Miranda gathered her courage. “Could I ask a favor?”
There was a long, strained silence after her question. Then he answered, “I’ve already granted you one favor. That’s about all you’re going to get.”
His voice didn’t deter her. She had to know. “It’s just a small favor.” Especially compared to the fact that he’d rescued her…
He said nothing, just sat as if turned to stone.
“You see,” she persisted, “if we’re going to face death together, I figure I should at least know your name.”
After a moment he asked, “Why is my name so important?”
“Because you were willing to die for me back there. A stranger. I need to know your name for my own peace of mind.”
His name. How long had it been since he’d heard his own name? Years. He didn’t want to tell her his name, but he could feel the word surging to his throat against his will. Before he could speak she said, “It starts with a J, doesn’t it?”
The gun, he thought. She saw the initials on the gun.
“John, Joshua, Jeremy,” she said, guessing. “Jeffrey, Joseph, Judd—no, none of those. Let’s see…”
“Jacob.”
Dear Reader,
The setting of my first book, The Truth About Jane Doe, was fictional, although drawn from my experiences of living in a small Texas town. But the setting for this story, Deep in the Heart of Texas, is real—as real as the Texas bluebonnets that appear along the highways in early spring.
When Jacob and Miranda’s story took shape in my mind, I knew the setting had to be someplace serene and tranquil. Someplace where Jacob could renew his spirit and Miranda could find strength and courage. I naturally thought of the Texas Hill Country, with its rolling hills, spring-fed streams and abundant wildlife.
Most people who’ve never been to Texas think that it’s dry, flat and hot, but Texas is as diverse as it is vast—with coastal waters, prairies, brush country, hills and more. Each region is unique and special, as the Hill Country is to Jacob and Miranda, who find each other and find love with each other under extraordinary circumstances.
Only the Hill Country is real; everything else is fictional, and any errors you find are strictly mine. I hope you enjoy this trip to a beautiful part of Texas with Jacob and Miranda!
Thanks for reading my books.
Linda Warren
P.S. I’d love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 5182, Bryan, Texas 77805, or e-mail me at [email protected].
Deep in the Heart of Texas
Linda Warren
As always, to the love of my life, my husband, Billy, my Sonny.
And
To my family for their love and encouragement, in particular four ladies who are always there for me: Robin, Melinda, Diannia and Betty Boop.
And
To my friends, old and new, who have surprised me with their heartfelt support, especially the Smetana community.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
SHE WAS GOING TO DIE.
No!
Everything in Miranda Maddox fought that horrifying thought. But the bitter cold seeped into her bones and a blinding fear crept over her cramped body. As she struggled to move, the tight ropes around her ankles and wrists cut into her flesh. Nausea churned in her stomach and she took several deep breaths. She couldn’t throw up. She couldn’t. With the gag in her mouth, she’d choke on her own vomit.
Oh, God, who did this to her? Who’d tied her up and left her in this awful place to die? She didn’t know where she was, but she knew by the smell, the cold and the darkness that it was a place of death. She began to wonder if maybe she was already dead.
A warm feeling washed over her and her thoughts drifted. Her head fell to her chest. Sleep. Yes, she would sleep. And soon she’d awaken from this terrible nightmare. She tried to reassure herself but couldn’t still the ominous feeling.
She was going to die. And she knew it.
A FRIGID NORTH WIND blew through the Texas Hill Country. The tall, broad-shouldered man walking through the woods hardly noticed the cold. He endured it the way he did everything else. Life to him was a matter of survival. For more than five years he’d lived in these hills, away from society, his only companion his dog, Bandit. That was the way he wanted it. People called him eccentric or crazy, but that didn’t bother him. As long as he was left alone, the world outside meant nothing to him.
His mountain boots were almost silent on the cold hard ground. The only audible noises were the occasional rustle of dried leaves and the whistle of the wind.
He moved through the thick woods with an ease and grace uncommon for a big man. Well over six feet, he wore heavy jeans, a dark plaid flannel shirt and a black overcoat that whipped around his legs. His long dark hair, full beard dashed with gray and a hat pulled low over his eyes gave him a sinister appearance. A rifle rested on his shoulder, the butt in the palm of his hand.
People in these parts called him the hermit.