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
