by Linda Warren
“You believe Reed was killed for Victoria Townsend’s will?” Beal asked, disbelief tingeing his voice.
“Yes—a new will never showed up.”
Beal nodded slowly. “It all fits, doesn’t it. What was in that will that would make someone go to such measures? And who are we talking about, anyway?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” Matthew said.
“One more thing.” Beal frowned. “A fact I haven’t mentioned yet. Weeks worked at the Townsend ranch several years ago.”
“The Townsend ranch,” Matthew echoed, not really surprised at all. “It’s time to have another talk with the Townsends,” he said, getting to his feet. “They probably all know Dale Weeks. We just have to find out which one hired him.”
“They’re pretty upset about Stephanie Cox’s murder.” The sheriff spoke for the first time. “I don’t think you’re going to get anything out of them today.”
“There’s been a murder in Coberville?” Beal asked.
As the sheriff told him about the shooting on Fulton Road, the phone rang. Matthew ignored it, knowing Miss Emma would get it.
Miss Emma knocked at the door and came in, looking nervous. “There’s a man on the phone. He says if you want to keep C. J. Doe alive, you’d better talk to him.”
Matthew yanked up the receiver. “This is Matthew Sloan.”
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Sloan? You’re always around when that pretty thing needs help. Like this afternoon…”
“Who is this?”
“Come on, Mr. Hot Shot lawyer, you’re not that dumb.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve got something you want.”
Matthew’s hand gripped the receiver. “What?”
“A will. Victoria Cober Townsend’s last will and testament. It makes for very good reading.”
“You have the will?”
“Yes, I have the will. How many times do I need to say it?”
Matthew took a deep breath. “Why are you calling me?”
“Money, Sloan. I want money and I want it fast. Thanks to you, the cops are hot on my trail and I have to get out of the country.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand. In one hour.”
“I can’t get that kind of money that fast.”
“You don’t think I’m stupid, do you, Sloan? The bank is right across the street and your father was loaded, not to mention you’ve got money of your own. So don’t give me that crap.”
“Okay, but I need more time.”
“One hour, or I’ll change my mind and finish the job I was paid to do. Be a shame to kill that pretty young thing, wouldn’t it?”
“Who hired you?”
“I’ll call in one hour with instructions.” The phone went dead in Matthew’s hand.
Matthew turned to the sheriff and Beal and related the conversation.
“You’re not seriously thinking about doing it, are you?” the sheriff asked.
“I have no choice. If I want to keep C.J. alive and get my hands on that will, I have to go along with him.”
“It’s suicide,” Beal stated flatly. “He’ll kill you. Think this through.”
Matthew was already at the door. “It’s your job to keep me alive. So you’d better come up with a good plan,” he tossed over his shoulder.
In forty minutes Matthew was back with a briefcase full of money, which he placed on his desk. The sheriff and Beal tried to talk him out of negotiating with a known murderer, but eventually gave up.
When the phone finally rang, Matthew grabbed the receiver. “Sloan here.”
“Worried about that little gal, Sloan?”
“I’ve got the money.” Matthew came right to the point.
“Good. Wait for me at the bend on Hope Road. And, Sloan, if you bring the cops, I won’t show—and I’ll make sure your little gal dies.”
Matthew hung up and told the sheriff and Beal about the meeting place.
“He chose a good spot,” Watts said glumly. “No one ever travels that road anymore. It’s isolated, with dense woods on both sides.”
Matthew picked up the briefcase. “So what’s the plan?”
“I know a back way into those woods.” The sheriff got to his feet with a reluctant sigh. “My boys and me will cover you as best we can, but we’ll need a good head start.”
“Get going,” Matthew said, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“I’ll come with you.” Beal followed the sheriff. “I want this guy as bad as you do.”
“Wait a minute.” Matthew stopped them. “My truck is at the McIntosh place, and I don’t have a vehicle.”
Beal threw him a set of keys. “Blue Lumina out front.”
“Thanks.”
“Be careful,” Beal said. “This guy is dangerous.”
C.J. SAT ON THE STEP unbraiding her hair. Running her fingers through it, she tried to halt her troubled thoughts. She had to be sensible and calm, she told herself—but someone wanted her dead. Who?
To keep herself from screaming with frustration, she went into the house. The phone rang and she immediately picked it up. “Hello.”
“C. J. Doe?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Martha Cober. I want to talk to you.”
C.J.’s breath lodged in her throat. Martha Cober! Was Matthew right? Could Martha be her mother?
At her silence Martha said, “It’s about your birth.”
C.J. swallowed hard. “You know my parents?”
“Come over here and I’ll tell you all about them.”
“Tell me over the phone,” C.J. said. She didn’t want to meet with this woman who seemed to hate her.
“I’ll only tell you in person. It’s not something I want to talk about on the phone.”
C.J. hesitated, not trusting her, but the temptation was too great. “Okay.”
“Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. This is just between you and me.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she answered, thinking about Pete and Harry and the deputy outside.
“If you want to find out about your birth, you’ll do as I ask or you’ll never know the truth.”
C.J. gripped the receiver. This was what she’d been waiting for all her life. She couldn’t let it pass by. “Okay,” she said once more, the word catching in her throat.
She hung up the phone. Could Martha Cober be her mother? Was that what she wanted to tell her? It did make sense. A lot of women had babies during menopause.
Shaking the thought from her mind, she tried to come up with a way to get to the ranch unseen. If she told any of the men, they’d refuse to let her go—or they’d accompany her, and then Martha wouldn’t talk. Glancing outside, she saw the deputy sitting in a chair, reading a fishing magazine. Pete and Harry were working on Pete’s truck, but she knew they were watching her closely.
She walked to the back of the house and saw Midnight grazing in the pasture. That was it. She hurried to her room, grabbed a scarf and tied back her hair. As she did, she saw the basket sitting on her dresser. Gently she touched the white lace. Would she finally know the name of the woman who’d bought these precious things?
No, she wouldn’t think about it. She knew she couldn’t deal with all the conflicting emotions that churned through her when she looked at the basket. Right now she had to get to the Townsend ranch. She ran to Pete’s room. Hanging on the wall she found what she wanted. A bridle.
Bridle in hand, she slipped quietly out the back door. She didn’t have much time. She dashed across the yard and climbed over the fence. In one easy movement she slid the bridle over Midnight’s head and swung onto his back.
“Easy, boy, easy,” she coaxed until they were out of earshot. Then she dug her heels into his sides and set off at a gallop for the Townsend ranch.
MATTHEW THOUGHT about Beal’s warning as he drove to Hope Road. It was crazy, he knew, but he ha
d no choice. For C.J. he had to do this.
Hope Road was on the outskirts of town, but had been abandoned for the new blacktop not far away. The pavement was rough and full of holes, and trees grew thickly along both sides, creating a canopy that darkened the road.
Matthew saw a brown truck parked in the bend. Weeks was already here. Heart pounding, he stopped the Lumina and waited, but Weeks stayed in the cab. Matthew rubbed his sweaty palms on the steering wheel, wondering why the guy didn’t get out or at least acknowledge his presence. Maybe he was making sure no one had followed him.
Rigid with tension, Matthew left the car and walked slowly to the back of the truck. “Weeks,” he called. No answer. Just silence. Wind rustled the leaves and a crow landed in a nearby tree. “Weeks,” he tried again, only to be met with the same eerie silence.
Taking a deep breath, he walked to the driver’s door. He could see Weeks, head tilted slightly back. Frowning, Matthew moved closer.
“Damn!” He saw the bullet hole in Weeks’s head and the blood matting his hair. Someone had gotten here first.
He kicked the truck in frustration, and the sheriff, two deputies and Beal appeared out of nowhere with guns drawn.
“What happened?” the sheriff demanded.
“He’s been shot,” Matthew muttered.
The guns were put away and they quickly searched the truck. They found nothing. Not Victoria Townsend’s will or any evidence that would lead them to the person who’d hired Dale Weeks.
Before Matthew could marshal his thoughts, a patrol car pulled up and a deputy jumped out. “Mr. Sloan!” he shouted. “Pete Watson’s been trying to find you. C. J. Doe has disappeared.”
The blood drained from Matthew’s face. Someone had gotten to her, too. He remembered the look in her eyes as she’d walked away. He shouldn’t have left her.
He ran to the car and Beal got in beside him.
“I’ll be right behind you,” the sheriff called.
AS C.J. RODE INTO THE YARD of Seven Trees, she saw no one. The place seemed deserted. She tied Midnight to a tree beside the mansion and followed the brick walk to the front of the house.
The place was so big and impressive with its white columns and mullioned windows that it snatched her breath away. She’d never been this close before and it felt a little nerve-racking. Should she even be here? Maybe this was a foolish risk; maybe she’d set herself up for disappointment or rejection—or worse. She should’ve talked to Matthew. And Pete. They were going to be so angry with her.
But she’d come this far and she wasn’t backing down now. She took a calming breath and climbed the steps to the front doors. Tapping the brass knocker, she waited. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach and her nerve faltered, but she knew that within minutes she could have the answers she’d yearned for all her life.
Martha opened the door, neatly dressed in brown slacks and a white silk blouse. She eyed C.J.’s disheveled figure, her muddy jeans and boots, with disdain. C.J. shifted uncomfortably. She’d lost her scarf and her black hair hung all around her in long tatters, windswept from the ride. She wished she’d left it in its braid.
With an obviously forced smile, Martha opened the door wider. “I’m glad you made it,” she said, and led C.J. into a large room. C.J. surveyed the crystal chandeliers, marble floors and magnificent staircases. Wow! was all she could think. Inside the room, a sort of library, she spared the antiques and books a quick glance, but what riveted her attention were the portraits of Cobers. What did it feel like to be part of a family that could trace its lineage back so far?
Martha watched her with a scowl on her face. The scowl unnerved C.J. and she blurted, “What do you know about my birth?”
Looking around as if to make sure no one was listening, Martha said, “We can’t talk here. Follow me.”
C.J. followed her without hesitation. They went down a long hall, then descended a winding staircase to another hall, where they came to a door.
Martha took out a key. “This is my private studio. We won’t be disturbed here.”
C.J. stepped inside and felt a sudden sense of foreboding. There was nothing unusual about the room, except that it had no windows, no outdoor light. Yet it was obviously an artist’s studio, filled with a confusion of canvases, easels, still-life paintings and landscapes.
As she made her way farther into the studio, she noticed that all the paintings were stacked against the walls. Only two pictures hung in prominence—a painting of John Townsend and another of Clare. It was obvious how much Martha loved these people.
C.J. stared at the painting of Clare. In this portrait, she looked beautiful; her blue eyes sparkled and her light brown hair curled enchantingly around her face.
Seeing C.J.’s interest, Martha said, “She’s going to take over the Cober and Townsend empires one day.”
C.J. turned to Martha. “What about Rob?”
“He’ll be busy in Washington, but it’s her birthright,” Martha snapped.
C.J. glanced back at the picture, wondering how Clare felt about this. She always seemed so quiet and meek, completely uninterested in business. “Does Clare agree with you?” she had to ask.
“She doesn’t have to. She’ll do as she’s told,” was the curt reply.
“I see.”
“You see nothing.”
At the unpleasant tone of Martha’s voice, she replied, “I think I do. I know about Clare.”
“And what do you think you know about Clare?”
Clearly Martha thought she was bluffing, and C.J. hated to say the words, to betray a trust, but she’d come too far and waited too long. “That you’re her mother,” she finally said.
Martha’s face distorted with rage. “How did you find out, you little bitch?”
C.J. took a step backward, and she realized it was a big mistake to have come down here with this woman. Martha Cober hated her.
She swallowed and tried to pacify her. “Matthew’s been searching for my parents and he came across the information, but your secret is safe with us. We would never hurt Clare.”
“Interfering in things that don’t concern him, just like his father,” Martha muttered under her breath.
“As I said, your secret is safe.” C.J. felt an intense urge to get away from Martha and that strange look in her eyes. But she’d come here for a reason and she wasn’t leaving until she had her answer. “You told me you knew about my birth,” she said. “Were you the one who left me on Pete and Maggie’s doorstep?”
“Figured it out, have you?” Martha laughed bitterly.
The sound made C.J.’s skin crawl. Oh, God, this terrible woman was her mother! No! her brain screamed, rejecting the thought. She’d wanted to know the truth, but she’d never dreamed it would hurt this much—or that her own mother would actually hate her.
She licked dry lips, forcing the words from a throat that felt like sandpaper, but she had to say them, to hear them out loud. “You’re my mother.”
“What?” Martha’s eyes grew wide with indignation.
“If you left me on the doorstep, you must be my mother,” C.J. repeated.
“Your mother? Don’t be stupid,” Martha said with a sneer. “Look at my Clare.” She waved a hand at Clare’s painting. “She has class and breeding. Look at you. You’re nothing but poor white trash.”
The cruel words pierced C.J.’s heart, but she stood her ground because one thing had become very clear. Martha Cober knew who her mother was.
“I thought you had it all figured out, but you haven’t got a clue, have you?”
“No,” C.J. admitted. “But you know, so tell me who she is. This…this woman who didn’t want me, who threw me away like a piece of garbage.”
“Oh, she wanted you,” Martha said, her voice full of scorn. “You should’ve seen the way she cried and fussed over you, telling you how much she loved you.”
The words were said in a hateful way, but they warmed C.J.’s heart. “Who is my mother?” she asked again.
“The will?” C.J. echoed.
“Do you think Victoria was so generous just out of the goodness of her heart?”
C.J. blinked, trying to assimilate what Martha was saying. “But neither Rob nor John Townsend is my father,” she said.
“Are you blind or merely stupid?” Martha scoffed.
“Victoria Townsend is your mother.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE WORDS FELL like bricks into the silence, and for a moment C.J. was stunned, caught completely off guard. It didn’t make sense. “No.” She shook her head. “That’s not true. You’re lying. Victoria Townsend couldn’t have any more children after Clare. She risked her life to have her. Everyone…” She stopped as she realized Victoria hadn’t given birth to Clare.
“The doctor never said she couldn’t. He only said she shouldn’t because it might kill her.”
“You’re lying.”
“Victoria is your mother,” Martha said in an irate voice. “She called you her miracle child, her love baby. You were born right upstairs in her bedroom.”
“I don’t believe you,” C.J. breathed weakly.
Martha turned around and rummaged through some paintings. She pulled one out and propped it against the others. “Meet your grandmother.”
C.J. gasped, holding a hand to her mouth. The painting was of a woman with long black hair hanging over her shoulder. Her eyes were green, her cheekbones high. A smile curved her bow mouth. She looked happy.
It was like gazing into a mirror. The resemblance was uncanny. “This is my grandmother?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Yes, this is Victoria’s mother.”
C.J. shook her head again. “That can’t be. I saw her mother’s painting upstairs.”
“That’s my mother, you idiot. This is Dad’s second wife and Victoria’s mother. She was one-fourth Cherokee Indian.”
“Why doesn’t anyone remember her, the green eyes, the black hair? Surely someone saw a resemblance?”