Call Me Cowboy

“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.”