Call Me Cowboy

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.