Call Me Cowboy. Judy Duarte

asked. “Why isn’t she going with us?”

      “Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll call her in the morning and you can talk to her.”

      They drove all that night and the next day, but they never did stop and call Mama.

      And they didn’t talk about her anymore either.

      Chapter One

      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.