Call Me Cowboy

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.