“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?”
“Yep. But I was only using it as a figure of speech. I’d prefer the real thing. How about you?”
“You mean a beer? I don’t like the taste. Actually I’m really a teetotaler, but a glass of wine might take the edge off what’s turning out to be a bad day.”
She released his hand, then walked beside him, something that was both nice and unsettling at the same time.
The wind whipped the strands of her hair and kicked up the faint scent of something floral. Lilac, he guessed.
Whatever it was, he liked it.
A little too much.
For a man prepared to hightail it back to the comfort of his office as soon as his conscience would allow it, he was finding it much too easy to stay in step with the pretty redhead.
And God knew he didn’t need to get involved with a client or get sucked into the emotional struggle she was dealing with.
“You know,” he said, hoping to take a detour on reality. “You don’t need to decide anything today.”
“You’re right. There’s been a lot to think about, a lot to consider.” She glanced up at him, a myriad of emotions brewing on her heart-shaped face.
He suspected she was angry at her father. That was a given. And she had to be hurt, confused. Looking for support, comfort.
Surely she didn’t expect anything out of him. Dealing with emotion had never been his strong suit. And then there was Jenny. When she’d needed a shoulder to cry on…
Damn. Been there, failed that.
Still, in spite of feeling like a greenhorn when it came to this kind of thing, he couldn’t very well take her back home disillusioned and wallowing in sorrow.
When he’d first walked into her house, he’d noticed the shades drawn, smelled the stale, musty odor of days gone by. And all he could think of was getting her out of that mausoleum and into the sunshine.
Taking her back there was out of the question until he was sure she’d be okay alone.
Maybe if she had some time to let the news settle, she’d accept her father for what he was—a real son of a bitch, as far as Cowboy was concerned—and get madder than an old wet hen. Her anger would be a hell of a lot easier to deal with than her tears.
The sun warmed his face as birds chirped in the treetops that lined the edge of the park they were leaving behind.
He wasn’t sure if a drink would help her, but it would certainly help him. He’d never been one for hand-holding and soul-baring, so he’d welcome anything that would get them through the next hour or so.
As 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