Call Me Cowboy. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
got back here, lover boy.”
“I thought I’d better make sure my right-hand man hadn’t run the company into the ground while I was away.” Rico made his way across the office toward Cowboy’s desk. “How’s it going?”
“So far so good.”
Rico studied him for a moment. “You’re not one to ponder the city view, no matter now nice it is. What’s the matter?”
“Just another invitation from home due to social protocol and an effort to keep up pretenses.” Cowboy shrugged. “But I’ve also got to break some bad news to a client and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Anyone I know?”
“No, she’s brand-new. A referral from Byron Van Zandt.”
“She?” Rico asked. “That should make it easy. You’re an ace at handling ladies and turning on the charm.”
Cowboy chuffed. “Not this time.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not the kind of woman I charm. That’s all.”
Priscilla might not have the wealth and social standing of some of Dallas’s haute single crowd, but she was one of them just the same. The kind of woman who cared about her reputation and had serious expectations of the men she dated, men she could control and force to go to all those high-society functions. And he’d be damned if he’d let one of them try to hogtie him and drag him off to honeymoon heaven.
Rico plopped down in the chair in front of Cowboy’s desk. “Sounds like she’s either an old biddy or a gal just like the one that married dear ole Dad. Which is it?”
Cowboy cracked a wry smile. “She’s not old. And if she’d shed that prim and proper shell, she’d be a real looker. But my gut tells me she’s too damn nice for the likes of me. And I’m not into nice girls, remember?”
“Yeah, I do. If she had a wild streak, you’d be in a real pickle, especially since you don’t date clients, either.”
“You’re right about that.” Cowboy wasn’t sure how this particular client had tapped into the well of sympathy that rested under his surface. But nevertheless, when he’d learned what she was up against, he’d been worried about how she’d take the news.
“So what’s bothering you about the case?” Rico asked.
“I don’t know. I just have this feeling she’s going to buckle and fall apart and I don’t want to feel as though I should help pick up the pieces. I’m not good at that sort of thing.”
Rico reached into the candy dish Cowboy kept on the desk and scooped out a handful of M&M’s with peanuts. “What makes you think she’ll get emotional?”
“She just lost her father, a man she loved. And I have to be the one to tell her he was a bastard in disguise.”
Cowboy knew his report would open a can of emotional worms for Priscilla. And he wasn’t up for the backlash—unless she surprised him and just got good and angry. He’d much rather be faced with kicking and screaming than tears.
Rico leaned back in his chair, leather and springs creaking under his weight. “What’d you find out about her old man?”
“There were a couple of outstanding warrants out for his arrest in Texas.”
“What were the charges?”
“One was for assault. And the other was for kidnapping.”
Priscilla sat on the floor in the middle of her father’s bedroom, placing his old clothing into a box for the Salvation Army.
The room still bore his scent—a combination of Old Spice and pipe tobacco—yet a faint medicinal smell remained, reminding her of the pain he’d suffered during his final days.
It hurt to part with the things he’d once worn, but it was silly to keep his old shirts, pants and shoes when someone else could get some use out of them.
She’d already gone through the file cabinets, finding old tax returns, paid bills and the pink slip to the Ford Taurus he’d purchased nearly seven years ago. Among his things she’d discovered her birth certificate, which she’d given Cowboy. She’d also found her immunization record and old report cards.
But there was no marriage license.
Nothing from the picture-book years.
But that was to be expected. A fire caused by faulty wiring had claimed the life of her mother and burned the hundred-year-old house they’d once lived in to the ground. Everything the family had owned, including photographs and memorabilia, had been destroyed.
The only thing left was the old cedar trunk her father had made in a high-school shop class. He’d brought it to Iowa in the back of his pickup that cold, dark night when he and Priscilla had left Texas.
She placed her hand on the polished cedar. Her father had once labored over the wood, sanding it and adding lacquer to make it shine. Then he’d given it to her mother to use as a hope chest.
But instead of hopes for the future, the trunk held faded memories now.
She lifted the lid and pulled out his musty green Army uniform.
Years ago, when she’d been in middle school, she’d walked in on him while he’d knelt before the chest, going through the contents. She’d startled him, and he’d jerked back as though she’d caught him doing something wrong.
His eyes had been red, watery, and he’d quickly balled up the shirt, tossed it back inside and closed the lid. For a moment she’d thought he was going to snap at her. Instead he’d held his tongue, brushed his hands under his eyes to remove evidence of his sadness and cleared his throat.
“How about an ice cream cone?” he’d asked.
His response had been surreal and his question had taken her aback. At the time she’d wanted to quiz him about the past, to talk to him about his grief, to share her own disappointment at having to grow up without a mother. And she’d wanted to ask some of the questions she’d been storing for years.
But whenever she’d mentioned her mother, Texas or the past, a veil of sadness had washed over his face. She’d easily concluded that there was something tender inside him, something that had never healed. A vulnerability that embarrassed him.
So, as she’d done so many times in the past, she’d tried to make it easy on him and his battered heart by leaving the past alone.
Instead she’d agreed to go for an ice cream cone, trading a double dip of rocky road for the conversation and shared tears she would have preferred.
Now, weeks after her father’s death, she still knew very little about the man he’d really been.
As she studied the front of his Army shirt, she saw the scraggly loose threads where a name tag used to be.
Had he tried to hide his identity from her?
And if so, why hadn’t he just ditched the uniform? Storing it made no sense.
She placed it aside and removed the Boy Scout shirt that boasted a green sash filled with badges. Archery. Swimming. Camping. Canoeing. First Aid.
It seemed as though he was holding on to the memory of his achievements. But if so, why had he kept them hidden in a trunk, hidden from her?
She removed the other items—a well-used baseball mitt, a football autographed by teammates, a Swiss Army knife, a book on hunting and camping. Apparently her father had been athletic in his youth, interested in sports and the outdoors.
Yet the man she’d known had been quiet-spoken, a bookworm. A homebody. And his only activity had been a daily walk to get the newspaper.
She’d assumed it was because of his bad leg, an old Army injury. But come to think of it, he’d