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.
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