Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Call Me Cowboy

Call Me Cowboy
Judy Duarte
HE WASN'T THE "RIDE OFF INTO THE SUNSET" TYPE…T. J. "Cowboy" Whittaker wasn't looking to be anyone's hero, but when vulnerable Priscilla Richards turned her tear-filled blue eyes on him and asked, "Can you help me uncover the secrets in my past?"…well, how could the sexy P.I. say no?His job was simple: escort the sheltered city girl to Texas to meet the mom she'd never known, then hightail it out of there as fast as his boots could carry him. Temptation wasn't on the agenda—especially with a prim New Yorker who most definitely was not his type. But Prissy made him hotter than Dallas in July…and made him want things he'd given up on long ago….



He opened the door in a courteous manner that made her think chivalry was alive and well in Manhattan.
She glanced over her shoulder, taking in the stunning view one more time. But not through the office window that looked out at the Empire State Building.
It was the fair-haired “cowboy” who’d caught her eye and made her heart skip a beat.
He slid her a smile. “I’ll call you.”
She knew he was talking about the case. But somewhere, deep in her heart, she wondered what it would be like to wait for another kind of call from him.
A personal call.
Still, that was silly. The man probably had a legion of women clamoring for his attention.
And Priscilla wasn’t planning to ride off into the sunset with anyone….
Dear Reader,

No matter what the weather is like, I always feel like March 1st is the beginning of spring. So let’s celebrate that just-around-the-corner thaw with, for starters, another of Christine Rimmer’s beloved BRAVO FAMILY TIES books. In The Bravo Family Way, a secretive Las Vegas mogul decides he “wants” a beautiful preschool owner who’s long left the glittering lights and late nights of Vegas behind. But she hadn’t counted on the charms of Fletcher Bravo. No woman could resist him for long….

Victoria Pade’s The Baby Deal, next up in our FAMILY BUSINESS continuity, features wayward son Jack Hanson finally agreeing to take a meeting with a client—only perhaps he got a little too friendly too fast? She’s pregnant, and he’s…well, he’s not sure what he is, quite frankly. In Judy Duarte’s Call Me Cowboy, a New York City girl is in desperate need of a detective with a working knowledge of Texas to locate the mother she’s never known. Will she find everything she’s looking for, courtesy of T. J. “Cowboy” Whittaker? In She’s the One, Patricia Kay’s conclusion to her CALLIE’S CORNER CAFÉ series, a woman who’s always put her troublesome younger sister’s needs before her own finds herself torn by her attraction to the handsome cop who’s about to place said sister under arrest. Lois Faye Dyer’s new miniseries, THE MCCLOUDS OF MONTANA, which features two feuding families, opens with Luke’s Proposal. In it, the daughter of one family is forced to work together with the son of the other—with very unexpected results! And in A Bachelor at the Wedding by Kate Little, a sophisticated Manhattan tycoon finds himself relying more and more on his Brooklyn-bred assistant (yeah, Brooklyn)—and not just for business.

So enjoy, and come back next month—the undisputed start of spring….

Gail

Call Me Cowboy
Judy Duarte


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my favorite associates at WalMart #2094 in Vista, California:
Valeen Archibald, Lydia Bustos, Donna Camper, Sarah Colwell,
Bobbie Hernandez, Judy Pace, Mary Murphy and Norma Rubio.
Thanks for your support!

JUDY DUARTE
An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy Duarte loves to create stories of her own. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous, but delightfully close family.
Judy makes her home in California with her personal hero, their youngest son and a cat named Mom. “Sharing a name with the family pet gets a bit confusing,” she admits. “Especially when the cat decides to curl up in a secluded cubbyhole and hide. I’m not sure what the neighbors think when my son walks up and down the street calling for Mom.”
You can write to Judy c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10237. Or you can contact her through her Web site at: www.judyduarte.com.
Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoy reading Call Me Cowboy as much as I did writing it.

In fact, as part of the fun, I’ll be sponsoring a special contest on my Web site during the month of March 2006.

What kind of contest?

Why a chili cook-off, of course!

If you think your favorite recipe can compete with Becky Epperson’s Snake-adillo Chili, enter online at: www.JudyDuarte.com. But since this is a cybercontest, your secret recipe will remain safe and yours alone. All you have to do is enter the name of your special chili.

The winner will be announced on my Web site on April 15, 2006, and will receive a six-month subscription to the Special Edition book club and have a choice of five autographed books from my backlist. There will be prizes for the runners-up, too.

So why not fire up your computer and head over to my Web site now? See you there!

Wishing you romance and a happy-ever-after.



Contents
Prologue
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

Prologue
Cotton Creek, Texas
The stairway creaked, and Priscilla opened her eyes. It was dark, and someone big was carrying her.
“Daddy?”
“Shhh, baby girl. It’s okay. I have you.”
Only the Snoopy night-light lit their way.
“Where are we going?”
He shushed her. “Go back to sleep, honey.”
Priscilla rested her head on her daddy’s chest, nuzzling her cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart, the familiar buckle in his step as he limped toward the front door.
She yawned. “I’m really tired, Daddy.”
“I know, baby.”
Priscilla didn’t want to get up. She wanted to go back to her bed, with its Pound Puppies sheets and bedspread.
As they stepped outside and Daddy carefully closed the front door, the night air cooled her face and her bare toes.
A hoot owl called from the trees, and a doggy barked in someone else’s yard.
“It’s cold, Daddy. And it’s dark.”
“Everything is going to be just fine, honey. You wait and see.” Daddy carried her for a while, down the driveway and to the street, where he’d parked his truck.
The engine was running, and the heater made it all warm and cozy.
“I have a pillow and blanket for you,” he told her. “Why don’t you try and go back to sleep. We have a long drive ahead.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as she crawled across the seat.
“To a happy place,” he told her as he climbed into the pickup and closed the door.
Priscilla looked over her shoulder and out the back window. She could hardly see the house, until a light went on in the upstairs window.
“Where’s Mama?” she asked. “Why isn’t she going with us?”
“Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll call her in the morning and you can talk to her.”
They drove all that night and the next day, but they never did stop and call Mama.
And they didn’t talk about her anymore either.

Chapter One
Twenty-two years later
Priscilla Richards wasn’t in the party spirit, but she held a full glass of champagne and went through the social motions—the feigned smiles, the required chitchat.
Outside, the night was bright and clear. Inside, the penthouse was elegant, the decor festive.
Byron Van Zandt, an investment banker, had spared no expense in throwing a first-class celebration for his daughter Sylvia’s recent promotion. He’d even hired a violinist through the philharmonic. So it wasn’t any wonder that the mood of those in attendance was upbeat.
Well, not everyone’s.
Priscilla was ready to thank her host and go home.
But not because she wasn’t happy for the young woman of honor.
She and Sylvia had met at Brown University, where they’d both graduated with a master’s degree in literary arts. Then they’d landed dream jobs at Sunshine Valley Books, a small but growing publisher that specialized in children’s literature.
Being colleagues had only deepened their friendship, so there was no way Priscilla would have made an excuse to stay home, where she’d prefer to be.
She just wished she could be more enthusiastic for her best friend’s sake.
“Hey,” Sylvia said, making her way to Priscilla’s side with a half-filled flute of champagne. “You’re finally here!”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Priscilla managed a weak but sincere smile. “Congratulations on the promotion.”
Sylvia, with her dark hair cropped in a short but stylish cut, nodded toward Priscilla’s full glass. “I hope that’s not your first.”
It was, so she nodded.
“Drink up, Pris. You can crash here. No need to worry about going back to Brooklyn tonight.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I need to get home. In fact, I’m going to cut out early.”
Sylvia drew closer and studied Priscilla intently. “You know, I’m starting to worry about you.”
“I’ll be okay. Really.”
Apparently Sylvia wasn’t convinced, because she crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. “I know you adored your father, Pris. And it’s normal to grieve. But I hate to see you so down. Maybe you ought to talk to a doctor and get some medication. Or better yet, why don’t you make an appointment with a professional, like a minister or a counselor?”
It wasn’t grief that had knocked her for a loop.
Priscilla placed an arm around Sylvia and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Thanks for the advice. But all I really need to do is bite the bullet and go through my dad’s belongings. I’ll be fine after that.”
“Does that mean you’ll be returning to work soon? Ever since you took that leave of absence, I haven’t had anyone to gossip with. And right now I think the new receptionist is sleeping with Larry in Marketing.”
“Syl, you never gossip.”
“Only with you.” Sylvia took a sip of champagne. “So when are you coming back to work?”
Up until last night, Priscilla had planned to go into the office on Monday morning.
Now she wasn’t so sure. “I may need to request another week or so.”
Sylvia clucked her tongue. “Aw, Pris. Come stay with me for a while. You’ve been cooped up in that brownstone for months and need a change of scenery. We can make fudge and eat ice cream, which always makes me feel better. And we’ll pull out my entire collection of Hugh Grant DVDs.”
“Thanks, Syl. Let me take care of a few things and I’ll take you up on it. But no more Hugh Grant movies.”
“How about Mel Gibson?”
“Only if he’s wearing a white cowboy hat and boots. I’m leaning toward the John Wayne type.” Someone who didn’t remind her of her father.
“Mmm. Mel in a cowboy hat. I’ll see what I can do.” Sylvia chuckled, then changed to a serious tone. “Can’t you wait and go through your dad’s belongings in a couple of weeks?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Priscilla’s curiosity was fast becoming a compulsion to find answers to the questions she’d had. Questions she’d been afraid to voice.
“Well,” Sylvia said, “it must be a relief to know your father isn’t suffering anymore.”
The last few months, as cancer had racked his body, Priscilla had taken time off work to care for him. It had been a drain to see him waste away, to know how much pain he’d suffered.
“You’re right, Syl. He’s in a better place.”
“And there’s another upside,” her friend added. “He’s with your mom now.”
Priscilla nodded. It hadn’t been any big secret that Clinton Richards had been devastated after losing his wife more than twenty years ago. And rather than look for another woman to love, he’d devoted his life to his daughter, to her happiness and well-being. In fact, when Priscilla had been accepted to Brown University, he’d moved to Providence, Rhode Island, just to be close to her. And when she’d landed the job with Sunshine Valley Books, he’d relocated again—to New York. Fortunately, as a self-employed Web site designer, he worked out of the home and had a flexibility other fathers didn’t have.
Priscilla hooked her arm through Sylvia’s and drew her toward the front door. “Listen, Syl. This has been a great party, but I really need to get home.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Her friend lifted a nearly empty champagne flute. “You need to finish that drink and mingle.”
“Actually my stomach has been bothering me the past couple of days.” Okay, maybe not for days, but ever since last night, when that unsettling dream woke her at two in the morning. And it had intensified when she’d padded into her father’s bedroom and begun to dig through his cedar chest.
“I’ll bet it’s the stress you’ve been under that’s affecting your stomach,” Sylvia said.
“Probably.” But it was more than grief bothering her. She just wished she could put her finger on exactly what had knocked her digestive system out of whack.
She did, however, have a clue.
The mild-mannered widower who’d loved her had taken a secret to his grave. A secret Priscilla was determined to uncover.
Would she feel better if she confided in Sylvia?
Maybe, although now didn’t seem to be the time.
On the other hand, keeping Sylvia worried and in the dark might put a damper on an evening when she ought to be celebrating.
Priscilla took a long, deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I had a dream last night and woke up in tangled sheets and a cold sweat.”
“A nightmare?” Sylvia asked. “Those can be pretty upsetting.”
“Yes, they can. But so can a repressed memory, which is what I think it was.”
Sylvia stopped a waiter walking by, placed her flute on his tray and gave Priscilla her undivided attention. “What do you mean?”
She wasn’t sure. At first, it had been a niggling, restless feeling. Then there’d been a collage of images.
A two-story house. The scent of vanilla and spice. Laughter. Bedtime stories.
Loud voices and tears.
A marble-topped table crashing to the floor.
The remnants of her dream, of the memory, of her odd discovery, settled over her like a cold, wet blanket.
She tried her best to shake it off, at least long enough to level with her friend. “When I woke up, I felt so uneasy that I went into my father’s room and opened the old chest where he kept his things and went through it.”
“What did you find?”
“Evidence that my name might not be Priscilla Richards.”
“Wow.” Sylvia furrowed her brow, then cocked her head in disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“No. I’m not. But until I get to the bottom of this, I won’t be able to focus on anything else. I just wish I knew where to start digging.”
Sylvia stood silent, focused. Then she brightened. “Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
Without answering, Sylvia dashed off, swerving to avoid a waitress balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres, and ducked into her father’s study.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Sylvia could be so dramatic. But like a child waiting for guidance, Priscilla remained in the entryway.
Moments later Sylvia returned and placed a glossy business card in Priscilla’s hand. “This is the firm my dad uses for employee screenings.”
Priscilla scanned the card.
Garcia and Associates
Elite and Discreet Investigations
Offices in Chicago, Los Angeles and Manhattan
Trenton J. Whittaker
“The agency is reputable and well respected,” Sylvia said. “Of course, they’re not cheap. But I’d be happy to loan you whatever you need.”
“Thanks. But my dad had a healthy savings account he transferred to me before he died. And he also had a good-sized life insurance policy. So I’ll be all right.”
“For what it’s worth,” Sylvia added, eyes growing bright and a grin busting out on her face, “I met that guy—Trenton Whittaker—at my dad’s office the other day. And he’s to die for. You ought to hear the soft Southern drawl of his voice. It’s so darn sexy it’ll make you melt in a puddle on the floor.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “When I choose a private investigator, it won’t be based upon his looks or the sound of his voice.”
“You can’t go wrong with Garcia and Associates. They’re a top-of-the-line agency. And if the P.I. also happens to be single and hot, what’s the problem? Heaven knows your love life could sure use a shot in the tush. And believe me, Pris, this guy will do it. If I weren’t involved with Warren, I’d have jumped his bones in a heartbeat.”
Priscilla wasn’t interested in finding Mr. Right. After all, she couldn’t very well expect a happily ever after when she’d had too many questions about once upon a time.
But she took the card and slid it into her purse, figuring she’d give the agency—not necessarily Mr. Whittaker—a try.
Then she handed Sylvia her nearly full glass of champagne. “Congratulations on the promotion. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Don’t thank me for that.” Sylvia placed the glass on a table in the entry. “You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine.” Priscilla gave her a hug.
“Hey. I just thought of something.”
Priscilla waited, poised by the door. “What’s that?”
“Remember that young-adult book you edited a while back? The one about the rodeo cowboy?”
It had been well written, the settings vivid, the character a handsome young man with true grit and brawn.
Priscilla nodded. “What about it?”
“You told me that you could see yourself riding off into the sunset with a cowboy like that.”
“So? I didn’t mean anything by it.” And she hadn’t. It had just been a dreamy, romantic comment. After all, Priscilla loved the Big Apple and thrived in a cosmopolitan environment. She even found the hustle and bustle thrilling. So for that reason alone, when it came to a lover, a cowboy was out of the question.
“I saw the way your eyes lit up, the way you placed your hand on the cover of that book. You practically caressed the cowboy on the front. That was your heart speaking, Pris. And have I found the perfect man for you.”
“What are you talking about? A man is the last thing in the world I need right now.”
“How about a Manhattan-based P.I. with a slow Southern drawl? A man they call Cowboy.”

“Cowboy” Whittaker sat behind his desk in the Manhattan office of Garcia and Associates with his back to an impressive view of the Empire State Building.
He’d just gotten off the phone with a client, an appreciative single mother who’d called to tell him she’d received her first child-support check. And thanks to the work Cowboy had done in locating her ex—a man who’d run off with an off-Broadway showgirl—the runaway daddy’s wages were now being garnished, and he was being forced to support the kids he’d fathered.
Deadbeat dads were the worst.
Not that Cowboy was an expert on fathers. His had been a workaholic who’d never had time for his family. But at least there’d been plenty of money to go around.
He blew out a sigh. He was eager to get back in the field, to do what he did best—charming the secrets out of unwitting folks with his down-home, slow and easy style.
Cowboy’s Southern twang often gave people the impression that he was a backwoods hick—which couldn’t be any further from the truth—and they tended to open up with him, sharing things they wouldn’t share with another investigator. So he used it to his advantage, sometimes even laying it on extra thick.
God, he loved his job, the mind games that uncovered secrets and revealed lies.
What he didn’t love was working indoors, confined to an office.
But until his boss and buddy, Rico Garcia, returned from his honeymoon in Tahiti, Cowboy was deskbound.
Fortunately Rico was due back in town tomorrow evening.
As Cowboy scanned a report sent in by an associate, the intercom buzzed.
Margie, the office manager, was probably telling him his three o’clock appointment had arrived—a referral from Byron Van Zandt, one of their newer clients.
He clicked on the flashing button. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Priscilla Richards is here, Cowboy.”
“Thank you. Will you please send her in?” He closed the file he’d been reading and slid it across the polished desk.
As the door swung open, he stood to greet the woman—one of many formalities and courtesies his mother had instilled in him while he’d been growing up in the upper echelon of Dallas society.
Margie opened the door and stepped aside as an attractive redhead dressed in a conservative cream-colored skirt and jacket entered the office. She stood about five-three or -four. A pretty tumble of red hair had been swept into a neat, professional twist.
She wore only a whisper of lipstick and a dab of mascara. She didn’t need any more makeup than that.
Some women looked like a million bucks when they went out on the town in the evenings, but woke up as scary as hell. Yet he suspected this one looked damn good in the morning even before she climbed out of bed.
A man might be tempted to find out for himself if that were true or not—if he were attracted to the prim, classy type.
But Cowboy had been turned off by that kind ever since his mother had begun prying into his dating habits as a teenager and tried to set him up with one Dallas debutante after another. It might have started as a good case of adolescent rebellion, but he’d been drawn to fun-lovin’ gals who knew how to party ever since.
But that was when he was off duty. He didn’t date his clients, although he’d been known to flirt some—just to make life interesting.
Still, he found himself intrigued by this prim little package, curious about her story.
Maybe it was the red curls that seemed to beg to break free of confinement, hinting that she knew how to let her hair down and kick up her heels. Or those big blue eyes that could snare a fellow and drag him into something too close for comfort.
But the white-knuckle way she held the shoulder strap of her purse suggested she might hightail it out of his office at any time.
Dang. He always liked to see shy women loosen up, relax, feel comfortable around him—even if that was as far as things went.
He moved to the front of his desk and touched the back of the leather chair reserved for clients and providing them with a twenty-third-floor view of the city. “Why don’t you have a seat, ma’am?”
“Thank you, Mr. Whittaker.”
He flashed her a charming smile meant to disarm her. “No need to call me Mr. I go by TJ at home in Dallas and Cowboy here in Manhattan. You can take your pick.”
She cleared her throat, obviously a little nervous, which kicked up his curiosity another notch.
He sat, the leather of his desk chair creaking beneath his weight. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure where to begin. This is all so new to me.” Her voice, a soft, sexy purr like the other side of a pay-for-sex telephone conversation, slid over him like a silk scarf across bare skin.
Not that he made those calls—other than that night he and Dave Hamilton had gotten drunk when they were in the tenth grade.
Is that why she wrapped herself in a nine-to-five business suit? To mask the sexual aura of a voice that could earn a fortune working for 1-900-Dial-A-Hard-On?
Enough of that. He roped in his thoughts and tried to keep his mind on work. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
She leaned back in her seat, yet her demeanor remained stiff, her hands poised on her lap. “A couple of days ago I had an unsettling dream.” She took a breath, then slowly let it out. “But it was so real. It had to be a dormant memory.”
Some dreams could seem real when they weren’t, but he let her talk.
“It woke me at two in the morning. My heart was pounding and I had this uneasy feeling.”
“What did you dream about?” he asked.
“When I was only three or so, my daddy carried me to his pickup in the middle of the night, then drove straight through to the small town in Iowa where I grew up.”
“A lot of folks start a long trip before sunrise,” he said. “It’s easier to drive when the roads are clear of traffic.”
“Yes, but my father kept shushing me as we walked down the stairs and out the front door. He told me that everything would be all right.”
“Is that what you remember? Or was that part of the dream?”
“It was too real to ignore, so I went into my father’s bedroom and began sorting through his things, something I’d been putting off.”
Cowboy assumed she must have found something that validated her suspicion. A gut feeling wasn’t much to go on. And he wouldn’t take her money if he suspected the investigation would only be a crap-shoot. He needed more information than what she’d already given him.
“My dad had this old cedar chest that he’d made in a high school shop class. And he stored his things in it, like an Army uniform, a Boy Scout shirt with all his badges.” She looked at him with glistening blue eyes. “He was an Eagle Scout.”
Was she thinking that precluded her old man from lying or keeping something a secret?
“His Army dispatch papers were in there, too,” she added.
“And?”
“My father’s real name was apparently Clifford Richard Epperson, not Clinton Richards. And I need someone to help me uncover the reason why he changed his name.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
Yes. No. Priscilla wasn’t sure.
She cleared her throat. “Well, there is one other thing, although it might not amount to anything at all.”
As he waited for her come up with a response, Mr. Whittaker—or rather, Cowboy—leaned back in his chair. She found it impossible not to study him, not to be intrigued by him.
He was a big man. Tall. Well over six feet when he stood. His light brown hair appeared stylishly mussed, but she suspected that was due to the white cowboy hat resting on the other side of the huge mahogany desk at which he sat. His hazel eyes glistened like amber in the sunlight. And his voice was enough to lull a woman into mindless submission.
Sylvia had been right about his soft Southern drawl.
It’s so darn sexy it’ll make you melt in a puddle on the floor.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” Her cheeks warmed as she realized he’d been waiting for her to answer while she’d been gawking and pondering things best left alone.
“You mentioned there was one other thing I ought to know.”
“Oh, yes. I was so wrapped up in…uh…the memory and trying to sort through it.” She cleared her throat again, hoping to dislodge the lame excuse for the sexual direction in which her thoughts had drifted.
“Then take your time.” He rocked in his seat, the leather chair creaking from his weight. But she focused on the task at hand, on the information she ought to share.
“My father died of cancer. And the end was pretty rough, even with hospice to help us.” She tried hard to remember exactly what had been said. “Right before he slipped into a coma, I sat by his bedside and told him how much I loved him, how happy I was that he’d been both mother and father to me. That I was the luckiest daughter in the world. And that if God was calling him home, I was ready to let him go so he could join my mother.”
Cowboy didn’t comment, so she continued.
“My dad gripped my hand, then tried to speak. He said something about my mother, but the words were garbled. I did pick up an ‘I’m sorry.’ And a bit later, ‘God forgive me.’ I assumed he meant he was sorry for dying and leaving me alone. That he was trying to make peace with God so that he could go to heaven.”
“And now you’re not so sure?”
No. A memory seemed to be just under the surface, waiting to be revealed.
“I’m not sure what to think. But I want to know why he changed his name. That would be a good start.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a yellowed envelope. It held her father’s discharge papers, along with her birth certificate, which listed Clinton and Jezzie Richards as her parents. “You see? His names don’t match.”
“When did your father die?”
“The Fourth of July. Independence Day.” She smiled wryly. “It’s kind of ironic, I suppose. He’d never wanted me to be alone.”
Cowboy glanced down at the paperwork. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to trace his steps.”
“Good. It’s time for me to go back to work, to put my life back on track. But I can’t face the future without knowing what happened in the past.” And until she got some answers it would be impossible for her to focus on the stories she edited, the tales meant to provide children with warm fuzzies. Not when her own childhood was so unsettling.
And confusing.
While in college, she’d categorized her memories into levels, like the stories she now edited.
The time she and her father had lived in Iowa had been the chapter-book years, and the memories were abundant and happy.
But she had very little recollection of the picture-book years, just the flash of an image, the sound of a soft but undistinguishable voice.
A big white house with a step that squeaked—the one at the bottom of the landing. A Snoopy night-light with a broken ear. A tire swing under an old oak tree.
A faceless dark-haired woman who made sugar cookies with little colored sprinkles on top.
“Where can I reach you?” Cowboy asked.
She slipped her hand into her purse for a business card, then pulled out a pen and jotted down her home and cell phone numbers. Then she handed it to him.
He glanced at the card that displayed a colorful child’s sketch of a sun in the top left-hand corner and a small tree at the bottom right.
“Sunshine Valley Books,” he read out loud. “Priscilla Richards, Associate Editor.”
“We publish children’s literature,” she said.
He chuckled, his hazel eyes glimmering with mirth. “I was close.”
“Close?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
“I had you pegged as the librarian type.”
She smiled. Sylvia had probably pegged him right, too. Cowboy Whittaker was a charmer. And she suspected he was a footloose bachelor who’d never met a woman he didn’t want to wine or dine.
Or bed.
Not that Priscilla was interested in being another in a long line of conquests.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate his style. Or his looks.
“You know,” she said as she stood and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, “I really like the sound of your voice. Your accent is…” She paused, unable to finish her line of thought. She couldn’t very well tell him that she found it sexy. So she reached for something more appropriate. “Your voice is gentle on the ears.”
“Well, now. Ain’t that something. I’m pretty partial to the sound of your voice, too.” He tossed her a boyish grin. “It’s as sexy as all get out.”
She swallowed, unsure of what to say.
Was he flirting with her?
Or teasing?
Either way, she dropped the thought like the wrong end of a hot curling iron.
He followed her to the door, then reached for the knob. “I assume Margie has already gone over our rates.”
Priscilla nodded. “Yes, she has. And I gave her a deposit.”
“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to get some kind of answer for you. And we can take it from there.”
She nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate this.”
He opened the door in a courteous manner that made her think that chivalry was alive and well in Manhattan.
As she stepped out of his office, she glanced over her shoulder, taking in the stunning view one more time.
But not through the office window that looked out at the Empire State Building.
It was the fair-haired “cowboy” who’d caught her eye and made her heart skip a beat.
He slid her a smile. “I’ll call you.”
She knew he was talking about the case. But somewhere deep in her heart she wondered what it would be like to wait for another kind of call from him.
A personal call.
But that was silly. The man probably had a legion of women clamoring for his attention. And Priscilla wasn’t planning to ride off into the sunset with anyone.
Not until she’d come to grips with her past and uncovered her father’s secret.

Chapter Two
As the sun hovered over Manhattan, Cowboy turned his desk chair a hundred and eighty degrees, providing him with a view of the city.
His day was growing crappier by the minute.
First his mother had called, insisting he come home in a couple of weeks for a fancy dinner party she was having, a formal wingding to kick off his brother-in-law’s campaign for congressman.
It was a command performance for all the Whittakers, he supposed. But it was an event the family black sheep wasn’t eager to attend.
The youngest son of an oil-rich family, Trenton James Whittaker had been born a maverick. And his prim and proper mother had been hell-bent on taming him since day one. But Cowboy—or rather, TJ to folks in Dallas—had never been the submissive sort.
His mother had finally given up trying to control him. But that hadn’t stopped her from doing her damnedest to set him up with every “suitable” debutante or socialite she could find, hoping the right woman would make him toe the mark.
TJ hadn’t been interested in any of them and he’d responded to her meddling by bringing home “dates” he knew she’d never approve of.
Not that he’d set up an unsuspecting woman for an inquisition or a snub. His “dates” had all been friends or acquaintances who’d known what they were getting into. And they’d dressed for the occasion.
It was part of the game.
Elena Cruz, the last gal he’d taken home, had walked into the Whittaker estate sporting stilettos, a black miniskirt and a bare midriff revealing a belly-button ring and a stick-on tattoo.
Later, over a beer, he and Elena had laughed about his mother’s reaction.
But there was a hell of a lot more going on between him and his mom than rebellion.
For the past fifteen years they’d been involved in a cold war, an undeclared conflict that had started when she’d walked into the living room unexpectedly and found him and Jenny Dugan sharing a tongue-swapping kiss. She’d embarrassed the poor girl so badly that, as far as TJ was concerned, she’d triggered a set of circumstances that had led to Jenny’s death. And he’d never really forgiven his mom for that.
Not that she’d asked him to.
Maybe that’s why he’d continued to be a burr under her saddle, a thorn in her side.
He hadn’t been as contrary or ornery lately, though. But that’s because he’d grown tired of the family rigmarole and gone to New York on a whim, a visit that had become permanent after he’d met Rico and landed a job with Garcia and Associates.
Absence might not have made his heart grow fonder, but his life had become a hell of a lot more peaceful.
He glanced at the calendar. July twenty-third was wide open, so he’d fly to Dallas that weekend and attend the dinner party—for his sister’s sake.
While on the telephone, he’d told his mother as much.
Still, it had been more than his mother’s call that had sent his day on a downhill slide.
He’d just uncovered information that would set his latest client’s world on end. And he wasn’t looking forward to telling her.
His first impulse had been to call Priscilla Richards so that he wouldn’t have to deal with her tears and emotion in person. But that would be the coward’s way out. A face-to-face meeting was definitely in order—even if he wasn’t up for it.
“Hey,” a familiar voice sounded from the open doorway to the lobby.
Cowboy turned and shot Rico an ain’t-you-a-sight-for-sore-eyes grin.
He didn’t have to ask how the honeymoon trip to Tahiti had been. Rico wore a sugar-pie-honey-bunch smile that claimed he was bonkers in love and content to be hog-tied to one woman for the rest of his life.
Cowboy chuckled. “It’s about time you got back here, lover boy.”
“I thought I’d better make sure my right-hand man hadn’t run the company into the ground while I was away.” Rico made his way across the office toward Cowboy’s desk. “How’s it going?”
“So far so good.”
Rico studied him for a moment. “You’re not one to ponder the city view, no matter now nice it is. What’s the matter?”
“Just another invitation from home due to social protocol and an effort to keep up pretenses.” Cowboy shrugged. “But I’ve also got to break some bad news to a client and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Anyone I know?”
“No, she’s brand-new. A referral from Byron Van Zandt.”
“She?” Rico asked. “That should make it easy. You’re an ace at handling ladies and turning on the charm.”
Cowboy chuffed. “Not this time.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not the kind of woman I charm. That’s all.”
Priscilla might not have the wealth and social standing of some of Dallas’s haute single crowd, but she was one of them just the same. The kind of woman who cared about her reputation and had serious expectations of the men she dated, men she could control and force to go to all those high-society functions. And he’d be damned if he’d let one of them try to hogtie him and drag him off to honeymoon heaven.
Rico plopped down in the chair in front of Cowboy’s desk. “Sounds like she’s either an old biddy or a gal just like the one that married dear ole Dad. Which is it?”
Cowboy cracked a wry smile. “She’s not old. And if she’d shed that prim and proper shell, she’d be a real looker. But my gut tells me she’s too damn nice for the likes of me. And I’m not into nice girls, remember?”
“Yeah, I do. If she had a wild streak, you’d be in a real pickle, especially since you don’t date clients, either.”
“You’re right about that.” Cowboy wasn’t sure how this particular client had tapped into the well of sympathy that rested under his surface. But nevertheless, when he’d learned what she was up against, he’d been worried about how she’d take the news.
“So what’s bothering you about the case?” Rico asked.
“I don’t know. I just have this feeling she’s going to buckle and fall apart and I don’t want to feel as though I should help pick up the pieces. I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
Rico reached into the candy dish Cowboy kept on the desk and scooped out a handful of M&M’s with peanuts. “What makes you think she’ll get emotional?”
“She just lost her father, a man she loved. And I have to be the one to tell her he was a bastard in disguise.”
Cowboy knew his report would open a can of emotional worms for Priscilla. And he wasn’t up for the backlash—unless she surprised him and just got good and angry. He’d much rather be faced with kicking and screaming than tears.
Rico leaned back in his chair, leather and springs creaking under his weight. “What’d you find out about her old man?”
“There were a couple of outstanding warrants out for his arrest in Texas.”
“What were the charges?”
“One was for assault. And the other was for kidnapping.”

Priscilla sat on the floor in the middle of her father’s bedroom, placing his old clothing into a box for the Salvation Army.
The room still bore his scent—a combination of Old Spice and pipe tobacco—yet a faint medicinal smell remained, reminding her of the pain he’d suffered during his final days.
It hurt to part with the things he’d once worn, but it was silly to keep his old shirts, pants and shoes when someone else could get some use out of them.
She’d already gone through the file cabinets, finding old tax returns, paid bills and the pink slip to the Ford Taurus he’d purchased nearly seven years ago. Among his things she’d discovered her birth certificate, which she’d given Cowboy. She’d also found her immunization record and old report cards.
But there was no marriage license.
Nothing from the picture-book years.
But that was to be expected. A fire caused by faulty wiring had claimed the life of her mother and burned the hundred-year-old house they’d once lived in to the ground. Everything the family had owned, including photographs and memorabilia, had been destroyed.
The only thing left was the old cedar trunk her father had made in a high-school shop class. He’d brought it to Iowa in the back of his pickup that cold, dark night when he and Priscilla had left Texas.
She placed her hand on the polished cedar. Her father had once labored over the wood, sanding it and adding lacquer to make it shine. Then he’d given it to her mother to use as a hope chest.
But instead of hopes for the future, the trunk held faded memories now.
She lifted the lid and pulled out his musty green Army uniform.
Years ago, when she’d been in middle school, she’d walked in on him while he’d knelt before the chest, going through the contents. She’d startled him, and he’d jerked back as though she’d caught him doing something wrong.
His eyes had been red, watery, and he’d quickly balled up the shirt, tossed it back inside and closed the lid. For a moment she’d thought he was going to snap at her. Instead he’d held his tongue, brushed his hands under his eyes to remove evidence of his sadness and cleared his throat.
“How about an ice cream cone?” he’d asked.
His response had been surreal and his question had taken her aback. At the time she’d wanted to quiz him about the past, to talk to him about his grief, to share her own disappointment at having to grow up without a mother. And she’d wanted to ask some of the questions she’d been storing for years.
But whenever she’d mentioned her mother, Texas or the past, a veil of sadness had washed over his face. She’d easily concluded that there was something tender inside him, something that had never healed. A vulnerability that embarrassed him.
So, as she’d done so many times in the past, she’d tried to make it easy on him and his battered heart by leaving the past alone.
Instead she’d agreed to go for an ice cream cone, trading a double dip of rocky road for the conversation and shared tears she would have preferred.
Now, weeks after her father’s death, she still knew very little about the man he’d really been.
As she studied the front of his Army shirt, she saw the scraggly loose threads where a name tag used to be.
Had he tried to hide his identity from her?
And if so, why hadn’t he just ditched the uniform? Storing it made no sense.
She placed it aside and removed the Boy Scout shirt that boasted a green sash filled with badges. Archery. Swimming. Camping. Canoeing. First Aid.
It seemed as though he was holding on to the memory of his achievements. But if so, why had he kept them hidden in a trunk, hidden from her?
She removed the other items—a well-used baseball mitt, a football autographed by teammates, a Swiss Army knife, a book on hunting and camping. Apparently her father had been athletic in his youth, interested in sports and the outdoors.
Yet the man she’d known had been quiet-spoken, a bookworm. A homebody. And his only activity had been a daily walk to get the newspaper.
She’d assumed it was because of his bad leg, an old Army injury. But come to think of it, he’d never watched sports on TV or given her any indication he’d ever had an interest in anything other than her, his books and his computer.
It didn’t jibe.
Who was her father?
And more importantly, who was his daughter?
Until she had the answers, Priscilla wouldn’t rest.
After emptying the chest, she peered at a piece of pink floral wallpaper that covered the bottom. One corner was curled up.
As she reached to straighten the paper lining, her fingers brushed against something underneath.
The edge of a card?
She tugged at the corner, removed the lining and spotted an old Polaroid photograph of her father wearing his Army uniform—with EPPERSON clearly printed on the name tag. He stood beside a short, dark-haired teenage girl with a pretty smile.
Was that her mother?
Priscilla couldn’t recall any specific details of her mother’s face, but she remembered her as a big woman, heavyset. In fact, Priscilla hadn’t been able to wrap her little arms around her waist for a hug.
But the girl in the picture was slight, petite.
Priscilla studied the couple again, wishing her father were still here to talk to.
She flipped over the snapshot.
No names. No notation.
Before she could peruse the picture any longer, the doorbell rang.
It was probably Mrs. Hendrix with another casserole. The elderly widow dealt with loneliness by reaching out to people in need. And she’d been a real blessing to Priscilla these past few months, first as her father’s health had deteriorated, then during the funeral arrangements and now with thoughtful gestures and visits.
Priscilla stood, brushed her hands on the fabric of her black slacks, then padded to the living room in her bare feet.
A strand of hair had escaped the ponytail she wore, and she tucked it behind her ear. When she reached the door, she tiptoed and peered through the peephole, preparing to greet her neighbor.
But it wasn’t Mavis Hendrix on the stoop; it was Mr. Whittaker—or rather, the man they called Cowboy.
Her heart thumped, then raced as she swung open the door.
He removed his hat and shot her a heart-spinning grin that warmed her cheeks.
She tried to hide her surprise and returned his smile. “Hi.”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to talk to you.”
“I…uh…” She nodded toward the bedrooms. “I was just going through my father’s things.”
“Is this a bad time?”
To talk about the investigation she’d hired him to do? On the contrary, it was probably a good time. She was knee-deep in the past—or at least what little she knew about it. “No, please come in.”
As the big man stepped into the living room, the walls seemed to close in on them. His cologne, something light and musky, settled around her, and she found herself savoring each whiff of his scent.
He wore faded jeans, a chambray shirt and a brown leather jacket. As he removed his hat, looking as though he’d just walked out onto a Dodge City street, she couldn’t help fussing with the side of her hair and wondering if any other strands had come loose.
Her attention returned to her guest, and she watched as he scanned the room. His gaze first lit on the boxes she’d filled for the Salvation Army and then on the curtains she’d forgotten to open this morning.
“I probably should have called first,” he said.
“That’s all right. I’ve been sticking close to home these past few months.” She pulled the rubber band from her hair and combed her fingers through the curly strands, hoping she hadn’t made her appearance look worse. She didn’t like having people see her unkempt, especially this particular someone.
When he caught her gaze, her fingers stilled and she dropped her hands to her sides. “Have you learned anything about my father?”
“Yep,” he said, nodding but not smiling. “There’s more investigating that needs to be done, but it’s your call whether you want me to do it or whether you’d like to take the ball from here.”
“I guess that depends on what you’ve learned.”
He made his way toward her, then placed a hand on her shoulder, sending a flutter of heat through her bloodstream. “Let’s take a walk.”
A walk? “You don’t want to talk here?”
He scanned the room again, then slowly shook his head. “Nope. I’m a fresh-air-and-sunshine sort of guy.”
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.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/judy-duarte/call-me-cowboy/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.