Читать книгу Call Me Cowboy - Judy Duarte - Страница 10

Twenty-two years later

Priscilla Richards wasn’t in the party spirit, but she held a full glass of champagne and went through the social motions—the feigned smiles, the required chitchat.

Outside, the night was bright and clear. Inside, the penthouse was elegant, the decor festive.

Byron Van Zandt, an investment banker, had spared no expense in throwing a first-class celebration for his daughter Sylvia’s recent promotion. He’d even hired a violinist through the philharmonic. So it wasn’t any wonder that the mood of those in attendance was upbeat.

Well, not everyone’s.

Priscilla was ready to thank her host and go home.

But not because she wasn’t happy for the young woman of honor.

She and Sylvia had met at Brown University, where they’d both graduated with a master’s degree in literary arts. Then they’d landed dream jobs at Sunshine Valley Books, a small but growing publisher that specialized in children’s literature.

Being colleagues had only deepened their friendship, so there was no way Priscilla would have made an excuse to stay home, where she’d prefer to be.

She just wished she could be more enthusiastic for her best friend’s sake.

“Hey,” Sylvia said, making her way to Priscilla’s side with a half-filled flute of champagne. “You’re finally here!”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Priscilla managed a weak but sincere smile. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Sylvia, with her dark hair cropped in a short but stylish cut, nodded toward Priscilla’s full glass. “I hope that’s not your first.”

It was, so she nodded.

“Drink up, Pris. You can crash here. No need to worry about going back to Brooklyn tonight.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I need to get home. In fact, I’m going to cut out early.”

Sylvia drew closer and studied Priscilla intently. “You know, I’m starting to worry about you.”

“I’ll be okay. Really.”

Apparently Sylvia wasn’t convinced, because she crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. “I know you adored your father, Pris. And it’s normal to grieve. But I hate to see you so down. Maybe you ought to talk to a doctor and get some medication. Or better yet, why don’t you make an appointment with a professional, like a minister or a counselor?”

It wasn’t grief that had knocked her for a loop.

Priscilla placed an arm around Sylvia and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Thanks for the advice. But all I really need to do is bite the bullet and go through my dad’s belongings. I’ll be fine after that.”

“Does that mean you’ll be returning to work soon? Ever since you took that leave of absence, I haven’t had anyone to gossip with. And right now I think the new receptionist is sleeping with Larry in Marketing.”

“Syl, you never gossip.”

“Only with you.” Sylvia took a sip of champagne. “So when are you coming back to work?”

Up until last night, Priscilla had planned to go into the office on Monday morning.

Now she wasn’t so sure. “I may need to request another week or so.”

Sylvia clucked her tongue. “Aw, Pris. Come stay with me for a while. You’ve been cooped up in that brownstone for months and need a change of scenery. We can make fudge and eat ice cream, which always makes me feel better. And we’ll pull out my entire collection of Hugh Grant DVDs.”

“Thanks, Syl. Let me take care of a few things and I’ll take you up on it. But no more Hugh Grant movies.”

“How about Mel Gibson?”

“Only if he’s wearing a white cowboy hat and boots. I’m leaning toward the John Wayne type.” Someone who didn’t remind her of her father.

“Mmm. Mel in a cowboy hat. I’ll see what I can do.” Sylvia chuckled, then changed to a serious tone. “Can’t you wait and go through your dad’s belongings in a couple of weeks?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Priscilla’s curiosity was fast becoming a compulsion to find answers to the questions she’d had. Questions she’d been afraid to voice.

“Well,” Sylvia said, “it must be a relief to know your father isn’t suffering anymore.”

The last few months, as cancer had racked his body, Priscilla had taken time off work to care for him. It had been a drain to see him waste away, to know how much pain he’d suffered.

“You’re right, Syl. He’s in a better place.”

“And there’s another upside,” her friend added. “He’s with your mom now.”

Priscilla nodded. It hadn’t been any big secret that Clinton Richards had been devastated after losing his wife more than twenty years ago. And rather than look for another woman to love, he’d devoted his life to his daughter, to her happiness and well-being. In fact, when Priscilla had been accepted to Brown University, he’d moved to Providence, Rhode Island, just to be close to her. And when she’d landed the job with Sunshine Valley Books, he’d relocated again—to New York. Fortunately, as a self-employed Web site designer, he worked out of the home and had a flexibility other fathers didn’t have.

Priscilla hooked her arm through Sylvia’s and drew her toward the front door. “Listen, Syl. This has been a great party, but I really need to get home.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Her friend lifted a nearly empty champagne flute. “You need to finish that drink and mingle.”

“Actually my stomach has been bothering me the past couple of days.” Okay, maybe not for days, but ever since last night, when that unsettling dream woke her at two in the morning. And it had intensified when she’d padded into her father’s bedroom and begun to dig through his cedar chest.

“I’ll bet it’s the stress you’ve been under that’s affecting your stomach,” Sylvia said.

“Probably.” But it was more than grief bothering her. She just wished she could put her finger on exactly what had knocked her digestive system out of whack.

She did, however, have a clue.

The mild-mannered widower who’d loved her had taken a secret to his grave. A secret Priscilla was determined to uncover.

Would she feel better if she confided in Sylvia?

Maybe, although now didn’t seem to be the time.

On the other hand, keeping Sylvia worried and in the dark might put a damper on an evening when she ought to be celebrating.

Priscilla took a long, deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I had a dream last night and woke up in tangled sheets and a cold sweat.”

“A nightmare?” Sylvia asked. “Those can be pretty upsetting.”

“Yes, they can. But so can a repressed memory, which is what I think it was.”

Sylvia stopped a waiter walking by, placed her flute on his tray and gave Priscilla her undivided attention. “What do you mean?”

She wasn’t sure. At first, it had been a niggling, restless feeling. Then there’d been a collage of images.

A two-story house. The scent of vanilla and spice. Laughter. Bedtime stories.

Loud voices and tears.

A marble-topped table crashing to the floor.

The remnants of her dream, of the memory, of her odd discovery, settled over her like a cold, wet blanket.

She tried her best to shake it off, at least long enough to level with her friend. “When I woke up, I felt so uneasy that I went into my father’s room and opened the old chest where he kept his things and went through it.”

“What did you find?”

“Evidence that my name might not be Priscilla Richards.”

“Wow.” Sylvia furrowed her brow, then cocked her head in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“No. I’m not. But until I get to the bottom of this, I won’t be able to focus on anything else. I just wish I knew where to start digging.”

Sylvia stood silent, focused. Then she brightened. “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

Without answering, Sylvia dashed off, swerving to avoid a waitress balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres, and ducked into her father’s study.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Sylvia could be so dramatic. But like a child waiting for guidance, Priscilla remained in the entryway.

Moments later Sylvia returned and placed a glossy business card in Priscilla’s hand. “This is the firm my dad uses for employee screenings.”

Priscilla scanned the card.

Garcia and Associates

Elite and Discreet Investigations

Offices in Chicago, Los Angeles and Manhattan

Trenton J. Whittaker

“The agency is reputable and well respected,” Sylvia said. “Of course, they’re not cheap. But I’d be happy to loan you whatever you need.”

“Thanks. But my dad had a healthy savings account he transferred to me before he died. And he also had a good-sized life insurance policy. So I’ll be all right.”

“For what it’s worth,” Sylvia added, eyes growing bright and a grin busting out on her face, “I met that guy—Trenton Whittaker—at my dad’s office the other day. And he’s to die for. You ought to hear the soft Southern drawl of his voice. It’s so darn sexy it’ll make you melt in a puddle on the floor.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “When I choose a private investigator, it won’t be based upon his looks or the sound of his voice.”

“You can’t go wrong with Garcia and Associates. They’re a top-of-the-line agency. And if the P.I. also happens to be single and hot, what’s the problem? Heaven knows your love life could sure use a shot in the tush. And believe me, Pris, this guy will do it. If I weren’t involved with Warren, I’d have jumped his bones in a heartbeat.”

Priscilla wasn’t interested in finding Mr. Right. After all, she couldn’t very well expect a happily ever after when she’d had too many questions about once upon a time.

But she took the card and slid it into her purse, figuring she’d give the agency—not necessarily Mr. Whittaker—a try.

Then she handed Sylvia her nearly full glass of champagne. “Congratulations on the promotion. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Don’t thank me for that.” Sylvia placed the glass on a table in the entry. “You’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine.” Priscilla gave her a hug.

“Hey. I just thought of something.”

Priscilla waited, poised by the door. “What’s that?”

“Remember that young-adult book you edited a while back? The one about the rodeo cowboy?”

It had been well written, the settings vivid, the character a handsome young man with true grit and brawn.

Priscilla nodded. “What about it?”

“You told me that you could see yourself riding off into the sunset with a cowboy like that.”

“So? I didn’t mean anything by it.” And she hadn’t. It had just been a dreamy, romantic comment. After all, Priscilla loved the Big Apple and thrived in a cosmopolitan environment. She even found the hustle and bustle thrilling. So for that reason alone, when it came to a lover, a cowboy was out of the question.

“I saw the way your eyes lit up, the way you placed your hand on the cover of that book. You practically caressed the cowboy on the front. That was your heart speaking, Pris. And have I found the perfect man for you.”

“What are you talking about? A man is the last thing in the world I need right now.”

“How about a Manhattan-based P.I. with a slow Southern drawl? A man they call Cowboy.”

“Cowboy” Whittaker sat behind his desk in the Manhattan office of Garcia and Associates with his back to an impressive view of the Empire State Building.

He’d just gotten off the phone with a client, an appreciative single mother who’d called to tell him she’d received her first child-support check. And thanks to the work Cowboy had done in locating her ex—a man who’d run off with an off-Broadway showgirl—the runaway daddy’s wages were now being garnished, and he was being forced to support the kids he’d fathered.

Deadbeat dads were the worst.

Not that Cowboy was an expert on fathers. His had been a workaholic who’d never had time for his family. But at least there’d been plenty of money to go around.

He blew out a sigh. He was eager to get back in the field, to do what he did best—charming the secrets out of unwitting folks with his down-home, slow and easy style.

Cowboy’s Southern twang often gave people the impression that he was a backwoods hick—which couldn’t be any further from the truth—and they tended to open up with him, sharing things they wouldn’t share with another investigator. So he used it to his advantage, sometimes even laying it on extra thick.

God, he loved his job, the mind games that uncovered secrets and revealed lies.

What he didn’t love was working indoors, confined to an office.

But until his boss and buddy, Rico Garcia, returned from his honeymoon in Tahiti, Cowboy was deskbound.

Fortunately Rico was due back in town tomorrow evening.

As Cowboy scanned a report sent in by an associate, the intercom buzzed.

Margie, the office manager, was probably telling him his three o’clock appointment had arrived—a referral from Byron Van Zandt, one of their newer clients.

He clicked on the flashing button. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Priscilla Richards is here, Cowboy.”

“Thank you. Will you please send her in?” He closed the file he’d been reading and slid it across the polished desk.

As the door swung open, he stood to greet the woman—one of many formalities and courtesies his mother had instilled in him while he’d been growing up in the upper echelon of Dallas society.

Margie opened the door and stepped aside as an attractive redhead dressed in a conservative cream-colored skirt and jacket entered the office. She stood about five-three or -four. A pretty tumble of red hair had been swept into a neat, professional twist.

She wore only a whisper of lipstick and a dab of mascara. She didn’t need any more makeup than that.

Some women looked like a million bucks when they went out on the town in the evenings, but woke up as scary as hell. Yet he suspected this one looked damn good in the morning even before she climbed out of bed.

A man might be tempted to find out for himself if that were true or not—if he were attracted to the prim, classy type.

But Cowboy had been turned off by that kind ever since his mother had begun prying into his dating habits as a teenager and tried to set him up with one Dallas debutante after another. It might have started as a good case of adolescent rebellion, but he’d been drawn to fun-lovin’ gals who knew how to party ever since.

But that was when he was off duty. He didn’t date his clients, although he’d been known to flirt some—just to make life interesting.

Still, he found himself intrigued by this prim little package, curious about her story.

Maybe it was the red curls that seemed to beg to break free of confinement, hinting that she knew how to let her hair down and kick up her heels. Or those big blue eyes that could snare a fellow and drag him into something too close for comfort.

But the white-knuckle way she held the shoulder strap of her purse suggested she might hightail it out of his office at any time.

Dang. He always liked to see shy women loosen up, relax, feel comfortable around him—even if that was as far as things went.

He moved to the front of his desk and touched the back of the leather chair reserved for clients and providing them with a twenty-third-floor view of the city. “Why don’t you have a seat, ma’am?”

“Thank you, Mr. Whittaker.”

He flashed her a charming smile meant to disarm her. “No need to call me Mr. I go by TJ at home in Dallas and Cowboy here in Manhattan. You can take your pick.”

She cleared her throat, obviously a little nervous, which kicked up his curiosity another notch.

He sat, the leather of his desk chair creaking beneath his weight. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure where to begin. This is all so new to me.” Her voice, a soft, sexy purr like the other side of a pay-for-sex telephone conversation, slid over him like a silk scarf across bare skin.

Not that he made those calls—other than that night he and Dave Hamilton had gotten drunk when they were in the tenth grade.

Is that why she wrapped herself in a nine-to-five business suit? To mask the sexual aura of a voice that could earn a fortune working for 1-900-Dial-A-Hard-On?

Enough of that. He roped in his thoughts and tried to keep his mind on work. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

She leaned back in her seat, yet her demeanor remained stiff, her hands poised on her lap. “A couple of days ago I had an unsettling dream.” She took a breath, then slowly let it out. “But it was so real. It had to be a dormant memory.”

Some dreams could seem real when they weren’t, but he let her talk.

“It woke me at two in the morning. My heart was pounding and I had this uneasy feeling.”

“What did you dream about?” he asked.

“When I was only three or so, my daddy carried me to his pickup in the middle of the night, then drove straight through to the small town in Iowa where I grew up.”

“A lot of folks start a long trip before sunrise,” he said. “It’s easier to drive when the roads are clear of traffic.”

“Yes, but my father kept shushing me as we walked down the stairs and out the front door. He told me that everything would be all right.”

“Is that what you remember? Or was that part of the dream?”

“It was too real to ignore, so I went into my father’s bedroom and began sorting through his things, something I’d been putting off.”

Cowboy assumed she must have found something that validated her suspicion. A gut feeling wasn’t much to go on. And he wouldn’t take her money if he suspected the investigation would only be a crap-shoot. He needed more information than what she’d already given him.

“My dad had this old cedar chest that he’d made in a high school shop class. And he stored his things in it, like an Army uniform, a Boy Scout shirt with all his badges.” She looked at him with glistening blue eyes. “He was an Eagle Scout.”

Was she thinking 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 shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to get some kind of answer for you. And we can take it from there.”

She nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate this.”

He opened the door in a courteous manner that made her think that chivalry was alive and well in Manhattan.

As she stepped out of his office, she glanced over her shoulder, taking in the stunning view one more time.

But not through the office window that looked out at the Empire State Building.

It was the fair-haired “cowboy” who’d caught her eye and made her heart skip a beat.

He slid her a smile. “I’ll call you.”

She knew he was talking about the case. But somewhere deep in her heart she wondered what it would be like to wait for another kind of call from him.

A personal call.

But that was silly. The man probably had a legion of women clamoring for his attention. And Priscilla wasn’t planning to ride off into the sunset with anyone.

Not until she’d come to grips with her past and uncovered her father’s secret.