Call Me Cowboy

A couple of minutes later, after finding a pair of shoes, combing her hair and applying a quick dab of lipstick, Priscilla led Cowboy out of the brownstone. He waited as she locked the door, then they headed toward the neighborhood park.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“You were right about the name change. Your father was born Clifford Richard Epperson and never made Clinton Richards legal.”

“So my name is actually Priscilla Epperson?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“What about the birth certificate I gave you? It gives our names as Richards.”

“The birth certificate was a good copy, but it was a fake. Someone paid to have it created.”

Reality slammed into her chest, and she had a difficult time catching her breath, let alone coming up with a response. Her life had been a lie. Counterfeit. Or so it seemed.

They continued to walk as she waited for him to tell her what else he’d discovered. Her pumps and his boots made a harmonious crunch and tap as they continued down the sidewalk.

When it became apparent that he wasn’t busting at the seams to talk, she spoke up. “What else did you learn?”

“Your father was born and raised in Cotton Creek, Texas. That’s where he and your mother lived up to and after your birth.”

“I’ve never heard of it. He said we used to live in a little Podunk town about two hours outside of Austin.”

“Actually,” he said, “Cotton Creek is closer to San Antonio.”

Oh, God. Her father had lied to her over and over again. Her grief bounced between anger and disappointment.

She’d wanted to learn her father’s secret, but she wondered if Cowboy had uncovered more of the past than she’d bargained for.

“Why did he change his name?” she asked. “Was he in trouble?”

Cowboy placed a hand on her back, warming her from the inside out, then guided her toward a park bench that rested in the shade. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Priscilla didn’t want to sit. She wanted to hear the secret her father had kept from her.

It seemed as though Cowboy wanted to break it to her gently, and she appreciated his thoughtfulness, but she was a lot tougher than he realized.

Her circumstances might look different to an outsider, but over the past twenty years she’d been taking care of her father, not the other way around.

Cowboy nodded toward the bench. “Have a seat.”

Instead of arguing and telling him to cut to the chase, she complied like the obedient child she’d always been. The child who’d tried desperately to make life easier for her father. A man who’d lied to her.

“What do you know about your mother?” he asked.

“Not much. She and my dad were high-school sweethearts. And she died when I was three. Her name was Jezzie. But then again, maybe he lied about that, too.”

“Your real birth certificate lists his wife as Rebecca Mae Epperson.”

Priscilla was glad she’d taken his advice and sat down. Her knees would have given way had she been standing.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yep. And Rebecca Mae Epperson is still living in Cotton Creek.”

Reality slammed into her chest like a fist, and a knot formed in her stomach. She found it hard to breathe, hard to speak.

For the longest time Priscilla couldn’t seem to grasp what Cowboy had told her.

“My mother is alive?” she finally managed to ask. “What about the fire?”

“I don’t know anything about a fire. But from what I’ve gathered so far, your father was accused of a noncustodial kidnapping.”

Oh, dear God.

Her pulse pounded in her head. And although she wanted to deny it, to call Cowboy a liar, to scream obscenities and run back home, she knew in her heart what he’d just told her was true.

She blew out a wobbly sigh as she pondered the first of her father’s lies. “He told me that we left my mother behind to wait for the moving van and take care of odds and ends. She was going to fly to Rapid City, where we were supposed to take her to our new home. But the night before she was to leave, while I was asleep, he claimed to have received the call about the fire. The news of her death.”

But it had all been a lie.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away, only to have it replaced by another. Her lip quivered, and she bit down to hold it still. To hold herself together.

It was too much.

She didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do next, where to start. So she turned to Cowboy for direction.

“Now what? Where do we go from here?”

Chapter Three

Where do we go from here?

We?

Damned if Cowboy knew. But Priscilla was looking at him as though he had all the answers.

“It depends,” he told her.

“On what?” Her eyes filled with tears, and she tried to blink them back, although it didn’t do much good.

“I guess it depends on how you feel about contacting your mother.”

“I know. And I need to do that. It’s just…” Her breath caught and she blew out a weary sigh. “I don’t know what to say. Or how to go about it. What am I supposed to do, just show up at her front door and announce that I’m her long-lost daughter?”

“You can check and see if your mom’s phone number is listed, then call and let her know you’re alive and well.”

“And then what?” She was looking to him for advice, and he’d be damned if he knew what to suggest or what she might be able to handle.

This was just what he’d been afraid of—having her fall apart, then him not knowing what to do, what to say.

He thought about Jenny, about the way he’d failed her when she’d needed him most, and his chest constricted. He wanted to bolt—not just from the memories but from the here and now. He’d never been up for the heart-to-heart stuff. And over the years he’d developed a happy-go-lucky philosophy that had served him well.

Besides, his work on this case was done—for the most part. He’d uncovered the truth about her old man’s identity. And now he wanted to pass the baton to someone else, to let Priscilla’s friends support her from here on out. There had to be a slew of others who were more capable than he was.

But when she looked at him with the most expressive eyes he’d ever seen, tear-glistened and the color of bluebonnets, he was stuck.

And like the spinning wheels of a Chevy pickup resting bumper-deep in a mud hole, he was just as immobile.

He had to figure out a way to dig himself out of the muck and mire, to find a quick fix, to get Priscilla back on track.

It was the only way he could appease his conscience while he cut bait and run.

“Let’s take some time to think this through.” He stood, slowly turned and reached out a hand to help her up. “Come on, I’ll buy you a sarsaparilla.”

Her hand, small and delicate, slipped into his, and she got to her feet. “What’s a sarsaparilla? Isn’t it a root beer?”

“Yep. But I was only using it as a figure of speech. I’d prefer the real thing. How about you?”

“You mean a beer? I don’t like the taste. Actually I’m really a teetotaler, but a glass of wine might take the edge off what’s turning out to be a bad day.”

She released his hand, then walked beside him, something that was both nice and unsettling at the same time.

The wind whipped the strands of her hair and kicked up the faint scent of something floral. Lilac, he guessed.

Whatever it was, he liked it.

A little too much.

For a man prepared to hightail it back to the comfort of his office as soon as his conscience would allow it, he was finding it much too easy to stay in step with the pretty redhead.

And God knew he didn’t need to get involved with a client or get sucked into the emotional struggle she was dealing with.

“You know,” he said, hoping to take a detour on reality. “You don’t need to decide anything today.”

“You’re right. There’s been a lot to think about, a lot to consider.” She glanced up at him, a myriad of emotions brewing on her heart-shaped face.

He suspected she was angry at her father. That was a given. And she had to be hurt, confused. Looking for support, comfort.

Surely she didn’t expect anything out of him. Dealing with emotion had never been his strong suit. And then there was Jenny. When she’d needed a shoulder to cry on…

Damn. Been there, failed that.

Still, in spite of feeling like a greenhorn when it came to this kind of thing, he couldn’t very well take her back home disillusioned and wallowing in sorrow.

When he’d first walked into her house, he’d noticed the shades drawn, smelled the stale, musty odor of days gone by. And all he could think of was getting her out of that mausoleum and into the sunshine.

Taking her back there was out of the question until he was sure she’d be okay alone.

Maybe if she had some time to let the news settle, she’d accept her father for what he was—a real son of a bitch, as far as Cowboy was concerned—and get madder than an old wet hen. Her anger would be a hell of a lot easier to deal with than her tears.

The sun warmed his face as birds chirped in the treetops that lined the edge of the park they were leaving behind.

He wasn’t sure if a drink would help her, but it would certainly help him. He’d never been one for hand-holding and soul-baring, so he’d welcome anything that would get them through the next hour or so.

As they walked along, she bumped her shoulder against his arm in an intimate manner, as though they’d been friends for a long time.

Jenny used to do that—wander a bit too close, nudge him to get his attention, tug at his shirtsleeve.

The reminder struck unexpectedly, and he struggled to get his mind back on an even keel.

“So,” he said, leading her from the park. “Where’s the nearest bar?”

“Riley’s is only a couple of blocks away.”

“Perfect.” He’d buy her a shot of courage, then suggest she either call Rebecca Epperson in Texas or a trusted friend. That way she could forget about the loss of her father and his lies while either renewing a relationship with the mother she never knew or getting on with her life.

Then Cowboy would be able to leave his client in better shape than he’d found her.

That ought to appease his conscience, the crusty old troll that lived deep in his soul and cropped up every once in a while to remind him that it hadn’t been his mother who’d caused Jenny’s death.

It had been him.

In a dark corner of Riley’s—a small local bar that was nearly empty at three in the afternoon—Priscilla sat across from Cowboy.

She nursed a white wine as he took a swig of his second beer.

“You’re a lightweight,” he told her, nodding to her nearly full glass. “And it’s going to take more than a couple of swallows to take the edge off the day you’ve had.”

She rolled a corner of her cocktail napkin, then locked her gaze on him. “I’m not going to drink myself into oblivion over this mess, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not trying to get you drunk. Heck, I’d hate to have to carry you out of here.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You suggested I start with a shooter. And that would have sent me under the table. I’m not used to alcohol and I haven’t had anything to eat all day other than half a bagel at breakfast.”

He shrugged, his lips quirking in a crooked grin. “Just trying to help.”

Getting drunk wasn’t a solution or an option, but she still appreciated his attempt to get her mind off her troubles. She’d become pretty self-sufficient while growing up; she’d had to be. And it was nice to have a man offer her the emotional support she hadn’t received from her dad.

For some reason—a reason she was just now beginning to grasp—her father had withdrawn more and more over the last few years, even before the liver cancer had been diagnosed. He’d worked at home designing Web sites, a job that allowed him to distance himself from his clients and the real world. Over time he’d almost become a hermit, which had worried her.

For as long as she could remember, she’d felt compelled to look out for him, to protect him. And to be honest, his growing attachment to her had become a concern.

“I loved my dad,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry at him.”

Cowboy nodded as though understanding her completely.

“A week ago I was dealing with the grief of loss, thinking it would get easier over time. But I’m not sure I’ll ever get over his deceit.”

“It must be tough to realize someone you loved and cared about wasn’t the kind of person you thought he was.”

She sought his gaze, his understanding. “Have you ever had that happen?”

“People have let me down and tried to deceive me,” he said. “But I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. Still, I have a feeling that once you talk to your mother, you’ll see light at the end of the tunnel.”

Maybe.

She hoped so.

She lifted her glass and sipped the wine, relishing the cool splash along her throat, growing used to the taste.

“You know,” she said, “it’s hard to comprehend what my dad did to my mother. I can’t imagine what drove him to it or the pain he must have caused her.”

Cowboy took another swig of his beer, but his attention seemed to remain focused on her, on her struggle. She appreciated his support more than he would ever know.

And he was right. She needed to talk to her mom, to learn the truth. To set things straight.

Cowboy reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Just out of curiosity, let’s see if there’s a Rebecca Epperson listed in Cotton Creek. From what I’ve learned, it’s a pretty small town.”

He flipped open the lid and dialed four-one-one.

No luck.

Then he asked for the Cotton Creek chamber of commerce. Moments later, after connecting with the person who answered—someone who seemed to be awfully chatty—he pulled out a pen from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and scratched out a number on the dry edge of his damp cocktail napkin.

After the call ended, he looked at Priscilla. “She suggested I call the Lone Oak Bar.”

“Why is that?” Had her father’s selfish act caused her mother to turn to alcohol, to become a regular at local watering holes, where she drowned her sorrows?

“The gal who answered the phone—a talkative woman who claimed to have been born and raised in the community—said Rebecca Epperson owns the place.”

In her dreams Priscilla had imagined her mother as the cookie-baking, quilt-sewing type. But a businesswoman? And a bar owner?

She took a drink of wine and then another. As she finished the glass, a numbness began to settle over her, and she welcomed the calming effect as well as the buzz.

There was so much she didn’t know, things that shouldn’t have been kept secret.

Had her mother been a victim? Or did the secret go deeper than one parent’s selfish act?

The investigation, she suspected, had only just begun.

Cowboy slid the napkin to her, then placed his cell phone on the table and pushed it forward. All she had to do was pick it up, which sounded easy enough. But it wasn’t.

“There’s something weird about calling my mother for the first time from a bar,” she said.

“I don’t know why. She’ll be talking to you from one.”

“That makes it even worse.” She fingered the stem of her glass, then took another drink. “Besides, when I talk to her I want to do it in person.”

And she didn’t want to do it alone.

She looked at Cowboy, unsure of how he’d react when she asked him to go with her—as part of the job.

Maybe they could hang out in Cotton Creek for a day or two, drop by the bar her mom owned. Check out the woman from a distance. After all, maybe her father had left her mother for a good reason.

What other secrets would they uncover in Texas?

Priscilla reached across the table and placed her hand on his forearm. “I want you to go with me to Cotton Creek.”

“Me?”

The jolt of his reaction, as well as the warmth of his arm, the bulk of his muscle, caused her heart to skip a beat, and she pulled her hand away, breaking the brief but captivating physical connection. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course. But I feel totally out of my league. And I’m not sure what I’m up against. What if my mom isn’t a good person? What if there’s a lot more to the story than we’ve been able to piece together? What if my dad thought he was protecting me?”

“Protecting you from what?” Cowboy asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe my mom was abusive.”

“Do you remember her hurting you?”

“No, but I can’t remember much about her. Not even what she looks like.”

Cowboy motioned for the bartender.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting you another glass of wine.”

She started to object but blew out a sigh. Why not have another glass? It was not as though she had to finish it. And if truth be told, she relished the calming numbness the last one had provided.

The bartender brought them the round Cowboy had requested as well as a white ceramic bowl filled with mixed nuts and placed them on the table.

“I really shouldn’t have any more wine,” she admitted. “But you’re right. It has helped. And I actually like the taste.”

“Good.” He reached into the bowl and grabbed a handful of nuts, then popped them into his mouth.

“So,” she said, drawing him back to her original request. “Will you go with me to Texas? I really don’t want to confront my past alone. And I have a feeling I’ll still need your expertise.”

Cowboy didn’t think going with Priscilla was a good idea, although he couldn’t put his finger on why. The fact that he ought to backpedal on his involvement with her rather than allow himself to be pulled in deeper, he supposed. “What about your friend, Byron Van Zandt’s daughter?”

“Sylvia? She was just promoted at work and she can’t take any time off right now. Besides, I’d feel better if I had a private detective with me, someone who could do a little investigating on the side, if necessary.”

“I…uh…” Damn. Why was he hemming and hawing? It was just another job. No big deal.

And besides, Cowboy had no idea what had provoked her father into leaving town and changing their names. She was right. There was more work for him to do.

But traveling with an attractive, blue-eyed redhead with a bedroom voice?

If she weren’t a client and so damn prim and proper, he might be inclined to consider the trip as a pleasant diversion, a vacation. Maybe even take a chance at a brief but hot sexual fling.

But that was out.

“It would only be for a few days,” she added, placing her hand on his arm again, sending another rush of heat through his veins and stirring up the rebel in him.

She was putting him in a hell of a fix. Part of him demanded he sail off into the sunset, while another part begged him to jump ship before the storm hit.

But when she looked at him with pleading eyes, he buckled.

Aw, what the heck.

“Sure. I’ll go.” He picked up his cell, then called Margie at the office, asking her to book him and his client on a flight into San Antonio tomorrow morning.

When the call ended, he suffered a moment of doubt, an urge to hand over the case to one of his colleagues. Something told him Priscilla wasn’t just another client.

He reached into the bowl, grabbed a handful of nuts and popped them into his mouth. He watched as she picked out a couple of cashews from the bowl, then ate them one by one.

“You know what?” he asked, cracking a grin. “Your name really suits you.”

“Priscilla?” Her brow furrowed. “How so?”

“You’re prissy. And a real girlie-girl.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Nope. Just an observation.” And a realization that ought to make it easier for him to steer clear of her in a romantic sense.

She took another drink, but her eyes remained fixed on his, as though waiting for him to explain.

But he didn’t. He just reached for another handful of nuts, which were too salty—a trick to get patrons to drink more.

They sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts, until his cell phone rang, drawing him from his musing. He answered to find Margie on the line. She’d made reservations with the airline but wanted to run it past him before purchasing the tickets.

He interrupted his telephone conversation long enough to ask Priscilla, “How about a flight out of Newark at ten tomorrow morning?”

“That’s fine.” She settled back in her seat and took a healthy sip of wine.

When he asked about a rental car and a motel, Margie said, “I’ve requested an SUV. Do you want a luxury model?”

“Not this time.” If he wanted to roll into Cotton Creek and belly up to Rebecca’s bar, he wanted folks to think he fit in.

“And as far as motels go,” Margie said, “I’m still trying to locate something you’d be comfortable in. It’s a pretty small town, so it’ll be tough to find your usual accommodations. So far, I’ve found a bed-and-breakfast that sounds like it might do. Any objections?”

“No, that’ll be fine.”

Margie knew he preferred top-of-the-line hotels when possible, so he trusted her to do her best.

After he and the secretary finished their conversation, he disconnected the line.

Priscilla placed her elbows on the table, leaned forward and whispered, “Do you know where the restrooms are?”

He scanned the darkened bar, then pointed toward the east wall, where a sign was posted.

As she scooted her chair back, her knees buckled and she grabbed the table for support. Her eyes widened and she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oops.”

After only one drink? He glanced at her second wineglass. Okay, so she’d finished that one, too. Courtesy of the salty cashews, no doubt.

He supposed that was a lot of alcohol to hit a teetotaler’s system in a short period of time. And on an empty stomach. He’d hoped a little alcohol would make her feel better about things, about the crap in her past. But he hadn’t planned on her getting drunk.

Heck, the women he hung out with were party girls who often started out with a shooter. But Prissy wasn’t like the women he dated. And he supposed he should have known better.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “But I want to splash a little water on my face.”

Then she walked across the scarred hardwood floor. Was she staggering a bit?

Dang. Dealing with an emotional woman was bad enough. But one who was snockered, too?

She reached back and tugged at the hem of her blue cotton blouse, making sure it lay neatly against a shapely derriere. She was a pretty woman. And it would tickle the hell out of him to see what she’d do when her inhibitions had been peeled away by the fruit of the vine.

But then what?

She was a client. And vulnerable.

He threw back another swig of beer. No need to let this go any further.

She’d suffered a rough blow today. And he couldn’t very well leave her alone, not in the midst of those boxes she’d packed for the Salvation Army or with the memories of her father’s past, his secrets.

The late Clifford Epperson might have deceived her and her mother, but Priscilla had loved him. And his death no doubt still weighed heavily on her mind, on her spirit.

No, Cowboy thought. He couldn’t very well take her home and leave her locked up alone with her memories and the demons of the past.

Not overnight.

He glanced across the bar and spotted Priscilla returning.

Her steps were unsteady, and she listed to the left like a windblown ship on rough seas.

As she approached the table with her cheeks flushed, she flashed him a playful smile, then took her seat.

She leaned forward, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. “I goofed.”

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