Call Me Cowboy

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.