Judy Duarte - Call Me Cowboy

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 real birth certificate lists his wife as Rebecca Mae Epperson.”

Priscilla was glad she’d taken his advice and sat down. Her knees would have given way had she been standing.

“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?”

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