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“What are you thinking about?” Caleb asked
“About the future. The person who shot me. My memory. And you.”
“Me?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Josie snuggled into him once again and his arm instinctively went around her. “And how much I’m going to miss you and your voice.”
“My voice?”
Josie told Caleb about the warm milk and how his voice made her feel, especially when she was afraid.
“You can always drink a glass of warm milk with chocolate in it when I’m not around.” He was trying to be flippant, but his heart felt heavy.
“It won’t be the same.” Josie looked at him and slowly kissed the corner of his mouth. “Kiss me, Caleb.”
He couldn’t resist. He took her lips with a fiery hunger fueled by a year of glances, touches and yearnings. For a brief moment he ignored the warning in his head and tasted her tongue, her lips, her mouth, and let himself feel everything that he shouldn’t. He couldn’t do this to her, to himself, to Eric. Once her memory returned, she would regret this lapse.
Josie belonged to someone else.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for the many letters asking about Caleb McCain and Belle Doe from Forgotten Son (Harlequin Superromance #1250). I’m happy to tell you that this is their story.
Many of you wrote asking who Belle Doe is. I have to tell you a secret. Her character just sort of evolved in Forgotten Son, and at the time I had no idea who she was or who had shot her. When I was faced with writing her story, I had a blank page. I knew I wanted her to be from south Texas. Other than that, Belle Doe really was Belle Doe—as mysterious to me as she was to you.
People often ask me where I get my ideas for stories. In this case, the process was simple yet very complex. I had to unravel the mystery of Belle Doe—the mystery I had created. I was halfway through the book and I still had no idea who had shot Belle. Her story kept changing as the characters took over. Luckily, I have a very understanding editor.
I had fun traveling to south Texas and solving this mystery. So come along and see what happens.
Happy reading,
Linda Warren
P.S. It’s such a pleasure to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at [email protected] or write me at P.O. Box 5182, Bryan, TX 77805 or visit my Web site at www.lindawarren.net or www.superauthors.com. Your letters will be answered.
SON OF TEXAS
Linda Warren
To Pamela Litton, Christi Hendricks and Naomi Giroux—
the ladies who sat at my kitchen table many nights
munching popcorn and critiquing my first manuscript,
The Truth About Jane Doe. Thanks for helping make a
dream come true. This is book number fifteen.
Look what you started.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One of the very good things about being an author
is that I get to meet a lot of nice, friendly people
who share their lives with me. One of those people is
Becky Wood, R.N. Thank you so much for your support
and for allowing me to share Chula with readers.
Another person is Viola Barker—Thanks for sharing your
interesting life, especially your home remedies.
It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.
Any errors in this book are strictly mine.
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
WHO AM I?
What’s my name?
The sharp probing questions jabbed at Belle Doe with the power of a professional boxer, but her mind fended them off like a pro as it did every day. Her memory was blank as a newborn’s, yet she wasn’t a baby waiting for a mind to develop. She was a grown woman struggling to remember her life.
Who am I? Why can’t I remember? Her therapist, Dr. Karen Oliver, said not to force herself, but at times she felt so frustrated and confused. Her memory loomed in front of her like a wall she couldn’t get through or over. Dr. Oliver said this was normal, a protective instinct for post-traumatic stress-disorder victims who’d survived horrific events. Eventually she would become stronger and allow the memories of her past to break through.
But when?
Sitting in the window seat at the home of Ms. Gertrude Parker, Belle slowly counted to ten to ease her frustration. She looked out at the beautiful spring day. A clear blue sky beckoned and suddenly a red robin landed on a hibiscus bush outside the window. The sight calmed her even more. She took note of lilies blooming, the lush live oaks, the brilliant new green of the St. Augustine grass that Wendell, the gardener, tended.
It had been over a year, that was as close as the authorities could figure the timeline, since she’d been rescued from a cult in the Texas Hill Country. Over a year since the doctors had found the bullet in her head. She had no name, no memory. She’d spent four months in the hospital and she’d now been with Ms. Gertie for almost eight. The authorities were unsure how long she’d been in Austin before the cult had found her. The cult members had found her walking the streets of Austin and had taken her in, named
