Call Me Cowboy

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.”