranda felt as if they’d walked for hours, but she knew it had been only minutes. She slid to the ground and stood on her own feet. Nonetheless, he picked her up and lifted her over the fence.

He pointed to some woods. “My cabin’s right through there. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” she replied, and took several tentative steps, then more as her legs grew stronger.

They emerged from the trees into a clearing where a small log cabin sat nestled among huge trees. Even in the dead of winter, the place had a homey appeal. Different shades of leaves covered the ground and smoke spiraled from the chimney. Bandit raced for the front porch; they followed more slowly.

As they climbed the wooden steps, he said, “Go. They’re not far behind us.”

He opened the door and without hesitation Miranda stepped inside. Her first feeling was warmth. It was divinely warm in here. She wrapped her arms around her cold body and let the heat soak into her bones. Then she took in the single sparse room, which was clean and neat. An old oak table and two chairs sat in the middle of the worn wooden floor. A cot was pushed against one wall, and a pile of newspapers and magazines were stacked beside it. A woodstove and a small cabinet occupied the other wall. The bare necessities were all he had. She thought of her father’s huge lavish house and her own beautifully decorated room. Did material things make one happy? She had a feeling the hermit had all he wanted right here.

The aroma of food caught her attention, and her stomach churned with hunger. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember.

He saw her eyeing the pot on the stove. “Are you hungry?”

She nodded. “Yes. Could I have something to eat, please?”

“Have a seat,” he said as he grabbed a bowl. “Leftover stew is all I have, but you’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you,” she replied, and sat in one of the chairs.

He placed the steaming hot bowl of stew in front of her with a piece of homemade bread and a glass of water. She snatched up the glass and drank thirstily.

“Slow down,” he warned her. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

She set the glass back on the table and picked up a spoon, slowly eating the stew. “What is this?” she asked. “It’s delicious.”

“Rabbit.”

She stopped eating. “What?”

“Rabbit,” he repeated.

She frowned. “You mean like…Easter-bunny rabbit.”

The corner of his bearded mouth twitched a fraction. “Yeah, like Easter-bunny rabbit.”

She looked down at the meaty concoction, and her stomach stirred with hunger. What the hell? she thought. She was too hungry to think about it.

As she gobbled up the last spoonful, Bandit barked.

“We’ve got company,” he said, reaching for his rifle.

“They found us?” she asked, and felt the nightmare coming back full force.

The hermit peered out the window. “Yep, they’re outside the fence debating whether or not to ride in. These two are relentless. You must be very important to them.”

Important to them? Who were they? What did they want with her?

As she made to get up, the hermit said, “Stay put. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Don’t even breathe unless you have to. If they know you’re here, we don’t stand a chance.”

Miranda swallowed hard, the urgency in his voice stilling her every movement.

“Damn,” he said. “They’re coming in.” He drew a small pistol from inside his boot and laid it on the table in front of her. “All you have to do is pull the trigger. It’s loaded.”

She shrank away from the gun. “What?”

“If they shoot me, you’ll need to defend yourself.”

“But I hate guns. I don’t know how to—”

“Those men are after you for a reason, and it’s not a good one.”

She stared at the gun, thinking this had to be a bad dream. It was too terrifying to be true—guns, men chasing her, this mysterious stranger. She pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and held out her arm. “Pinch me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pinch me,” she said again. “I know I’m dreaming, and when you pinch me, I’ll wake up and this will be over.”

He sighed in exasperation. “Where were you raised? In a fairy tale?”

His sarcasm didn’t faze her. She continued to hold out her arm.

Sighing loudly, he moved closer and pinched her. Hard. “Ouch! That hurt,” she said, rubbing the tender spot.

“Satisfied you’re not dreaming?” he asked with a touch of cynicism.

She shut her eyes tightly, trying to accept what was happening. Then opened them again as he caught her chin in his hand and lifted her head. “You’re not dreaming. This is real. Understand?”

They stared at each other, and facing the directness of that dark gaze, Miranda slowly nodded. She’d been kidnapped. Oh, God, she’d been kidnapped! Tears spilled down her cheeks.