Call Me Cowboy

When it became apparent that he wasn’t busting at the seams to talk, she spoke up. “What else did you learn?”

“Your father was born and raised in Cotton Creek, Texas. That’s where he and your mother lived up to and after your birth.”

“I’ve never heard of it. He said we used to live in a little Podunk town about two hours outside of Austin.”

“Actually,” he said, “Cotton Creek is closer to San Antonio.”

Oh, God. Her father had lied to her over and over again. Her grief bounced between anger and disappointment.

She’d wanted to learn her father’s secret, but she wondered if Cowboy had uncovered more of the past than she’d bargained for.

“Why did he change his name?” she asked. “Was he in trouble?”

Cowboy placed a hand on her back, warming her from the inside out, then guided her toward a park bench that rested in the shade. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Priscilla didn’t want to sit. She wanted to hear the secret her father had kept from her.

It seemed as though Cowboy wanted to break it to her gently, and she appreciated his thoughtfulness, but she was a lot tougher than he realized.

Her circumstances might look different to an outsider, but over the past twenty years she’d been taking care of her father, not the other way around.

Cowboy nodded toward the bench. “Have a seat.”

Instead of arguing and telling him to cut to the chase, she complied like the obedient child she’d always been. The child who’d tried desperately to make life easier for her father. A man who’d lied to her.

“What do you know about your mother?” he asked.

“Not much. She and my dad were high-school sweethearts. And she died when I was three. Her name was Jezzie. But then again, maybe he lied about that, too.”

“Your real birth certificate lists his wife as Rebecca Mae Epperson.”

Priscilla was glad she’d taken his advice and sat down. Her knees would have given way had she been standing.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yep. And Rebecca Mae Epperson is still living in Cotton Creek.”

Reality slammed into her chest like a fist, and a knot formed in her stomach. She found it hard to breathe, hard to speak.

For the longest time Priscilla couldn’t seem to grasp what Cowboy had told her.

“My mother is alive?” she finally managed to ask. “What about the fire?”

“I don’t know anything about a fire. But from what I’ve gathered so far, your father was accused of a noncustodial kidnapping.”

Oh, dear God.

Her pulse pounded in her head. And although she wanted to deny it, to call Cowboy a liar, to scream obscenities and run back home, she knew in her heart what he’d just told her was true.

She blew out a wobbly sigh as she pondered the first of her father’s lies. “He told me that we left my mother behind to wait for the moving van and take care of odds and ends. She was going to fly to Rapid City, where we were supposed to take her to our new home. But the night before she was to leave, while I was asleep, he claimed to have received the call about the fire. The news of her death.”

But it had all been a lie.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away, only to have it replaced by another. Her lip quivered, and she bit down to hold it still. To hold herself together.

It was too much.

She didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do next, where to start. So she turned to Cowboy for direction.

“Now what? Where do we go from here?”

Chapter Three

Where do we go from here?

We?

Damned if Cowboy knew. But Priscilla was looking at him as though he had all the answers.

“It depends,” he told her.

“On what?” Her eyes filled with tears, and she tried to blink them back, although it didn’t do much good.

“I guess it depends on how you feel about contacting your mother.”

“I know. And I need to do that. It’s just…” Her breath caught and she blew out a weary sigh. “I don’t know what to say. Or how to go about it. What am I supposed to do, just show up at her front door and announce that I’m her long-lost daughter?”

“You can check and see if your mom’s phone number is listed, then call and let her know you’re alive and well.”

“And then what?” She was looking to him for advice, and he’d be damned if he knew what to suggest or what she might be able to handle.

This was just what he’d been afraid of—having her fall apart, then him not knowing what to do, what to say.

He thought about Jenny, about the way he’d failed her when she’d needed him most, and his chest constricted. He wanted to bolt—not just from the memories but from the here and now. He’d never been up for the heart-to-heart stuff. And over the years he’d developed a happy-go-lucky philosophy that had served him well.

Besides, his work on this case was done—for the most part. He’d uncovered the truth about her old man’s identity. And now he wanted to pass the baton to someone else, to let Priscilla’s friends support her from here on out. There had to be a slew of others who were more capable than he was.

But when she looked at him with the most expressive eyes he’d ever seen, tear-glistened and the color of bluebonnets, he was stuck.

And like the spinning wheels of a Chevy pickup resting bumper-deep in a mud hole, he was just as immobile.

He had to figure out a way to dig himself out of the muck and mire, to find a quick fix, to get Priscilla back on track.

It was the only way he could appease his conscience while he cut bait and run.

“Let’s take some time to think this through.” He stood, slowly turned and reached out a hand to help her up. “Come on, I’ll buy you a sarsaparilla.”

Her hand, small and delicate, slipped into his, and she got to her feet. “What’s a sarsaparilla? Isn’t it a root beer?”