The Truth About Jane Doe

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 words echoed dimly through his mind. Don’t let her wrap you around her finger. He knew now what Rob had been talking about. C. J. Doe had the power to distract any man, even him. Annoyed, he shook his head; the gunfire had just impeded the blood flow to his brain, he told himself. He was here to make her an offer, that was all, and he had to do it soon.

“My name is Matthew Sloan, Jr., and I’d like to speak with you, Miss Doe.”

C.J. slid from the horse in a graceful movement and handed the reins to Harry. “Would you rub Midnight down while I talk to Mr. Sloan, Jr.?”

“You don’t have to talk—”

“It’s okay, Harry.”

“You sure?”

She regarded Matthew speculatively. “I’m sure, but if he gets out of line, I’ll let you shoot him. How’s that?”

Matthew didn’t find that amusing, but Harry did. A grin cracked his worn face as he led the horse away, the dogs obediently at his heels.

The only reaction C.J. noticed was a tightening of Matthew’s lips. The New York lawyer—the Townsends’ new representative—was tough, and she wondered how to handle him. She knew without a doubt that Matthew Sloan, Jr., was here on the Townsends’ behalf. Her eyes narrowed to green slits. “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, Matthew realized. C. J. Doe wanted the upper hand. As he watched her toss her black hair over her shoulder and felt a warmth curl through his stomach, he had to admit she probably already had the upper hand.

The thought made him stiffen his backbone. “I’ve taken over the Townsend case from my father and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

She shrugged. “What’s to talk about?”

“The Townsends would like to make an offer.”

“An offer?”

The sun was hot and he ran a finger around the collar of his white shirt. “Could we talk someplace where it’s more comfortable?”

C.J. eyed him for a moment, wondering if it was wise to extend hospitality to Townsends’ new attorney. But it wouldn’t hurt to hear him out.

“Sure,” she finally replied, and led him toward the long porch at the front of the cabin.

Her back was straight as an arrow and her shoulders appeared slightly tensed, as if she was bracing herself for the worst. He could almost see the wall she’d built around herself, a wall strengthened by years of hurt and disillusionment. What would it take to breach that wall, to make her smile, hear her laugh?

He closed his eyes for a second, forcing away such thoughts. He wasn’t here to wonder about C. J. Doe. As he opened his eyes, he caught sight of long black hair swaying against her jean-clad bottom—shapely and rounded just enough to seriously distract a man. A jolt of sheer pleasure shot through him, which he quickly curbed.

Matthew followed her up the steps and tried to focus his attention on the surroundings. Everything was clean and orderly; not a weed grew in the flower beds, and logs were stacked neatly by the door for firewood. Not exactly what he’d expected from the Watson men. The scent of honeysuckle floated to his nostrils.

At one end of the porch hung a wooden swing, which squeaked as she sat on it. Matthew took the chair that was propped against the wall.

She stared at him with a direct gaze and he found himself staring back. He’d met a lot of lovely women, but he’d never met anyone as striking as her. Creamy skin sun-kissed to a warm gold, delicately carved facial bones, a pert nose and bow-shaped mouth. Thick dark lashes framed emerald-green eyes. And all that black hair, silken tresses that flowed around her, magnified the beauty of her eyes.

“You’re staring.” Her quiet voice stopped his avid inspection, and he was about to apologize for his gauche behavior when she asked, “Do I remind you of someone?”

Her eyes sparkled with anticipation and her mouth softened into a hint of a smile. While his senses absorbed the pleasure of that near smile, he understood what she meant. She thought she reminded him of someone—someone who could be related to her.

Matthew cleared his throat. “No, you don’t remind me of anyone.” That was true. He’d never seen anyone like her.

The sparkle died in her eyes, and Matthew wished he could tell her what she wanted to hear. But like everyone else in this town, he hadn’t a clue who had left her on the Watsons’ doorstep. All he knew was that he liked looking at her—too much.

Swallowing hard, he returned to business. “As you know, the Townsends are eager to get their land back.”

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