Son of Texas (Count on a Cop) Read online

  “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

  Books by Linda Warren

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  893—THE TRUTH ABOUT JANE DOE

  935—DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS

  991—STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART

  1016—EMILY’S DAUGHTER

  1049—ON THE TEXAS BORDER

  1075—COWBOY AT THE CROSSROADS

  1125—THE WRONG WOMAN

  1167—A BABY BY CHRISTMAS

  1221—THE RIGHT WOMAN

  1250—FORGOTTEN SON

  1314—ALL ROADS LEAD TO TEXAS

  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 her Jezebel, made her a slave and beat her regularly. She was saved from that nightmare by a Texas Ranger, and another ranger helped her to face her fears and live again. Her Texas Ranger. That’s how she thought of Caleb McCain.

  The FBI, the Texas Rangers, doctors and therapists tried to piece together what had happened to her. Seeing that she cringed when anyone called her Jezebel, Caleb insisted they rename her Belle and had the hospital records changed to Belle Doe. That was the first time she became aware of him. He cared. The others were doing a job, but Caleb actually cared about her. He was the first person she’d come to trust after her nightmare ended, and he’d been there for her ever since.

  As she slowly began to recover from the physical violence, she was faced with being moved from the hospital to a mental institution until her memory returned. The doctors didn’t have a choice and had to abide by hospital rules. With no memory she knew the institution would be as bad as the cult—only in a different way.

  Caleb spoke with the doctors and they agreed it would be best for Belle to live outside the hospital and establish the necessary framework for a normal, healthy lifestyle so she could function in the present. This would, hopefully, facilitate her memory’s return. But they didn’t have the resources to find someone to take her in. It was Caleb who went the extra mile.

  He’d found her a job as a companion to Ms. Gertrude Parker, a widow who hadn’t remarried after the love of her life died in WWII. Living with Ms. Gertie had been a blessing. She was truly an angel in disguise and she and Bell
e had formed a bond that would never be broken. Dr. Oliver had said that the relationships Belle formed now would build a strong foundation of trust and deep roots, which would help strengthen an inner connection within herself. But the doctor also warned that once her memory returned, those foundations wouldn’t be as strong. Her old life, the person she used to be, would take precedence.

  Belle lived cautiously, taking each day as it came, and was grateful for the kind people who now filled her world. Gertie was a wealthy eccentric of undeterminate age, but Belle guessed she was somewhere in her eighties. The woman had wrecked four cars in one year; her lawyer deemed it unsafe for her to drive. Ms. Gertie had resisted her loss of independence, firing chauffeur after chauffeur. Gertie was a cousin of Caleb’s stepfather and when Caleb heard about the problem, he thought Belle would be a perfect companion and helper.

  And Belle desperately needed a home. Caleb had arranged for her to get a driver’s license and Gertie hired her at their first meeting. Now she had a home and she’d found a measure of peace in Ms. Gertie’s colorful world.

  Gertrude’s Victorian home had been in her family for years. It was equipped with a pool and tennis courts, and filled with priceless antiques and artworks. She lived in the big house with two cats, Prissy and Prudy, and a Jack Russell terrier named Harry. Belle was sure she’d never lived in such opulence before. Despite the comforts of her present life, everything felt foreign to her, and she lived with this unsettled feeling every day.

  She ran her hands through her long dark hair, then reached for the colorful band and tied it into a ponytail, then looped it again to make a knot so it wouldn’t bounce around. The action was natural, as if she’d done it many times before. This was an implicit memory, behavioral knowledge without conscious recall, as Dr. Oliver called it, just as Belle knew how to read and write but she couldn’t remember how she’d learned those skills.

  From what she’d learned about her condition, parts of her memory should have returned by now. After a year, there was less chance of it returning at all. She feared she’d be in this limbo forever.

  Sighing, she glanced at her watch—just after twelve. Gertie was resting as she did every day unless she had an appointment. This was the time Belle used to practice the exercises the doctors had taught her to help regain her memory.

  Taking a deep breath, she asked out loud, “What’s my name?”

  There was no answer, just a numbness of her mind and her spirit.

  The sky darkened to almost black and Belle watched a thunderstorm roll in, chasing away the spring day. Crazy Texas weather. She didn’t know much, but she knew about the unpredictable weather in Texas, another implicit memory. Thunder echoed loudly and lightning zigzagged across the sky. Wendell, who’d been fertilizing the yard, hurried to the garages just as the skies opened up.

  The rain made a drumming noise against the windows and lightning zipped across the grass with dangerous flashes of lights and spine-tingling sounds. Belle knew she should move, but something was happening in her mind. She could feel it.

  In her sessions with Dr. Oliver she’d learned a current event or experience could trigger long-forgotten memories. Sounds, smells or other stimuli such as the weather had the capabilities of sparking her mind. And the memories could return bit by bit or all at once or not at all.

  Thunder rumbled through her as continual flashes of the lightning streaked the sky. She shivered, watching the storm and waiting for a miracle. Rain poured down the windows in trails and she was mesmerized by the movement. She could almost feel it reaching into her—washing away. Washing away. She grabbed her head as it began to throb. Thunder blasted like a gun and memories, beautiful forgotten memories, floated to the surface.

  “Tell Daddy your name.” The words were clear almost as if her mother was standing beside her.

  “I scared. Don’t like rain. It’s too noisy.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mommy and Daddy are right here. Tell Daddy your name.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. We practiced all day. Tell Daddy your name.”

  “My name is Joscelyn Marie.” She said it proudly and loudly.

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Now what’s your last name?”

  “Beckett. My name is Joscelyn Marie Beckett.”

  Her mother clapped. “Isn’t that wonderful for a two-year-old?”

  Belle could feel her father’s arms as he held her and she could smell Old Spice, his favorite cologne. “My girl is getting big. What does Daddy call you?”

  “Josie Marie. Josie Marie. Josie Marie.”

  The storm ended and so did the memories. “No. No. No,” she cried. “Please let me remember more. Please.” But the blankness returned and all she was left with was a name. A name! After all this time, she knew her name.

  Josie Marie Beckett.

  She jumped from the window seat, eager to call Caleb. She should call Dr. Oliver, but she had to tell Caleb first. Hurrying toward the phone, she stopped in her tracks. Ms. Gertie came into the sunroom with a large hat on her head. That wasn’t unusual as Gertie was known for her hats. But in the midst of the bright flowers and feathers on the hat was a small birdcage with a live yellow canary inside. Prissy and Prudy trailed behind her, looking at the hat as if it might be their dinner.

  “What do you think, Belle, darlin’?”

  Gertie, a tall, big-boned woman, moved with an inherent grace. Her white hair was coiled neatly at her nape and she wore a purple suit to match the purple in the hat. As always there were pearls around her neck. But Belle kept looking at the little bird.

  “Ms. Gertie, there’s a live bird on your head.” Pointing this out seemed unnecessary, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Of course, darlin’. We’re going to auction off this hat at the charity ball. They just delivered it and I think it’s a wonderful idea. A definite attention grabber.”

  She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t even heard the doorbell. Josie Marie. She had a name.

  “Wendell has a cage for the canary and before we go to the ball tomorrow night, Wendell will put him in the hat-cage again. The highest bidder will get the cage, the hat and all the food the little thing will need for a year.” Ms. Gertie made a face. “I just hate the thought of a bird pooping on my head. But I’ll do anything for charity—at least once.”

  “Whose idea was this?” Belle asked, trying to keep her thoughts on the conversation.

  “Mine, of course. No one else is that brilliant.”

  “Of course not,” Belle agreed. One of the things she loved about living with Gertie was that she laughed a lot. And she needed that.

  Prissy reared up on Gertie’s skirt, her eyes on the bird. Prudy, fearing Prissy might get the prize, joined her.

  “Look at this.” Gertie sighed. “You’d think they were never fed. Get down, you spoiled cats.”

  Prissy and Prudy crept to a corner, their feelings hurt.

  “Oh, my babies. I didn’t mean it.” Gertie tried to soothe the cats. “You’ll get a special treat tonight.”

  Harry raced into the room, barking at the hat. Just then the doorbell rang.

  Gertie straightened the hat and her suit as if she knew who was at the door. Martha, the housekeeper, showed Caleb into the sunroom. Dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt and cowboy boots with his Texas Ranger badge proudly displayed over his left pocket, he smiled a welcome. Belle’s heart rate kicked up a notch as it always did when she saw him.

  He was without his gun and white hat. He usually left those in the car when he was visiting. Tall and lanky, he had soft dark eyes and dark hair. He had to be the most handsome, kindest and caring man she’d ever met. Of course, she remembered nothing of other men she’d known. She suddenly wondered if there were many.

  Shaking the thought away, she wondered instead what Caleb was doing here. His office was in a town outside of Austin, but he stopped by sometimes when he was in the city. Maybe this was one of those
days. Or maybe he sensed that she needed him. In a way they had an uncanny connection.

  “Caleb,” Gertie said. “Have a seat. I’ve been expecting you.”

  She sagged at the revelation of Gertie’s words. Gertie had called him.

  Caleb just stared at the hat on Gertie’s head. “Ms. Gertie, there’s a bird on your head,” he said in his deep voice that wrapped around Belle like warm sunshine.

  “Yes, Caleb, there is. Tomorrow evening this hat and bird will be auctioned off at a charity ball and Belle and I need an escort. Are you free?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It would be a pleasure.”

  “Good. Be here at six and a limo will pick us up. Now I have to see if I can get this thing off my head. Martha,” she called, walking gingerly from the room, her animals following her.

  CALEB LOOKED AT BELLE, her long black hair pulled back, her eyes as dark as the mysteries in her head. An olive complexion stretched over high cheekbones and he thought, as he had since the first day he saw her, that she was the most beautiful, striking woman he’d ever seen.

  “Hi,” he said, unable to keep the warmth out of his voice. “How are you?”

  “Fine. There’s never a dull moment around here.”

  “Is she really auctioning off that hat-bird contraption?”

  “You know Ms. Gertie.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He watched her face. She seemed excited and he sensed it had nothing to do with Gertie. At times he could almost read her expressions—he knew her that well. The first time he saw her in the hospital she was curled into a fetal position and refused to look at him. His heart broke at what had happened to her and he just wanted to help. The doctor warned him about getting emotionally attached because Belle’s emotions were very fragile, but from the first moment he looked into her dark eyes he was trapped, captivated.

  “I was going to call you.” Her words came out in a rush.