they walked along, she bumped her shoulder against his arm in an intimate manner, as though they’d been friends for a long time.
Jenny used to do that—wander a bit too close, nudge him to get his attention, tug at his shirtsleeve.
The reminder struck unexpectedly, and he struggled to get his mind back on an even keel.
“So,” he said, leading her from the park. “Where’s the nearest bar?”
“Riley’s is only a couple of blocks away.”
“Perfect.” He’d buy her a shot of courage, then suggest she either call Rebecca Epperson in Texas or a trusted friend. That way she could forget about the loss of her father and his lies while either renewing a relationship with the mother she never knew or getting on with her life.
Then Cowboy would be able to leave his client in better shape than he’d found her.
That ought to appease his conscience, the crusty old troll that lived deep in his soul and cropped up every once in a while to remind him that it hadn’t been his mother who’d caused Jenny’s death.
It had been him.
In a dark corner of Riley’s—a small local bar that was nearly empty at three in the afternoon—Priscilla sat across from Cowboy.
She nursed a white wine as he took a swig of his second beer.
“You’re a lightweight,” he told her, nodding to her nearly full glass. “And it’s going to take more than a couple of swallows to take the edge off the day you’ve had.”
She rolled a corner of her cocktail napkin, then locked her gaze on him. “I’m not going to drink myself into oblivion over this mess, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m not trying to get you drunk. Heck, I’d hate to have to carry you out of here.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You suggested I start with a shooter. And that would have sent me under the table. I’m not used to alcohol and I haven’t had anything to eat all day other than half a bagel at breakfast.”
He shrugged, his lips quirking in a crooked grin. “Just trying to help.”
Getting drunk wasn’t a solution or an option, but she still appreciated his attempt to get her mind off her troubles. She’d become pretty self-sufficient while growing up; she’d had to be. And it was nice to have a man offer her the emotional support she hadn’t received from her dad.
For some reason—a reason she was just now beginning to grasp—her father had withdrawn more and more over the last few years, even before the liver cancer had been diagnosed. He’d worked at home designing Web sites, a job that allowed him to distance himself from his clients and the real world. Over time he’d almost become a hermit, which had worried her.
For as long as she could remember, she’d felt compelled to look out for him, to protect him. And to be honest, his growing attachment to her had become a concern.
“I loved my dad,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry at him.”
Cowboy nodded as though understanding her completely.
“A week ago I was dealing with the grief of loss, thinking it would get easier over time. But I’m not sure I’ll ever get over his deceit.”
“It must be tough to realize someone you loved and cared about wasn’t the kind of person you thought he was.”
She sought his gaze, his understanding. “Have you ever had that happen?”
“People have let me down and tried to deceive me,” he said. “But I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. Still, I have a feeling that once you talk to your mother, you’ll see light at the end of the tunnel.”
Maybe.
She hoped so.
She lifted her glass and sipped the wine, relishing the cool splash along her throat, growing used to the taste.
“You know,” she said, “it’s hard to comprehend what my dad did to my mother. I can’t imagine what drove him to it or the pain he must have caused her.”
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
