Call Me Cowboy. Judy Duarte

to confront my past alone. And I have a feeling I’ll still need your expertise.”

      Cowboy didn’t think going with Priscilla was a good idea, although he couldn’t put his finger on why. The fact that he ought to backpedal on his involvement with her rather than allow himself to be pulled in deeper, he supposed. “What about your friend, Byron Van Zandt’s daughter?”

      “Sylvia? She was just promoted at work and she can’t take any time off right now. Besides, I’d feel better if I had a private detective with me, someone who could do a little investigating on the side, if necessary.”

      “I…uh…” Damn. Why was he hemming and hawing? It was just another job. No big deal.

      And besides, Cowboy had no idea what had provoked her father into leaving town and changing their names. She was right. There was more work for him to do.

      But traveling with an attractive, blue-eyed redhead with a bedroom voice?

      If she weren’t a client and so damn prim and proper, he might be inclined to consider the trip as a pleasant diversion, a vacation. Maybe even take a chance at a brief but hot sexual fling.

      But that was out.

      “It would only be for a few days,” she added, placing her hand on his arm again, sending another rush of heat through his veins and stirring up the rebel in him.

      She was putting him in a hell of a fix. Part of him demanded he sail off into the sunset, while another part begged him to jump ship before the storm hit.

      But when she looked at him with pleading eyes, he buckled.

      Aw, what the heck.

      “Sure. I’ll go.” He picked up his cell, then called Margie at the office, asking her to book him and his client on a flight into San Antonio tomorrow morning.

      When the call ended, he suffered a moment of doubt, an urge to hand over the case to one of his colleagues. Something told him Priscilla wasn’t just another client.

      He reached into the bowl, grabbed a handful of nuts and popped them into his mouth. He watched as she picked out a couple of cashews from the bowl, then ate them one by one.

      “You know what?” he asked, cracking a grin. “Your name really suits you.”

      “Priscilla?” Her brow furrowed. “How so?”

      “You’re prissy. And a real girlie-girl.”

      “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

      “Nope. Just an observation.” And a realization that ought to make it easier for him to steer clear of her in a romantic sense.

      She took another drink, but her eyes remained fixed on his, as though waiting for him to explain.

      But he didn’t. He just reached for another handful of nuts, which were too salty—a trick to get patrons to drink more.

      They sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts, until his cell phone rang, drawing him from his musing. He answered to find Margie on the line. She’d made reservations with the airline but wanted to run it past him before purchasing the tickets.

      He interrupted his telephone conversation long enough to ask Priscilla, “How about a flight out of Newark at ten tomorrow morning?”

      “That’s fine.” She settled back in her seat and took a healthy sip of wine.

      When he asked about a rental car and a motel, Margie said, “I’ve requested an SUV. Do you want a luxury model?”

      “Not this time.” If he wanted to roll into Cotton Creek and belly up to Rebecca’s bar, he wanted folks to think he fit in.

      “And as far as motels go,” Margie said, “I’m still trying to locate something you’d be comfortable in. It’s a pretty small town, so it’ll be tough to find your usual accommodations. So far, I’ve found a bed-and-breakfast that sounds like it might do. Any objections?”

      “No, that’ll be fine.”

      Margie knew he preferred top-of-the-line hotels when possible, so he trusted her to do her best.

      After he and the secretary finished their conversation, he disconnected the line.

      Priscilla placed her elbows on the table, leaned forward and whispered, “Do you know where the restrooms are?”

      He scanned the darkened bar, then pointed toward the east wall, where a sign was posted.

      As she scooted her chair back, her knees buckled and she grabbed the table for support. Her eyes widened and she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oops.”

      After only one drink? He glanced at her second wineglass. Okay, so she’d finished that one, too. Courtesy of the salty cashews, no doubt.

      He supposed that was a lot of alcohol to hit a teetotaler’s system in a short period of time. And on an empty stomach. He’d hoped a little alcohol would make her feel better about things, about the crap in her past. But he hadn’t planned on her getting drunk.

      Heck, the women he hung out with were party girls who often started out with a shooter. But Prissy wasn’t like the women he dated. And he supposed he should have known better.

      “Are you okay?” he asked.

      She nodded. “But I want to splash a little water on my face.”

      Then she walked across the scarred hardwood floor. Was she staggering a bit?

      Dang. Dealing with an emotional woman was bad enough. But one who was snockered, too?

      She reached back and tugged at the hem of her blue cotton blouse, making sure it lay neatly against a shapely derriere. She was a pretty woman. And it would tickle the hell out of him to see what she’d do when her inhibitions had been peeled away by the fruit of the vine.

      But then what?

      She was a client. And vulnerable.

      He threw back another swig of beer. No need to let this go any further.

      She’d suffered a rough blow today. And he couldn’t very well leave her alone, not in the midst of those boxes she’d packed for the Salvation Army or with the memories of her father’s past, his secrets.

      The late Clifford Epperson might have deceived her and her mother, but Priscilla had loved him. And his death no doubt still weighed heavily on her mind, on her spirit.

      No, Cowboy thought. He couldn’t very well take her home and leave her locked up alone with her memories and the demons of the past.

      Not overnight.

      He glanced across the bar and spotted Priscilla returning.

      Her steps were unsteady, and she listed to the left like a windblown ship on rough seas.

      As she approached the table with her cheeks flushed, she flashed him a playful smile, then took her seat.

      She leaned forward, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. “I goofed.”