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.
He chuckled, his hazel eyes glimmering with mirth. “I was close.”
“Close?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
“I had you pegged as the librarian type.”
She smiled. Sylvia had probably pegged him right, too. Cowboy Whittaker was a charmer. And she suspected he was a footloose bachelor who’d never met a woman he didn’t want to wine or dine.
Or bed.
Not that Priscilla was interested in being another in a long line of conquests.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate his style. Or his looks.
“You know,” she said as she stood and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, “I really like the sound of your voice. Your accent is…” She paused, unable to finish her line of thought. She couldn’t very well tell him that she found it sexy. So she reached for something more appropriate. “Your voice is gentle on the ears.”
“Well, now. Ain’t that something. I’m pretty partial to the sound of your voice, too.” He tossed her a boyish grin. “It’s as sexy as all get out.”
She swallowed, unsure of what to say.
Was he flirting with her?
Or teasing?
Either way, she dropped the thought like the wrong end of a hot curling iron.
He followed her to the door, then reached for the knob. “I assume Margie has already gone over our rates.”
Priscilla nodded. “Yes, she has. And I gave her a deposit.”
“It
