The Truth About Jane Doe. Linda Warren

everything she knew or suspected and changed her will accordingly. It’s very interesting. You really should read it.”

      “I have no interest in reading that garbage. Destroy it. Do you understand me?”

      “Sure, that’s what you’re paying for. There’s just one small problem.”

      “What?”

      “Reed was in the office and I had to shoot him…and the security guard.”

      “Why?”

      “It was unavoidable. Besides, no one’ll ever know the safe was broken into. They’ll think the guard interrupted a routine robbery. Your secret is safe. Trust me.”

      “I don’t trust anyone, Weeks, especially you. Just make sure your tracks are covered.”

      Dale Weeks hung up the phone, then stared at the document in his hand. A smile twisted his lips. So many secrets. A shame no one would ever know. Except him.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE NEXT DAY Matthew headed out to the Watsons’ place with mixed emotions. He knew he could break the will. The task would require a little finesse, but he could do it. He should have made that clearer to Rob, but somehow he hadn’t. The memory of a little girl with a face that never smiled swam before his eyes. Maybe it was time that girl got a break in this world.

      God, what was he thinking? He was the Townsends’ attorney!

      Had the same thing happened to his father? The will should have been broken weeks ago. What had kept his dad from doing his job? Then there was the date on the will; he wouldn’t keep something like that from a client, would he? And if he had, it must’ve been for a very good reason. At times, his dad had cared about people so much that he’d become involved in their lives, as friend, confidant and advisor more than lawyer. Was that what had happened with C. J. Doe? Well, it was time to meet the lady and answer some of his questions.

      The Watsons’ place was on a country road not far from Seven Trees, the Cober mansion and ranch. He drove to the entrance. The gate was firmly locked and the signs that greeted him were hardly welcoming. Posted. Keep Out. No Trespassing. The Watsons weren’t the most hospitable people in Coberville. Now what? he thought.

      He could see the house on a hill through the trees and two trucks parked by the garage. Someone had to be home. He slipped out of his suit coat, loosened his tie, got out of the truck and climbed over the gate. He’d come here to see C. J. Doe, and he intended to do so.

      Brushing dust from his dark slacks, he reminded himself that he needed to change his wardrobe. Coberville didn’t call for expensive suits and custom-made boots.

      As he walked, he sucked air into his lungs, enjoying the outdoors. He had forgotten the freedom and freshness of country life. The place was almost magical with the smell of spring, towering oak trees, green grasses; the small lake in the distance triggered memories of lazy Sunday afternoons spent fishing with his dad. Had he changed so much from that country boy? With a regretful sigh, he knew he had.

      Now most of his days were spent in his office or in a courtroom. At first he’d thrived on the long days and hard consuming work, but lately he’d been feeling restless. Something was missing in his life and he didn’t know what.

      He had everything he’d worked so hard to achieve: fame and wealth. His fame had started with his first big case—a movie actress who’d killed her husband because he’d been pimping her to his rich clientele for years. Everyone knew the actress was going to be put away for a long time. Everyone except him. He knew that if he could put twelve jurors in her shoes, make them live her life, feel her pain, her degradation, he could get her off. And he did. Many more trials followed, most of the clients wealthy, each one making the news. It wasn’t the course he’d set for himself; it just happened that way.

      He only accepted clients he believed in. If he didn’t, he couldn’t do his job. Matthew considered the Townsends. Did he believe in their quest to reclaim Cober land? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he had no real drive for this case. His only wish was to get it over with and get back to New York. The Peterman case was waiting for him, and the sooner he got back, the better. He felt sure C. J. Doe wasn’t going to turn down a million dollars. Who would? Now if—

      Several gunshots pierced the peaceful silence, kicking up dirt at his feet and dusting his boots. He jumped back and then froze. Someone was shooting at him! It happened so fast he didn’t have time to think, to react, to do anything but stand there like a target.

      A man appeared from the side of the house. Big and menacing, he had long gray hair and a beard that hung to his chest. A dark hat was pulled low over his forehead, covering his eyes. He wore overalls and a khaki shirt. Two big dogs hovered at his heels. Harry Watson.

      Every kid in Coberville grew up fearing Harry Watson. Mothers used him as a disciplinary tactic. “If you don’t behave, the Hairy Man will get you.” Those words struck fear in the heart of every child, including him. All these things went through Matthew’s mind, but only one held his attention. The shotgun pointed at him. Harry was known for shooting first and leaving the questions for someone else.

      “You’re trespassing,” Harry growled. The rough voice would have sent the young Matthew running, but the adult Matthew stood his ground, facing the Hairy Man.

      Courage was only a breath away. Matthew took that breath, very deeply. “I’m here to speak with Miss Doe.”

      “She don’t want to speak to no one. Now git, before I fill you full of buckshot.”

      At the threat in Harry’s voice, Matthew’s heart jumped wildly in his chest, but he had no intention of letting Harry intimidate him. “My name is Matthew Sloan and I have news for C. J. Doe.” His message rang out, clear and crisp.

      “Matthew Sloan is dead.” The gun was raised a little higher. “‘In delay there lies no peace.’ Now git.”

      Matthew blinked, not understanding what the hell Harry was saying. “I’m Matthew Sloan, Jr., his son.” Matthew had the feeling Harry knew who he was. He was playing a cat-and-mouse game, trying to scare him.

      Harry studied him down the barrel of his shotgun, but before Harry could reply, a black horse and rider came flying over the fence into Matthew’s vision. It was the girl. C. J. Doe. She reined the horse in next to Harry. No saddle, Matthew saw; she was riding bareback. Dust swirled around the stallion’s dancing feet. Sleek and spirited, the big horse had the look of being wild and untamed—much like the girl on his back. Tossed by the wind, her long black hair hung in disarray all around her, like a silken web. Her slim legs, clad in jeans and moccasins, gripped the horse’s sides with ease.

      The horse reared up on his hind legs, but C.J. clung to him effortlessly and patted the rippling muscles in his neck, murmuring in soothing tones. Immediately the horse quieted. Then she turned her head, her eyes settling on Matthew.

      “What have you got here, Harry?” she asked in a soft husky voice.

      “A trespasser,” Harry muttered.

      Continuing to stroke the horse’s neck, C.J. took in the trespasser from his expensive boots to his dark hair. So Matthew Sloan, Jr., had come calling. He stood with a commanding air of confidence. Here was a man who didn’t bend easily, she thought. Not many men would react so calmly to someone shooting at them. He was certainly different from his father, who would have been cursing at Harry by now. Yet the laugh lines around Matthew Sloan, Jr.’s mouth indicated he laughed as easily as his father. But he wasn’t laughing now.

      A swath of hair fell across his forehead and his dark eyes gazed at her with undisguised interest. Under that intense gaze, her heart started to pounded rapidly.

      Wrong reaction, her mind told her. Be on guard. Matthew Sloan, Jr., was here for a reason.

      Matthew watched her long slender fingers stroke the horse. For a crazy moment he envied the animal. If she touched him like that, he’d do what she wanted, too. Rob Townsend’s