Книга - The Renegade Cowboy Returns

The Renegade Cowboy Returns
Tina Leonard


If you're selling something, I'm not buying, cowboy.” Not the warmest words of welcome for Gage Phillips, who’s just been named overseer of Dark Diablo ranch. On top of that, the Texas rover recently found out he’s a father. The last thing he needs is a woman ordering him around, not to mention driving him crazy with desire…especially now that he’s thinking about mending his footloose ways.Ireland seems a long way from Chelsea’s new life on the Callahans’ New Mexico spread. Which now includes a teenage girl and her father–the raffish Texas cowboy with the slow, easy grin who’s throwing temptation squarely in Chelsea’s path! But a proposal? Gage surprises even himself with that one.It’s strictly business–so Chelsea can get her citizenship. Or maybe not. Because as far as Gage is concerned she’s already hooked one ready and willing renegade!







“If You’re Selling Something, I’m Not Buying, Cowboy.”

They weren’t the warmest words of welcome for Gage Phillips, who’s just been named overseer of Dark Diablo ranch. On top of that, the Texas rover recently found out he’s a father. The last thing he needs is a woman ordering him around, not to mention driving him crazy with desire…especially now that he’s thinking about mending his footloose ways.

Ireland seems a long way from Chelsea’s new life on the Callahans’ New Mexico spread—which now includes a teenage girl and her father: a raffish Texas cowboy with a slow, easy grin who’s throwing temptation squarely in Chelsea’s path!

But a proposal? Gage surprises even himself with that one. It’s strictly business—so Chelsea can get her citizenship. Or maybe not. Because as far as Gage is concerned she’s already hooked one ready and willing renegade!


“I’m really happy you’re willing to marry me, Chelsea.”

Slowly she reached out to take the box. “What are we doing, Gage?”

He looked into her eyes. “Being expedient, I guess.”

“You need me, I need you.”

He nodded. “I hope you need me. I sure as hell need you.”

“Because of Cat.”

Not replying, he leaned to slip the ring on her finger where it sparkled and shone, catching the hot Texas sunlight spilling in from the window. Three round ovals glittered at her, more beautiful than anything she’d ever owned.

“Cat says there are three diamonds, one for each of us, all on the same band forever,” Gage said.

“She’s so sweet,” Chelsea whispered, touched.

“Are you marrying me because of my child?” Gage asked.

“Yes,” Chelsea said, and he laughed.

“Good. For a while there, I thought you might be marrying me for me,” Gage teased.

“Cowboy, you think too much of yourself.”


Dear Reader,

The thing about writing a series is that sometimes it’s hard to let a particular place or family go. And so it is with the Callahan Cowboys, six brothers who lured me in with their sense of adventure and die-hard commitment to stay single. I thought it would be fun to see what happened to Irish Chelsea Myers, who had once upon a time been engaged to the eldest Callahan brother, Jonas. Now Chelsea is house-sitting at Dark Diablo, where she can write her mysteries in peace. However, a cowboy shows up on her porch one day with his teenage daughter, a child he has just discovered is his. Peace and quiet is not to be the rule of the land, as Chelsea is about to find out! Not to mention that the cowboy is kind of stubborn, incredibly hot and definitely determined to be the best father he can be. A pretty irresistible combination for a woman who always secretly wanted a man who’s larger than life, even if she thought she was content to live her adventures on the pages of her own books.

I so hope you enjoy The Renegade Cowboy Returns. I fell in love with the town of Tempest, and the wonderfully patchwork-quilted family that the little farmhouse in Dark Diablo, New Mexico, shelters from life’s storms. It’s my greatest wish that you, too, will enjoy this “bonus” book—along with one other—as just-can’t-say-goodbye stories to the Callahan Cowboys series!

Happy summer and the best of beach reading to you!

Tina

www.tinaleonard.com (http://www.tinaleonard.com/)www.facebook.com/tinaleonardbooks (http://www.facebook.com/tinaleonardbooks) www.twitter.com/tina_leonard


The Renegade Cowboy Returns

Tina Leonard






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tina Leonard is a bestselling author of more than forty projects, including a popular thirteen-book miniseries for Harlequin American Romance. Her books have made the Waldenbooks, Ingram and Nielsen BookScan bestseller lists. Tina feels she has been blessed with a fertile imagination and quick typing skills, excellent editors and a family who loves her career. Born on a military base, she lived in many states before eventually marrying the boy who did her crayon printing for her in the first grade. Tina believes happy endings are a wonderful part of a good life. You can visit her at www.tinaleonard.com (http://www.tinaleonard.com).


The Renegade

Cowboy Returns


Many thanks to Roberta Brown of the Roberta Brown Agency, who has been such a wonderful guide for the past year and a half—I can’t thank you enough. I wish I knew all the names of the wonderful, magical people at Harlequin who shape the final product that becomes a Tina Leonard book, but they are numerous and work in the unspecified and sometimes unthanked shadows—heartfelt appreciation for your unstinting care. Kathleen Scheibling gently keeps me focused, and Laura Barth is kind enough to always have a cheery word. Much love to my family, who are simply my rock, and also to the awesome readers who have my sincere thanks for supporting my work with such amazing generosity and enthusiasm. I am quite blessed.

I would also like to thank someone who will never read this dedication, as he cannot, since he is a dog. Bailey, my angel, as I write this note on the eve of Christmas Eve, I would like to say thank you for all the wonderful times you kindly lay in the room with me as I wrote, and then gave me a gentle nudge to go out and take a walk with you. You raised my children and me and even my husband with joyous kindness. The past six years have been such a blessing, and I will always be grateful to the Golden Retriever rescue society for granting us your golden goodness. I know you won’t be here when this book is published, and so, in your honor, I’d like to tell everyone that the best friend they could ever have is an angel from the rescue of their choice. Alternatively, a wonderful gift that keeps on giving is a donation to a rescue society. I love you, and we miss you terribly already.


Contents

Chapter One (#uf59682ca-0ff2-5909-b826-6ab9c0938ff2)

Chapter Two (#uf8cb3661-a796-58e9-b9af-f6e77e732d07)

Chapter Three (#u3d3b3cc5-1d9b-5bca-a76b-e43a05cc9ce7)

Chapter Four (#u96a58be9-19a5-580c-8809-f3dc778a0027)

Chapter Five (#uacd1f88a-03e3-5f41-86e7-97bb34417bf9)

Chapter Six (#udcb98b42-a329-5f92-9e5e-fa20ed410489)

Chapter Seven (#ud4a8f10d-3e2f-50d5-ae84-83a678860c4d)

Chapter Eight (#ud071f152-0901-56f1-b186-763532969944)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

“What’s past is prologue”

–The Tempest by William Shakespeare

The secret to Gage Phillips’s happy existence was ridiculously simple: stay far away from women, specifically those who had marriage on their mind.

He put his duffel on the porch of the New Mexico farmhouse and looked around. The rebuilding project he’d taken on for Jonas Callahan was perfectly suited for a man who gloried in solitude. Gage knew his formula for a drama-free, productive lifestyle seemed oversimplified to some people, especially ladies who wanted to show him how much better life could be in a permanent relationship with a good woman. Yet he was thirty-five and a die-hard, footloose cowboy—testament to remaining single being the best choice a man could ever make on this earth, besides finding the right career and spending hard-earned cash on a dependable truck.

He hadn’t always been die-hard and footloose. Fourteen years ago he’d been at the altar, and fourteen years ago he’d learned a valuable lesson: marriage was not for him.

His friends were fond of saying he was just too much of a renegade to be tied down. Gage figured they might have a point. Fatherhood had been a late-breaking bulletin for him. About a year ago he’d been delivered the news. What man was so busy traveling the country that he didn’t know he had a daughter?

Leslie, convinced by her parents not to tell him about his child so they wouldn’t have to share custody, made a midlife decision to invite him to Laredo to come clean. He was pretty certain Leslie had told him only because she was at her wits’ end with Cat—and because her teenager apparently was fond of making her mother’s new boyfriend miserable.

The situation was messy.

So it was time for a little escape. This desolate, dirt-as-far-as-the-eyes-could-see forgotten hideaway was also perfect for getting away from his other problem—the family. If anybody needed quiet and a place to plot his exit strategy from The Family, Inc., it was he.

“Excuse me,” a female said, and Gage jumped about a foot. “If you’re selling something, I’m not buying, cowboy. And there’s a No Trespassing sign posted on the drive, which I’m sure you noticed. And ignored.”

He’d whipped around at her first words and found himself staring at a woman of medium height, with a slender build and untamable red hair, eyeing him like a protective mother hen prepared to flap him off the porch. Maybe she was the housekeeper, getting the place cleaned up for his arrival. He couldn’t place her accent—perhaps Irish or Scottish. Either way, she seemed intent on him not getting past the front door. He plastered on a convincing smile to let her know he was harmless. “I’m not selling anything, ma’am. I’m moving in.”

She blinked big, glass-green eyes. “You have the wrong address.”

“This is Dark Diablo Ranch.” It was impossible to have the wrong address; there were no other houses around for miles. “Owned by Jonas Callahan of Rancho Diablo, right?”

She nodded. “It is. But Jonas never mentioned anything about anyone living here.”

He could see she wasn’t the kind of woman who could be swayed with easy charm. Probably didn’t trust strangers, which was a good thing. By the way her hand moved impatiently to rest on her slim hip, it was obvious she didn’t trust him, even with his pointed mention of Jonas’s name. A woman who had nice long legs like hers usually caught his eye. He loved tiny freckles, too. She had a light dusting on her pale legs and arms exposed by her green tank top. Even across her delicate nose… But she also had a healthy dose of ire clouding her brow.

Nope. This was not a lady one enjoyed for a night or two in the name of good sex.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve definitely got the right address, then. Looks like we’re going to be housemates.”

“I don’t think so.” She remained stubborn, not giving an inch. “There’s a run-down barn out back, and a small bunkhouse, which, though antiquated and not exactly a five-star hotel, will suit you. I’m going inside to call Jonas and tell him there’s been some kind of mix-up.”

“That’s a good idea,” Gage said. “Ask Jonas why he didn’t warn me about Lucy Ricardo being my bunk mate.” Gage shook his head, deliberately trying the lady’s patience. “He knows I’m not a fan of redheads. There’s two things in life that should be left well alone, and they both happen to be the same shade.” He grinned, a rascal in denim, determined to needle her. “That’d be a stick of dynamite and a redhead, ma’am, if I need to spell it out for you.”

“Really.” She gave him a last annoyed look and went into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her. Gage sat on the porch, whistling to himself, leaning back on his elbows as he stared up at the jewel-blue New Mexico sky. He could hear her complaining to Jonas, and grinned as bits of dialogue confirmed to him that Jonas was verifying his story.

She wasn’t happy about it, either.

“You might have told me,” she said, her tone begrudging as she came back out, “that you’re here to do work for Jonas.”

“You didn’t seem interested in my curriculum vitae,” Gage said. “Better to let Jonas tell you. Funny thing, he didn’t mention you to me.” He gazed at her again, thinking how attractive she was, even for a redhead. “My name’s Gage Phillips.” He stuck out a hand, which she pointedly didn’t accept. Shrugging, he shoved it in his jeans pocket.

“I don’t need to know your name,” she said. “You’ll be staying in the bunkhouse, as my mother and I live here.”

Mother? He was going to read Jonas the riot act the next time he saw him. The ornery son of a gun had said nothing about a saucy female and no doubt equally prickly ma infesting his solitude. “My understanding is that the barn and the bunkhouse are fairly uninhabitable,” Gage said. “That’s part of the reason I’m here.”

She pressed her lips together, catching his attention. He thought she’d be really pretty if she ever smiled—not that she seemed interested in doing much of that around him. Very tantalizing, though. He gazed at her, wondering why Jonas would have left out telling him about this very luscious detail when he’d hired him. Jonas had specifically told him he’d be staying at the farmhouse. He’d never mentioned females.

“Wait a minute,” Gage said. “Where are you from?”

“Dublin, Ireland,” she said, her tone stiffer than an ironing board.

“You’re Jonas’s ex-fiancée,” Gage said, a light dawning. “I had an invitation to Sabrina and Jonas’s wedding, though I couldn’t make it over from Hell’s Colony in time. But I heard about you.”

She looked at him, not pleased. “Jonas and I are good friends, and nothing more.”

He laughed. “Cupcake, I get the whole setup now. Those damn Callahans. They want everyone to share their misery.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gage couldn’t wipe the smirk off his face. It was all so obvious. “You’re not a United States citizen, are you?”

“No. What does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugged. “You. Me. One house. It’s a setup.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, her voice subarctic. “There is no setup.”

“Sure.” He leaned forward on his knee. “How long are you planning to stay here?”

“Here? As long as I can.”

“And how long would that be?”

She sniffed. “I’m in the process of getting a green card.”

“So you want to stay a while?”

“Being in New Mexico has had a wonderful effect on my mother’s health. We’re hoping to remain here permanently, if possible. Mum and I have been traveling, and we’re getting to the end of my legal time here. Filing the paperwork has been a very slow process. But I don’t see what that has to do with you, or—” Her expression suddenly changed from ire to horror. “You think Jonas sent you out here so I could snare you into marrying me! Because I’m his ex-fiancée? You think I just need another man to make all my problems go away, and Jonas sent you as some kind of consolation prize.”

He smiled. “Don’t look so shocked, cupcake.”

She shook her head. “You’re dumb. I’m going inside, and I hope our paths cross very rarely.”

“Hang on a second.”

He didn’t think she’d stop, but to his surprise, she turned to look at him with all the misgiving she’d probably have when eyeing a coyote. “What?”

“What’s your name? I can’t just call you Irish.”

“My name is Chelsea Myers, but I prefer you don’t call me anything. Look.” She gave him a mulish glare. “I don’t believe Jonas would try to get us together—”

“You don’t know the Callahans all that well, then. They’re notorious for their practical jokes.”

“The two of us getting together would indeed be a joke. Jonas promised me I would have nothing but peace and quiet here for my writing. Peace and quiet is what I need, or I can’t work. Does that make sense to you?” She gave Gage a look that quite clearly said he was probably incapable of understanding much of anything. “So if you like brawling, loud music or wild nights with the ladies, you’ll need to go into town for all that.”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” He picked up his duffel and strode past her into the house.

“What are you doing?”

“If we’re going by Jonas’s rules, then I’m staying in here. He said nothing about a redhead with an attitude disturbing me on my own personal time-out. He said nothing about sleeping in a ramshackle bunkhouse or a caving-in barn. He said there was a quaint, newly furnished though spartan farmhouse I could live in while I create his horse program and rebuild this joint. And if you don’t mind, Miss Myers,” he said, his tone deliberately soft to let her know he did mind very much, “I abhor the sound of a TV, especially the soap operas you ladies love, and most particularly reality TV. When I come home at night, I want no bickering, no bossing and no busybodying interrupting my routine. Got that?” He glanced around, seeing the redheaded storm about to erupt, and spoke to forestall it. “Now, where’s Ma Myers? I’d like to introduce myself.”

“She won’t be here until tomorrow. She’s in Diablo helping Fiona Callahan pickle vegetables for the Fourth of July family celebration. Never mind about my mother,” Chelsea said. “We can’t both stay in this house.”

“There’s a barn and a bunkhouse,” he reminded her.

Her lips pressed flat again. “Mum and I will take the upstairs, you will take the downstairs.”

He glanced around, liking the look of the place. Jonas hadn’t been far off when he’d said it was almost new inside. He’d begun renovating the house first, then hired Gage to whip the rest of the ranch into shape. “Fine,” he said. “I leave early, come in late.”

“I couldn’t care less what you do.”

“I just don’t want to catch you wandering around in your nightie, sweetheart.”

“I promise not to wander around in my nightie,” Chelsea said, her voice oh-so-sweet, “if you don’t mind leaving your boots on the porch. The hardwood floors are new.”

She had him there. His own mother would have already read him the riot act—he and his brothers and sister had learned to leave their boots outside or in the mudroom from the time they were old enough to wear them. He’d be better off dealing with a scorpion in his boot than his mother catching him wearing them in the house. “Deal. Pleasure doing business with you, Miss.”

“Whatever,” Chelsea said, and went up the stairs.

He watched her climb, his mouth curving a bit at the sight of female hips swaying ever so enticingly. She was a mouthy little thing, but he didn’t mind mouthy so much. Mouthy could be tamed.

“One more thing I need to mention,” he called up the stairs.

“What now?”

“My daughter is arriving tomorrow, so she’ll be staying here with me.”

Chelsea appeared at the top of the stairs. “Daughter?”

Gage nodded. “Yeah. Cat and her mom have been having a bit of mom-daughter drama. Cat’s thirteen, so she and Leslie, my ex-wife, want a small break from each other.”

Chelsea’s eyebrows rose. “Small break? Like a couple of days?”

He shrugged. “Like the rest of summer vacation. Jonas said this was probably the perfect place for Cat and me to get to know each other better.”

“I see.”

Gage saw that Chelsea did in fact “see” and wasn’t pleased. “I don’t imagine a teenager will be much of a bother.”

Chelsea disappeared from view. He went into the kitchen to check out the grub in the fridge—he’d need to make a grocery run before Cat arrived.

He hadn’t been quite candid about his daughter. According to Leslie, she was a handful and they were always squabbling. Gage had offered to bring Cat out here for the summer to give mom and daughter a respite from each other, but he’d thought it’d be just the two of them.

Now it would be the four of them, one big, not-too-happy group.

* * *

CHELSEA WAS NOT HAPPY with Jonas Callahan, or the cowboy downstairs. Jonas was a fink for not telling her of his plans—he’d said Dark Diablo would be the perfect place to write and for her mother’s health, saying nothing about a man and his teenage daughter living with them. This Gage Phillips—a handsome man with scoundrel written all over him, from his easy grin to his dark brown eyes that twinkled with mischief—clearly had issues. “Marriage, indeed,” Chelsea muttered. “I’m not that desperate to be legal in this country. I’ll stick with the slow-as-a-turtle process, thanks, Jonas.”

She was going to kill the eldest Callahan like a character in her mystery novels.

Of course, she didn’t have to stay here. She could tell Jonas the deal was off. Her laptop was portable; she could write anywhere, couldn’t she? But truthfully, her mother would be comfortable here. They’d spent several months traveling, seeing the sights on a once-in-a-lifetime journey together. Dark Diablo was an ideal setting for her mother to rest for a while.

“I’m not leaving. Jonas wouldn’t try to fix me up,” she said to the open laptop where her protagonist, Bronwyn Sang, hung helplessly from a steep cliffside that the ruthless murderer had pushed her over. Bronwyn would have to dangle a little while longer, unfortunately. In the meantime, Chelsea was determined to keep so much distance between herself and Gage that he’d never even see her.

She was too ticked to write now. A nice, cold swim in the creek Jonas was so proud of was the answer. Hearing a truck door slam before an engine started and left the property—safe, for the moment!—Chelsea tossed on her emerald-green polka-dotted bikini, grabbed a towel and flip-flops and headed out. Exercise was what every writer needed to clear her head, and if Bronwyn was ever going to be rescued so she could live to fight another day, Chelsea had to get her boiling-hot emotions refocused.

In other words, she had to forget about the fact that Gage Phillips, in spite of all the “No” signs flashing all over him, was so devil-may-care, so bad-boy, that of course her hormones had noticed—she’d have to be dead not to. He was the call of the wild she’d always dreamed of, a Texas man, big and strong, and Chelsea recognized her downfall when she saw it.

If Jonas hadn’t lobbed temptation into her lap on purpose, then he was the king of coincidence. Gage was right: the Callahans were pranksters, and they loved matchmaking.

But sexy, dark-eyed, dark-haired Gage from Hell’s Colony, Texas, was in no danger from her.

* * *

GAGE STARED AT the bikini-clad redhead as she floated on a plastic raft in the shallow end of the creek. Great. Just great.

She was one hot lady. Too hot to be his housemate.

He sat down on a boulder and took off his hat, mopping his face with his red bandanna. Okay, he had three options for the temptation that lay before him.

One. He could cannonball into the water and tump her off the raft, thereby setting up total frigid conditions in the house they were sharing for the foreseeable future.

It was so tempting. In fact, it was the most tempting of the options on his short list. If she’d been any other woman, the wolf in him would have definitely been on the prowl.

There would be no freewheeling cannonballs with Miss Irish.

Two. He could clear his throat, call out that he was here so she wouldn’t think he was spying on her—which he was, at this point; all that almond-colored, slightly freckled skin could not be looked away from. Not to mention she had darling breasts and—

No. She’d think the worst of him, that he’d followed her or something. He hadn’t, but she would never believe it. He’d pulled his truck around to check out the barn and bunkhouse to begin making a repair list, and had found the creek Jonas had told him about. Jonas loved this part of the vast property the best, probably because bodies of water were scarce in most of New Mexico. But also, this one was special, private, and not full of rocks and stones and rough edges like the rapids where the kayakers loved to test their mettle. This was a quiet haven, and Gage could see why Jonas sought peace here.

Gage dared not call out to Chelsea. She had been distinctly displeased to see him.

The third option was all he had: turn around and walk away, pretending he’d never seen her in her green polka-dotted bikini. The vision of her languidly lying on that yellow raft was burned into his memory; he guessed it would probably haunt him for a long time.

Too bad. He turned to walk off unnoticed, glad he was able to do so.

Something cold and wet smacked him in the back, and he stumbled, surprised. A child-size football bounced onto the nearby dock Jonas had constructed.

Gage turned back, realizing that Chelsea, among her many other attributes, had perfect aim.

“You can at least have good manners and say hello,” she said.

He fished for words, wondering why he was so tongue-tied. “You seemed to be resting.”

“And you seem to be a Peeping Tom.” She rolled off the raft, wrapping her arms around it so she could float and look at him. “I thought you were going into town.”

“I am.” He resented the intimation that he’d been spying on her. He was, but he wasn’t. It was splitting hairs, and she was looking to split them. “I was making an initial run-through of the buildings to see where it might be best to start. I saw the creek. You’re not the only one who likes to swim. And I didn’t say hello because, quite frankly, I just saw you at the house, where you told me not to speak to you.” He shrugged. “Make up your mind.”

She gave him a long look. “Nothing’s changed. I just don’t like you watching me.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it.” He turned, hoping she didn’t have any more child-size missiles to peg him with. Jonas would have to stick him with the world’s most unfriendly female.

He was going to tell Jonas that, too, the first chance he had. Gage had every intention of letting his employer know that for perhaps the first time, the Callahan matchmaking magic had fizzled out big-time.

* * *

CHELSEA QUIT HIDING in the water and got back on her raft when she knew that Gage was truly gone. Exhaling, she went back to gazing at the sky.

He was annoyed with her now, and she was annoyed with him.

Neither of them wanted to share a house.

She closed her eyes, not as relaxed as she had been. It was going to be hard to plot a mystery when the Texas cowboy kept crowding red herrings and twists out of her mind. He was tall and big and strong, incredibly handsome, and if his back hadn’t made such a nice wide target, she wasn’t certain she would have been able to hit him with the small football.

He’d seemed pretty surprised, but not as surprised as she’d been.

Maybe it hadn’t been very nice to do it. They had to live in the same house together, so perhaps it was best not to let her Irish temper and red hair get the better of her, as her mother was fond of reminding her.

She rolled off the raft and swam to the dock, grabbing her towel as she stood in the shallows. “Hey!” she called after Gage. “Hang on a sec.”

He walked back, his eyebrows raised. Taking a deep breath, Chelsea wrapped the towel around herself and stepped onto the bank. “Listen, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here. I think it just caught me off guard that we’d be living—”

He’d been watching her as she spoke, listening, but her words stopped abruptly when he pulled a gun from his jacket, firing at the dirt to her left. Chelsea shrieked and jumped back, pinwheeling into the water, towel and all. Coughing, she rose to the surface.

He was staring down at something on the ground, then moved dark eyes to her. She pushed her hair out of her face.

“You…you crazy—” Chelsea took a deep breath. “You’re not living with me! I don’t care what Jonas says. I was here first.” She tread water, angrier than she’d ever been in her life. “I’m not living with a man who carries a gun on him as casually as a piece of chewing gum!”

Gage looked perplexed. “Why would you want to live with a man who didn’t carry a gun?”

She stared at him. “I don’t know. I don’t care! You’re crazy, and you’re not living with me. It doesn’t matter if you pitch a tent, but you’re not staying in the house.” She didn’t allow herself to think about his poor daughter, who had a maniac for a father. “Get out of my sight.”

She wanted to send a few more choice words after him, but he retreated so obligingly that she held her tongue. Jonas was going to get an earful! In fact, she was mad enough to drive out to Rancho Diablo and tick him off in person.

She swam to the bank, not bothering with pulling herself up on the dock. Her towel was soaked. She started wringing it out, muttering under her breath—and realized a three-foot-long snake was lying at her feet with its head shot off. The scream that erupted from her could have been heard in the next state as she leaped back into the water.

Chelsea was shaking badly, and was pretty certain she was sweating despite being in the creek up to her neck. She hated snakes! And that wild-eyed cowboy had shot the nasty creature and left her, no doubt snickering about how freaked out she’d be when she saw it.

No cowboy came to check on her.

She grabbed the float, which had become wedged in the shallows, and sat on it, looking around for more snakes. The stupid thing had probably been slithering to the creek for a drink, or to nest in the rocks.

Shivers crawled up her skin.

“Are you out there, cowboy?” she called timidly.

“Yes,” Gage answered, “but I’m not walking into your sight, Irish. Just want to make certain you’re not one of those hysterical females who can’t stand the sight of a little creepy-crawly.”

Little! He was having a laugh at her expense. Still, she owed him for shooting the snake. She probably would have stepped right on it. “I might be just a wee bit afraid of snakes,” she admitted.

“Nobody likes snakes. You did real well.”

She sniffed, surprised that he was offering her some empathy. “I take back what I said about you being a gun-toting freak, or whatever I called you.” She took a deep breath, still feeling goose bumps tighten her skin.

“No worries,” he said. “I’m heading off now to do my errands in town. You going to be all right?”

She wasn’t. She glanced around, wondering if the snake had any friends that might be nesting in the wet towel she’d dropped. “You know we don’t like snakes in Ireland,” she said. “Saint Patrick ran them off for us.”

There was a moment of silence before Gage walked toward the creek. He fished her towel from the water and held out his hand. “I’m no saint.”

She looked at him, not accepting the hand he extended. “I know that.”

He shrugged. “Come on, Red. I’ll walk you back to the house.”

She didn’t need a second invitation. Taking his hand—he felt strong and substantial, thank God, because she needed something strong right now—she let him drag her from the creek. He kept his eyes steadily averted from her, and she was out of the water and away from her snake nemesis in a blink. While Gage pinned her raft between two scraggly trees so it wouldn’t blow away, she hurriedly wrapped herself in her towel, unable to stop shivering. She couldn’t shake her fear that another snake might be nearby. Still, Gage didn’t look her way. Didn’t every man want a glimpse of a woman in a bikini?

He didn’t seem to. His posture was stiff, fixed in a deliberate stance of avoidance. Chelsea remembered that she’d told him to stay out of her sight, and he was clearly trying to obey her not-very-nice demand.

She swallowed, letting go some of her pride. “I’m sorry. I’ve been kind of a witch to you.”

He finally glanced at her. “It doesn’t seem so bad with that sweet accent you’ve got.”

Was that a compliment? “Really?”

“No.” Gage laughed and started walking. “Getting blessed out by a woman is no fun in any language or accent.”

She scampered after him, not thrilled to be left behind with a dead snake. “Maybe we could start over.”

“No need.”

Okay. She wasn’t going to beg him to accept her apology. They walked in silence back to the farmhouse. He went to his truck, and Chelsea went in the house, pulling off the dripping beach towel.

And that’s when she realized she’d gotten out of the creek without her bikini top.

She shrieked, this time with rage and embarrassment. The sound of male laughter came through the open screen door before Gage’s truck started up and drove away.

And he called the Callahans pranksters!


Chapter Two

When Gage ran into Jonas Callahan in Tempest’s town square, he was ready to let all his annoyance fall on his employer’s head. “Jonas, you ornery son of a gun,” he began, stopping when Jonas held up a hand.

“You can thank me later,” Jonas said. “I can’t chitchat now. I need to go over last-minute plans with an architect. I think I’m going to knock the farmhouse down and start over. It’s just much too small.”

Gage’s jaw tightened. “Knock it down? It’s the only livable place at Dark Diablo.”

“True,” Jonas agreed. “I wouldn’t do it until after the summer is over. Cat will have gone back to school by then, is how I figure it. Chelsea will have finished her Great Novel, and you can park your boots in the bunkhouse.”

The bunkhouse was, as Chelsea had noted, pretty old and not really inhabitable, even for someone who was as used to roughing it as he was. “This is almost the end of June, Jonas. What if I can’t get the bunkhouse and the barn renovated that fast?”

Jonas glanced at him. “My brothers and I can come over and crew for you if you need us.”

“I’ll know soon enough, I guess.” Gage wasn’t certain how to take this change of plans. “Why did I think the job was for about six months?”

“It is,” Jonas said, surprised, “unless you finish sooner or get sick of it. Do you have a problem with sleeping in a bunkhouse?”

Gage shook his head, not bothering to point out that the roof had holes in it the size of owls. He could get those patched up in the next month. He could get a lot done—if he didn’t have Cat to entertain. Secretly, he wasn’t certain what to do with a daughter he didn’t know that well. He’d met her only once, and he’d been nervous as hell.

The only good thing about having Chelsea and her mom on the property was that maybe they’d provide a buffer.

“Frankly, I’m scared shi—”

“Well, don’t worry,” Jonas said, his tone jovial as he pushed his hat down a little more comfortably on his head. “So, what’d you think of Chelsea?”

What did he think of Chelsea? Now, that was a loaded question. Gage sent his friend a suspicious glance, keeping his face unreadable. She was beautiful, for one. She had a helluva rack on her, and seeing her bare and not reacting had taken all of his self-control. Taut nipples, sweet breasts—he broke into a sweat that had nothing to do with the hot New Mexico sun. “Last I saw her, she was pretty upset about a little friend that was visiting. I’m hoping she’ll calm down before I get back.”

Jonas looked up from staring at his phone, his attention finally caught. “What kind of friend?”

“A snake friend. Just a small one, maybe a foot long. Nothing to get excited about. Be seeing you, Jonas.” Gage nodded and went down the sidewalk toward the lumber store, not feeling any more need to socialize. Reading Jonas the riot act about sticking him with a red-haired, sexy female wasn’t going to do anything but give his friend fodder for tales around the dinner table. He knew the Callahans too well.

I can take it, Gage thought. He just wasn’t certain he could take Chelsea and Cat and Ma all under one roof, when he didn’t know any of them at all.

* * *

“JONAS!” CHELSEA EXCLAIMED when her one-time fiancé banged on the front door. “Get in here so I can bawl you out like you’ve never been bawled out before!”

He came in, looking a bit wary, wearing a smile to placate her. She was not placated.

“Why didn’t you tell me there was going to be someone else living here?” she began hotly.

“Everything happened quickly,” Jonas said. “Both of you are making way too big a deal of this. Pretend like this farmhouse is a bed-and-breakfast. Would you care who the other boarders were?”

“No,” Chelsea said, clenching her teeth, “at least not until one of them shot a gun near my feet, I wouldn’t.”

“Gun?” Jonas perked up. “Gage wouldn’t fire a gun near you, Chelsea.”

“Well, he did.” She wasn’t about to share the whole bikini topless incident.

“Had to have had a good reason.”

Jonas’s eyes began to twinkle, and she knew from experience that he was vastly amused and couldn’t wait to hear the whole story, which would be retold later to his brothers and their wives with great gusto.

“Were you being mean to him, Chelsea?” Jonas asked, his tone rich with teasing.

“No, Jonas, I wasn’t.” He was referring to her Irish temper, knowing full well she wasn’t really mean to anybody.

But she did have a temper.

Which she didn’t intend to rein in now.

“Did this have anything to do with a critter you didn’t want around?”

“I am quite certain, Jonas, that Gage has told you everything, if you know about the critter. I’m sure he couldn’t wait to have a good laugh at my expense.”

“Now, now,” Jonas said, his voice comforting. “Gage didn’t tell me anything except that some animal had been around, and you hadn’t been happy about it.”

“It was a snake,” she said.

“Snakes are no fun,” Jonas agreed, trying to get on her good side. “What kind was it?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” she snapped.

“It’s important to know, Chelsea. If it was poisonous, I need to look for a nest and—”

“A nest!” Her blood ran cold.

He looked at her, his gaze curious. “You’re really afraid of snakes, aren’t you?”

“Everyone who is normal has a fear of snakes,” Chelsea stated, “unless that’s their line of work. And I’m not a snake charmer. Yes, Jonas, you know darn well that I’m as unenthusiastic about snakes as your five sisters-in-law and your wife would be.”

“True,” he conceded. “Snakes are not welcome around Rancho Diablo.”

“Well, then.” She crossed her arms. “Maybe you’d like to go take a look at it and catalog it. The stupid thing is down by the creek.”

“All right.” He ambled off, letting the screen door slam. Chelsea shook her head, thinking that men could be so dense at times. She went back to dusting, arranging the kitchen so she could start cooking tomorrow.

Cleaning made her start thinking about her heroine, who was still in danger and dangling cliffside.

This writer’s block is terrible. I don’t know how to get the story to flow again. I need peace and quiet and—

“Aw,” Jonas said, coming back inside with half a snake dangling from his hand. “It was just a—”

Chelsea screamed, a good old-fashioned gut scream that probably moved nearby mountains.

“What?” he said. “This is just a harmless—”

“Get it out of the house!”

“All right, all right.” He exited his own house in a hurry, recognizing that he and his trophy weren’t welcome. Chelsea grabbed a glass of water, drinking to calm herself.

“I’m sure that snake was more scared of you than you were of it,” he called from the porch.

“Shut up, Jonas,” she said, and then she heard Gage and him giggling outside the screen door like a couple hyenas. Like children. Chelsea drew a deep breath, marched to the front door, slammed it shut and locked it.

Boys might be boys—but not at her expense.

* * *

“NOW YOU’VE DONE IT,” Gage told Jonas. “I could have told you that gag wasn’t going to play well. Although it was funny. That Irish is a screamer for certain.”

His friend couldn’t contain his grin. “I’m going to take it home and bring it out at the dinner table.”

“Sabrina will probably let you have it upside the bean with a dinner plate,” Gage warned.

“This is true.” Jonas stuck his prize in a sack and went off. “Good luck, by the way.”

“Good luck with what?” he asked, knowing the sentiment had been loaded.

“Getting back in the house. Ever again.” Whistling, Jonas got in his truck and drove away, his conscience completely unbothered by how he’d destroyed Gage’s plans to get on Chelsea’s good side.

She wasn’t going to let him in tonight, he’d be willing to bet. “Nuts,” Gage said, thinking about the pretty breasts he’d tried so hard not to look at. Maybe it was better if he slept in the old run-down bunkhouse. Deciding there was always his truck to bed down in if he couldn’t stomach the conditions, he went off, cursing Jonas under his breath.

* * *

FROM HER UPSTAIRS bedroom window, Chelsea watched Gage slink off, a veritable snake in nicely fitting blue jeans that hugged his butt and yet sagged just enough to be comfortable. She should have known that any friend of the Callahans was bound to be a bad boy.

“I know how to handle men with a wild streak,” she said, setting down to her laptop. Bronwyn was in trouble, but Chelsea didn’t know how to help her. It all had to do with Bronwyn’s conflict, and Chelsea had yet to figure out exactly what that was. She had the feeling Bronwyn hadn’t yet been totally honest with her about her real emotions, the real thing that drove her to be a detective—

“Chelsea!”

She glanced out the bedroom window. Gage was below, waving something at her.

It looked like a white flag.

Truce?

She opened her window. “I’m busy. What do you want?”

He lowered the flag. “To ask you out to dinner.”

“Why?”

The question shot out of her more rudely than she’d intended. Once burned, twice shy…

“Just a friendly meal between two people who are sharing space.”

“We’re not,” she said very sweetly. “You’re out there and I’m cozy in here. But thanks.” She started to close the window.

“Chelsea, wait!”

She edged it up a little and looked out. “What’s the matter? Can’t you just grill a snake for your supper?”

He grinned at her, the devil in denim. “I could, but I’d rather share a meal with you.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. You’re trouble, Texas.”

“Yeah. But you know that up front, so it’ll be easier for you. Anyway, we should try out a restaurant in Tempest. I’ll buy, since you’re mad at me. It’s the least I can do.”

“Then obviously you’ll be buying me dinner every night.”

Gage laughed, a full deep laugh that had the hair standing up on her arms. The man was too sexy for his own good—and she suspected he’d been told that a time or two by man-hunting ladies.

“You need to see the town,” he said. “Getting out will help you with your writing.”

Chelsea wrinkled her nose. He had a point—it wouldn’t hurt her to go do some exploring of her new town. Jonas had said Tempest was charming.

Anyway, she had a dangling heroine, and truthfully, she’d do anything to get rid of her stubborn case of writer’s block. “All right,” she said, not gracefully, either. This man had probably looked at her naked breasts, no doubt told Jonas she’d gotten out of the creek without her top. They’d probably had a great, knee-slapping guffaw over it. “I’m ordering steak, though. You pay for your sins around here, buster.”

“Come on down, Rapunzel. We’ll see if we can find you a steak in Tempest.”

Chelsea shut the window, closing the drapes so he couldn’t watch her change. It had been a long time since she’d had a real date, although this certainly couldn’t be called a date—more like a short truce. She and Jonas had never dated—their relationship had started out as an agreement between two people who each needed something.

I wanted out of Ireland. I wanted a climate that suited my mother’s health better. I wanted life beyond what I knew.

If I have to put up with a snake now and again, it’s going to be worth it—even if he has brown eyes and a body to die for.


Chapter Three

“So,” Gage said, as they seated themselves in a booth at Cactus Max’s. “This looks like a great place for a red herring, don’t you think?”

Chelsea glanced at him with some disdain in her big eyes. Gage grinned, loving yanking her chain.

“Are you trying to be funny?” she asked.

“Not really. Am I?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not.” She snapped open her menu with some annoyance, and he grinned again. In the corner of the bar-and-grill-style restaurant, three pool tables were in use, the occasional clicking of balls audible over the easy conversation of the diners. About fifty people milled around, enjoying nachos and beer and other cuisine, or watching big-screen TVs that hung from all four corners, the sound muted. In the background, soothing and mellow jazz music played. Gage found himself relaxing, until he saw Chelsea’s gaze fixed on him.

“What?”

She shook her head. “There’s a twenty-ounce steak on the menu.”

“If you can eat it, be my guest.”

“I’ll go with the Southwestern steak wraps.” She closed her menu.

“And some wine?”

“Tea,” she said, eyeing him again. “Thanks.”

He laughed. “You’re not letting your guard down around me, are you?”

“I can’t,” she said. “You got really close to me with a bullet. And do you have a permit for that gun you carry?”

They were interrupted by a dark-haired woman named Blanche cheerfully placing a lighted candle on their table. The flame gave the booth a romantic atmosphere that Gage knew would not help Chelsea relax. Not around him, anyway.

Talk about trust issues. He had a wall to climb with this redhead.

“New to town?” the waitress asked.

“We are,” Gage said. “We’re staying at Dark Diablo.”

“Oh,” Blanche said. “I know you. You’re the ones Jonas said didn’t like each other very much.”

Chelsea’s gaze shot to his, then bounced away. Gage laughed. “We’re working on it, Blanche.”

She smiled at him. “Well, you sure are a good-looking fellow. I like my men rugged. I can’t imagine a lady wouldn’t just go to jelly at the knees for you, honey.”

He figured Blanche was somewhere around sixty years old, and with her infectious smile and dark brown eyes, she’d probably been able to catch whatever kind of man she wanted. “Thanks. I like my ladies round and sweet like you.”

She grinned. “And what about you?” she asked Chelsea, politely trying to include her in the banter.

“I like my wraps rare and my tea cold, please,” she said, and Blanche giggled.

“She’s no fun,” the waitress told Gage.

“She’s fun sometimes,” he responded, teasing both of them. “So, who’s the babe in every corner of this joint?” He gestured to the four large paintings of a busty blonde in different costumes, looking like Marilyn Monroe come to life, only younger and somehow more innocent.

“That,” Blanche said with the gusto of a born storyteller, “is Tempest Thornbury.”

“Is that a stage name?” Chelsea asked.

“Well,” she said, “when you’re born Zola Cupertino, you have to consider alternatives, right?” She jammed her pencil into her abundantly tall and sprayed mass of shining dark hair. “Anyway, Tempest is our big star around these parts. She decided to name herself after our town, and the Thornbury, heck, I don’t know how she came up with that. But she went off and made herself famous on Broadway, and then went overseas to live in a villa in Tuscany.” Blanche shook her head. “They say she’s a recluse now, which is a shame, because she’s all of about twenty-eight. Can sing like a bird and dance like nothing you ever saw before.”

“Why did she become a recluse?” Chelsea asked, and Gage could tell she was fascinated by the story in spite of herself.

“No one knows, exactly. Something about a love story gone wrong, and ghosts in the old family home in Tempest. Not sure how it all fits together. We’ve talked about it many a time in Tempest, but the truth is, when she left here, she changed so much from when she was little Zola that we don’t really know what to think. Her life is very different from ours. You can still see her family home from the country road, you know, but none of us go out there much because of the ghosts.” She smiled at Gage. “So are you having steak wraps, too, or did you just want to sit there and stare at the lady all night?”

Gage snapped his gaze away from Chelsea, realizing he had been staring. “I’ll have the Aztec salad and a margarita, please.”

Both women stared at him.

“Not hungry, Gage? Planning on eating the snake later?” Chelsea asked.

“Snake!” Blanche exclaimed. “Don’t talk about snakes. I can’t stand ’em!”

Chelsea smiled at Gage, enjoying her jest at his expense.

“I might eat the snake,” Gage said, handing the menus to Blanche, “but I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly rattled. “Well, I’ll put your order in. If you two need anything, just give a shout.”

Gage smiled at Chelsea. “Don’t be mad. It really was harmless.”

“Then why did you shoot it? Just to watch me hop around?”

He smiled again. “No. From where I was standing, I didn’t know what kind of snake it was. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

She looked at him with suspicion. “Why are you so certain it was harmless?”

“Because it was just a—”

“I hope you’re not still talking about snakes,” Blanche said, plopping their drinks on the table. “I’m telling you, I hate nothing as much as I hate them!”

“It’s all right,” Chelsea said, “the only snake around here right now is him.”

“That’s not fair,” Gage said, as Blanche went off in a cloud of disapproval. “I was trying to save you.”

“From a harmless snake?”

“What if it had been a rattler? Would you rather I’d just called out, ‘there’s a snake next to you so be careful’?”

Chelsea’s face reflected a mixture of emotions. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“All right.” He raised his margarita to her and said, “To us being good housemates.”

“I think not.” She didn’t raise her tea glass.

Nodding, Gage glanced around at the life-size posters of Tempest Thornbury. Now that he looked at them more closely he could see that they were actually oil paintings done in careful detail, probably from photos of some of Tempest’s Broadway gigs. “She’s beautiful, huh?”

“Yes. But it’s kind of a sad story, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Everybody’s got one, right?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. But nothing I share with anyone but friends.”

She gave him a wry glance. “Okay.”

“So what’s yours?”

Chelsea shrugged. “It’s not very interesting.”

“Yeah?” Gage watched her sip her tea with pleasure. She made everything look graceful. Even leaping into the creek she’d been graceful. He could watch her for hours, and if she lost her top again, then he could watch her for days, he was pretty sure.

“I’ve taken care of my mother for years. That’s about it.”

“What about Dad?”

She shrugged again. “Died young. Don’t remember him.” She glanced at Tempest’s paintings. “It wouldn’t be so bad to leave your roots and go do something exotic and fabulous, would it?”

“Takes a special breed of person, I’d guess. I’m much more of a homebody than that.”

Chelsea laughed out loud. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her phone. “I made notes about you, Texas, when I called back to Diablo to find out about you—after the snake incident. According to Sabrina, you’re Jess St. John’s cousin, who is married to Johnny Donovan at Rancho Diablo. You rodeoed most of your life, happiest on the circuit. You’ve never had much of a love life because the road is your life. Apparently, you mentioned once that you’re never in one place for more than two or three nights, so there was never any point in calling a lady back.” Chelsea slid her phone back into her purse. “I’d say you didn’t lack for adventure. In fact, somebody like her,” she said, indicating Tempest, “is probably exactly right for you.”

He shook his head. “You’d be surprised, but life catches up with people.”

Blanche placed their artfully plated food in front of them, and Gage got hungrier just looking at it. “This looks great.”

“You won’t find better in Tempest,” Blanche bragged, “although all the restaurants here are pretty good, I’ll say that. If you’re a foodie, you’ll find you don’t want to stray far from town.”

She went off again, pleased with her story.

“I like Blanche,” Chelsea said. “She’s happy.”

Gage dug into his salad with gusto. “And proud of what she does.”

“So what caught up with you?” Chelsea asked as she bit into her steak and moaned. “I could cut this steak with a spoon, it’s that tender.”

“I’m sure if you placed a call back to the ol’ homestead, you know I wasn’t exactly aware that I had a daughter.”

Chelsea’s eyes grew round. “All I asked was whether you were safe to live with. I didn’t inquire as to your love life.”

Gage grinned. “Not curious at all?”

She didn’t say anything.

“We’ll work on our relationship,” he promised.

“I want to drive by and see the Tempest place,” she said suddenly, catching Gage off guard.

“Ah, the mystery writer’s curiosity at work. Feeling the blockage move?”

She wrinkled her nose. “My creativity isn’t blocked.”

“Jonas says it is. Jonas says you haven’t been able to write in three months. He said—”

“Jonas doesn’t know everything.” Chelsea ate more of her steak wrap, carefully not looking at him.

Obviously, she no more wanted to talk about her problem than he wanted to discuss his. “I’m game for a late-night run to a ghost-infested family home.”

Chelsea’s gaze met his. “Good.”

“Guess ghosts don’t bother you like varmints do?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks.”

He polished off his margarita, thinking that for such a hot night, he was in danger of getting frostbite from his companion.

Maybe she’d warm up to him if they could scare up a ghost or two.

* * *

“IT’S KIND OF A SAD little place for such a lively person,” Chelsea observed, peering at Tempest’s house as Gage stopped his truck in front of the small, two-story white wood structure. Long neglected, the paint flaked and the front porch sagged. Even in the falling darkness, she could see that the roof hadn’t been repaired in years.

If visiting a haunt like this didn’t stir her creativity, maybe nothing would. A shudder ran through her. She’d loved ghost stories as a kid—she’d grown up on them, courtesy of her mother. “I probably learned storytelling at my mother’s knee,” she told Gage. “This house has secrets.”

“Just looks like a deserted old house to me.” He got out of the truck and went up to the porch. “Nothing exciting about a building that needs to be torn down.”

She looked in a dirty window. “You have no romance in your soul.”

“You’re probably right.” He joined her in spying. “Looks like no one’s home, Chelsea, if you’re just dying to take a peek inside.” He pushed the front door open, and pointed to several firecrackers that had been lit and left on the porch, probably by pranksters around Halloween. “Watch where you step.”

She followed him in. “Pee-ew. Doesn’t smell like a place a star grew up in.”

“She was Zola here, remember. Cupertino or something.”

Chelsea looked around at the moldy, sagging furniture. Everything was in a state of decay and disrepair, and she felt sorry that the house had been abandoned. “It looks like she just left everything behind.”

“Nothing here was what she wanted.” Gage kicked something under the sofa.

“What was that?” Chelsea demanded.

“Nothing.”

“It was,” she insisted. “You have to be honest with me.”

“A small mouse,” Gage said. “A little on the decayed side.”

“I’m okay with mice,” Chelsea said, walking past him into the kitchen.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find in here, unless it’s your next cliffhanger,” Gage said, batting some cobwebs away from his face. “These spiders are bigger than in Texas. And you know there’s probably scorpions in this place—”

“You know what your problem is,” Chelsea said, looking back at him. “You don’t know how to relax.”

“This is relaxing?” Gage moved a fallen tile away from where she was about to step. “If we want to see rotten, we could do it at Dark Diablo.”

But this was where Tempest had grown up, and from here she’d gone away to seek her fortune. Chelsea could feel the ghosts of disharmony and discontentment shrouding the small house. “Whatever made her leave, it was ugly enough for her to hide herself away once she made her bundle.”

“We don’t know that she made a bundle.”

“She made enough to live in a villa in Tuscany. Blanche said Tempest is still in demand.”

“Yeah,” Gage said, “Blanche was blowing smoke up your skirt. She was giving you the Tempest tale, to make their little town seem a bit more exciting. I bet no one named Tempest ever even lived here.”

“Then who’s that?” Chelsea asked, her scalp tightening just a little.

Gage picked up the picture that lay on the kitchen counter, long forgotten. It was of a small girl with threadbare clothes and spindly arms. He turned the photo over. “Zola, five years old.”

“See? Blanche was telling the truth.”

He set the photo back down in the dust. “Can we go now? I’ve spent quite enough time with Zola Tempest, thanks.”

Chelsea followed him out. “Guess there’s no need to lock the door.”

Gage shook his head as he got into the truck. “Well, hope that helped.”

“Helped what?” She speared him with a look of distaste as he pulled from the drive.

“You know.” He pointed to his head. “With the…storytelling wheels.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Chelsea said, irritated. “Listen, the thing about writer’s block—which I don’t have—is that it’s the Unspeakable Thing That Must Not Be Mentioned.”

“Your own ghost,” Gage said.

She sighed. “If you must.”

He laughed. “And ghost-hunting helps?”

“I do like mysteries and hauntings,” she said stiffly.

“So an exorcism would be like a superboost to your creativity. Or a séance!” He ignored her gasp of outrage. “We could do one, Chelsea. We could get the Callahans out here, and we could sit around and burn candles and wait for Tempest to come screaming out of a closet or something.”

“You are so odd.” Chelsea turned her head, not about to give him the pleasure of knowing that he was getting to her. His needling annoyed her, and he knew it, and he was the kind of man who loved to devil a woman to death, until she finally gave up and gave him what he wanted.

Sex, in most cases. She’d be willing to bet her best pair of heels.

“It’s not going to work,” she told him.

“What isn’t?”

“This pathetic attempt to scare me so badly that I’ll just jump into your arms like a silly, spineless heroine.”

“I’ll have you know that there are lots of silly, spineless heroines who liked my arms just fine.”

“Well, you can keep your stories,” Chelsea said. “Enough with shooting the poor harmless snake and trying to spook me with talk of séances. You’re not fooling me.”

“Good to know,” Gage said, amused, and Chelsea told herself right then and there that if Gage Phillips ever tried to kiss her, she was going to give him the fattest lip of his life. Pow! Right on his too-attractive, laughing, storytelling kisser.

In fact, she hoped he did try to kiss her.

She really did.


Chapter Four

About four the next afternoon, when Chelsea was making tea and desperately wondering why her heroine wasn’t cooperating, she heard the sounds of Gage’s own issue, loud and clear.

“I don’t want to be here,” a girl said.

“You didn’t want to be in Laredo, either, sweetheart. So here you are,” Gage replied.

Chelsea dried her hands on a dish towel, telling herself she wasn’t eavesdropping shamelessly.

“I didn’t want to come,” the voice said—obviously that of Cat, the surprise daughter.

Chelsea couldn’t imagine what it must be like to discover one had a teenage daughter. Gage hadn’t said a whole lot about his ex-wife—and Chelsea hadn’t wanted to pry. But from the words being spoken outside, he and his daughter had a lot to work out.

“You may not have wanted to come,” he said, “but I wanted you here. So take your bag inside, please.”

Bravo, Dad, Chelsea thought.

“There’s a nice lady inside who you’ll like, so let’s go meet her,” Gage added.

“Lady? I thought you said we were going to be alone. That’s what you told Mom—that it was just going to be me and you,” Cat complained, her voice getting high.

“That’s what I said,” Gage said, “because it’s what I thought at the time. The owner of the house made other plans, and that’s beyond my control. Please take your bag inside.”

“You told Mom there’d be no girlfriends,” Cat insisted. “You said this was an appropriate place for me to be.”

Chelsea heard Gage sigh. “Trust me when I tell you that this lady and I are not romantically attached. I just met her yesterday. Either you take your bag inside right now and quit acting like a child, or I’m going to let you sleep on the porch, Cat.”

Chelsea froze, waiting for them to come in.

When they did, she realized just how full Gage’s hands were with his new daughter—and why Cat’s mother needed a break. Cat had long black hair to her waist on one side, her head shaved on the other. She had a nose piercing, an ear cuff and what looked like a bar through her other upper ear. She had two lip rings, which gave her sort of a snakelike look.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was the stare Cat leveled at her, as if she hated her on sight.

“Hi,” Chelsea said, recognizing she would have to tread carefully. “I’m Chelsea Myers, the upstairs roommate.”

“You’re not going to boss me,” Cat said to her.

Chelsea blinked. “You’re right. I’m not.”

“Cat,” Gage said. “You and I don’t really know each other, but let me tell you something you should know. I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

Cat glared at her father. “You didn’t tell Mom the truth. She always said you were the least honest man she ever met. I guess I know who I can believe.”

Gage sighed. Chelsea saw no reason to explain what Gage had already told to his daughter, so she said, “I made cookies. Does anybody want some cookies and maybe some tea? I’m sure you’re hungry after—”

“‘Does anybody want some cookies?’” Cat mimicked. “Betty Crocker to the rescue.” She set her black duffel on the floor. “Quit staring at me,” she told Chelsea.

Chelsea was about to reply, wanting to head off the explosion she could tell was about to blow from Gage, when the screen door opened and her mother blew in.

“Hello!” Moira Myers exclaimed. “Goodness, the wind is picking up out there!”

Cat stared at Chelsea’s mother, shocked, it seemed, by someone else’s appearance taking center stage. Moira was dressed in hot pink from head to toe, from her sparkly tennis shoes to her calf-length skirt, to the short-sleeved sweater with a pink poodle on it. She even had on hot pink lipstick. Her white hair stood out in cotton candy tufts from her head, liberated from the plastic scarf she usually wore on windy days. In her hand she carried a cage with two lovebirds in it.

“What are you?” Cat asked.

“Cat!” Gage finally exploded.

“Mum, come in,” Chelsea said, going forward to hug her. “You look lovely.”

“She looks—” Cat began, swallowing her words on a yelp. Gage seemed to finally have had enough of his daughter’s sassy mouth.

“Fiona Callahan helped me pick this out. Do you really like it, Chelsea?” Her mother smiled beatifically. “I love shopping with Fiona. She’s so much fun! She made me feel ten years younger.”

“Mum, this is Gage Phillips,” Chelsea said, “and this is his daughter, Cat.”

“Hello,” Moira said, shaking each of their hands. Cat actually offered hers, either because her father had gotten it through her head that he was about to make her life miserable, or because surprise at Mrs. Myers’s appearance had rendered her temporarily unable to carp. “It’s so nice to meet you! And how pretty you are, dear,” she told Cat in her lilting Irish accent. “Would you be so kind as to step outside and get my suitcase off the porch, please? You look like such a nice, bonny lass indeed.”

To Chelsea’s surprise—and Gage’s too—Cat went to retrieve the bag. “There, now,” Moira said when she returned a second later, “let me see. I know I’m forgetting something. I’m always forgetting something, aren’t I, Chelsea, love? Oh, I know,” she went on, not waiting for Chelsea to answer. Chelsea would have said she’d never known her mother to forget anything, but Moira didn’t seem to need any response. “This is for you, dear,” she told Cat, handing her the cage with the two beautiful lovebirds inside.

“Really?” Cat took the cage, astonished. “I mean, I don’t like birds. I hate birds. I bet they’ll give me allergies.” She stared at them, seemingly fascinated. “They’re ugly. And it’s stupid to have things in a cage.” She looked at her father. “Can I keep them?”

Gage looked at his daughter with some exasperation. “If Mrs. Myers has given you a gift, Cat, then I think you should say thank-you. And then you should ask Miss Myers where the best place to keep them would be.”

Cat glanced worriedly at the two women. “Um, thank you,” she said to Moira, as if she wasn’t certain how to express gratitude.

“Let’s find your bedroom upstairs. That will be a lovely place to keep them, I’m sure,” Chelsea said, starting up the stairs. Cat followed, not protesting any longer, carefully carrying the birds so they wouldn’t be jostled.

Thanks, Mum, Chelsea thought. Once again, I have a feeling you saved the day.

“This is my room?” Cat asked.

“Yes,” Chelsea said. “I think your birds would be comfortable right here near the window. Not too close to feel the sunshine, though.”

Cat gently set the cage on the shelf near the window. “Your mom is weird.”

Chelsea smiled. “My mother is eclectic. I like that about her.”

Cat looked at her. “You like your mother?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” The teen shrugged, watching Chelsea warily as she sat down on one of the twin beds. “You’re not supposed to like your mother.”

Chelsea smiled. “I love my mother. She’s my best friend.”

“Wow,” Cat said, “you’re a bigger loser than I thought.”

Chelsea smiled again. “I’m going back downstairs. If you’re hungry, join us. I need to get my mother settled in.”

“I don’t want to join you,” Cat said, following her down the stairs. “I’m only coming because my dad says I have to.”

“That’s fine,” Chelsea said. She was pleased to see Gage and her mother seated in the front room, chatting comfortably. He seemed genuinely interested in her, and Chelsea told herself that anyone wearing that much hot pink had to make people smile. “Mum, can I get you some tea?”

“You can, daughter.” Mrs. Myers excused herself and followed Chelsea into the kitchen. “Quite the fun situation you’ve got going here.”

“I suppose so. It’s really just going to be me and you, though. There’s a lovely creek, and the town is so pretty—”

“I think you’re going to have your hands full.” Moira took the teacup Chelsea handed her, drinking appreciatively. “Ah, no one knows how to make a proper tea except you, daughter.”

“You taught me everything I know, Mum.”

Cat came into the kitchen, obviously hungry but not wanting to seem as if she was. She glanced at Mrs. Myers’s cup. “If that doesn’t have eye of newt in it, could I have some?”

Chelsea laughed. “You never know around here, Cat. You’ll have to go on faith.”

Cat took the cup she handed her, slurping it down quickly.

“Oh, she’s hungry,” Moira said. “Chelsea, where are your manners, love? Bring out the frog-toes cookies and give some to Cat.”

“Gross!” the girl exclaimed.

Chelsea shook her head. “Mum,” she gently remonstrated, handing Cat a plate with three cookies on it. “There’s more, but you don’t want to ruin—”

“My mom said this was going to be a backwater and that I’d probably have to eat some gross stuff, but I’m not eating frog toes,” Cat said. “And you can’t make me.”

“These are homemade chocolate chip cookies, and you don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to.” Chelsea smiled at her.

“You’re both weird,” Cat said, snatching the plate. “Why’d you say there were frog toes in the cookies?” she asked Moira.

“You mentioned eye of newt,” Moira said, her tone pleasant. “Which of course brings to mind Shakespeare’s Macbeth. You know it, I’m sure. ‘Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog…’”

“My mom is not going to be happy that I’m living with a bunch of weirdos,” Cat said, taking out a tongue piercing and laying it on the side of the china plate. “Mmm, these are pretty good.” She seemed pleased by the cookies, eagerly polishing them off.

Gage hadn’t come into the kitchen. Chelsea figured he’d probably run for the hills, or maybe to the library for a How To Be a Father on the Fly parenting book. “Will you take this plate to your dad, Cat?”

Cat looked at her. “I don’t—”

“Sure, and that’s a good girl, now,” Moira said. “What a lovely lass you are, Cat.”

Cat took the plate and left the kitchen, looking bemused, if not surprised, at the praise.

“Now I see how you got me through my difficult teen years,” Chelsea said. “Have I ever apologized for being a handful?”

“Chelsea, love,” Moira said, sipping her tea, “if anything, you’ve always been an angel. I owe you apologies for saddling you to a life that wasn’t like the other girls’. You could have done a lot more, if you hadn’t had me—”

“Mum!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Don’t say it!”

“Oh, well. It doesn’t matter anyway, does it?” Moira asked, taking a bite of a cookie. “I rather thought the eye of newt question was clever from the lass, didn’t you? She’s older than her years.”

Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t know what to think. I guess we’ll see what happens.” She thought about Gage, wondering about last night. After their visit to Tempest’s house, he’d brought her home and said good-night—and promptly bunked on the sofa.

It had rained all night, a vicious storm that cut the power—and Chelsea hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d huddled in her bed, staring out at the rain washing the windows in sheets, wondering why she was thinking about Gage when she should have been thinking about her plot.

“He’s a handsome man, Chelsea. D’ya fancy him?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Mum, we’re from opposite ends of the earth, trust me.”

“Ah, well. So it goes.” Moira grinned. “Fiona said she was pretty certain the two of you might take a shine to each other. I guess she’d be wrong this time, eh?”

“Definitely,” Chelsea said. “Don’t let the Callahan myth blind you to the fact that Gage isn’t the kind of man I need in my life.”

“What do you need? Do you know?”

Chelsea thought about Gage walking her through an old, falling-down house, making sure she didn’t step on firecrackers and dead mice. She thought about him shooting a snake that wanted to take a swim with her. “I need someone boring,” she said. “I want stable and boring.”

Moira laughed. “Then that handsome rascal wouldn’t be the man for you.”

“That’s right,” Chelsea said. “When I meet stable and boring, I’ll know.”

* * *

JUST GAZING AT HIS DAUGHTER gave Gage a little bit of the willies. What had Leslie been thinking, letting Cat look like this? Do this to herself?

Chelsea and her mother hadn’t seemed too disturbed by Cat’s appearance. Maybe it was a girl thing. He was definitely out of his league with girl things, so he let his worry over this girl—his daughter—and her wild appearance go for the moment.

He didn’t know what to say to her. What had come so easily for Chelsea and Moira didn’t come easily for him. The two of them sat on the front porch swing, miserably not speaking.

“Guess you were surprised about me,” Cat said.

Gage nodded. “It’s a good surprise, though.”

Cat shook her head. “No, it’s not. Mom says you’re just an itin…itin—”

“Itinerant,” Gage supplied, thinking that sounded like something Leslie would say.

“Itinerant cowboy,” Cat said with a nod, “and that you’ve never had two nickels to rub together because you can’t keep a job. She said when you were together, you made mashed potatoes with water in them instead of milk because you were so poor.”

He scratched the back of his neck, thinking that Leslie hadn’t managed to spare him. But maybe he didn’t deserve any sparing. “That’s all true, pretty much, though I do have two nickels.”

Cat didn’t seem impressed. “How long am I staying here?”

He shrugged. “I guess until school starts. You like your school, right?”

“I don’t know. The kids are weird.”

Gage sighed, thinking his daughter wasn’t doing a whole lot to fit in. In that, she was like him. “You want to know about this side of the family?”

“No,” Cat stated. “I’m not going to see you again after August. I’ll never meet your family. So I don’t care.”

It was true she wouldn’t meet the family. Gage generally stayed as far away from them as he could, leaving his sister and two brothers to run Phillips, Inc., in Hell’s Colony. He wasn’t cut out for politics, or family debates. “Well, it’ll make good storytelling, since we’re both bored.”

“I could go back in and talk to the Weirdos,” Cat offered. “Except I think I heard them talking about whipping up some dinner. The old lady mentioned something about dog legs and bat wool.” She shivered.

Gage laughed. “Sounds delicious.”

“I think you should throw them out.”

“That old lady, Mrs. Myers, gave you a pair of pretty birds. Cut her a break.”

Cat sighed. “I guess that was kinda cool. Anyway, I guess you want to bore me to death with your family skeletons. Mom says you’ve got such a closetful of ’em that Dracula would be impressed.”

Jeez, Leslie. “Okay, there’s your uncle Shaman.”

“Weird name.”

Gage decided weird was one of his daughter’s favorite words. “Shaman’s two years younger than me. He’s in the military, been in since college. In high school, the girls were crazy for him because he was definitely anti-authority, anti-establishment. In other words, he was a hell-raiser—although, strangely, he graduated valedictorian.” Gage laughed, still proud of his brother. “He’s probably my favorite sibling, but I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Because you’re on the road all the time, shifting from place to place.” Cat nodded, obviously repeating her mother’s side of the story.

“Then there’s Kendall. She’s two years younger than Shaman, and four years younger than me. Kendall is twins with Xavier. He goes by Xav.”

“They’re the ones who run the family business. Mom says they’ve got more money than King Midas, and that you got kicked out of the business because you were too bone-idle to help run it.” Cat looked at her father. “Why are you so lazy?”

“Because,” Gage said, ruffling his daughter’s hair—the side of her head that had hair, “I’m an itinerant cowboy, and that’s what we do. Let’s go check on Mrs. and Miss Myers. They might need help.”

Cat padded after him into the kitchen, her black-checked tennis shoes not making a sound.

“We’re going into town to get some ice cream,” he said. “Anybody want to join us? What is that?” he asked, staring at the two-tier confection on the kitchen counter that Mrs. Myers was frosting.

“This is dessert for people who eat their dinner and put away their dishes,” Moira said. “It’s coconut cake. My own mother’s recipe.”

“It smells wonderful.” Gage’s mouth began watering.

“It is.” Chelsea took the spreading knife from her mother and handed it to Cat. “You finish the frosting, Cat.”

The teen looked at the cake uncertainly. “I can’t. I don’t know how. It’s just a stupid cake, anyway.” She tried to hand the spreader back to Moira, who shook her head.

“There’s nothing that can’t be fixed, love,” the woman said. “Go on, nice and easy. And when you’re finished, please sprinkle these coconut bits on top.”

Moira turned away to do something at the sink. Chelsea peered into the fridge, monitoring the contents, not paying any attention to Cat. Cat looked at her father, a question in her big brown eyes. He nodded, and she took a deep breath, reaching out to place some frosting on the cake.

“It tore,” she said. “I can’t do this! It’s a stupid—”

Moira took her hand, gently showing her how to spread the frosting in a smooth, gliding motion that didn’t disturb the cake. Then she turned back to the sink, and after a moment, Cat tried again.

The frosting went on like it was supposed to, and Cat applied herself more diligently to the task, silent for the moment. Gage’s breath released from his chest, though he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

“Gage,” Chelsea said, “we’re going to need some things from the grocery, now that there are four of us. I’ll make a list, if you’d like to do the shopping.”

“I can do that,” he agreed, glad to be given an assignment. “I’ll pay for the groceries, if you’re going to be kind enough to fix meals.”

“We’re going to have pot roast and…” She glanced at Gage. “I forgot you’re a vegetarian. You’ll have to pick up the veggies and things you like to eat.”

Cat stared at her father. “You’re a vegetarian? That’s weird.”

Gage shook his head, having heard weird one too many times today. “I’ll take care of the groceries, Chelsea. Thank you both for cooking for us. Come with me, Cat. You and I will start clearing out the barn.”

“I don’t want to—” she said, putting down the spreader and following her father.

“I know,” Gage said. “It’s weird. But everybody works if they’re lucky enough to have a job, and we do. So you can help me clear the barn. I need to sketch a new structure, and then decide if this is the right location for a barn, according to Jonas’s new plans, and then we’ll talk to a few architects, let them draw up some things for the big man. How does that sound?”

“Terrible. Boring.” Cat followed her father out, almost at his heels.

Moira smiled at Chelsea. “Nothing a little cake and sweet tea won’t cure.”

Chelsea nodded. She hoped so, anyway. “I’m going to make a list for Gage, and then go write for a little while. Will you be all right?”

“I’m happy as a lark,” Moira replied. “I’m going to play with this new phone Fiona talked me into. She’s been texting me for the past hour, but I haven’t had time to look.” Moira beamed. “I want to see what my old next-door neighbor is up to now.”

“Probably something weird, to use Cat’s word.”

Moira laughed and Chelsea went upstairs to ponder her heroine’s dilemma. Life for Bronwyn Sang wasn’t getting any better. Bronwyn had been dangling off the edge of the cliff for three months. Chelsea’s book was due to her editor in one month.

She’d written only ten chapters.

“I’m in deep water here,” she told Bronwyn. “I’m starting to think your problem is that you’re passive. If you had an ounce of kick-ass in you, you wouldn’t be dangling. He’d be dangling.”

She sighed, and decided to write the grocery list first. That was something she could handle, a small little list that—

Chelsea stopped fiddling with her pen, her attention caught by Gage and Cat outside her window.

He was showing her how to aim his gun at a large can he’d placed on an old moldy hay bale near the ramshackle barn. “Argh,” Chelsea said. “It isn’t any of my business. You’re my business,” she told Bronwyn, turning back to her book, which was going nowhere fast. “If you were anything like Tempest, you wouldn’t just be hanging around—”

Tempest. Now there was a woman who had decided she wasn’t going to be a doormat to anyone, probably including evil villains. The photo of Zola as a child and the adult renderings of Tempest had been vastly different. Only the eyes had looked the same, eyes that had seen a lot in life.

Tempest, Chelsea wrote, tapping on the screen just under where Bronwyn dangled, awaiting certain death from the killer in book three of the Sang P.I. mysteries, is a woman who knows what she wants. She walked away from her small town and she never looked back, making herself into one of the most sought-after women in the world. She is beautiful and independent, and men throw themselves at her feet. But she is in charge of her own destiny, so she doesn’t need a man to save her.

I wish I could meet Tempest.

The crack of a gun outside made Chelsea jump. She peered out at Gage and Cat. Cat was receiving a high five from her father, and the can had been pretty much obliterated.

“Really!” Chelsea muttered. There had to be another way to bond with one’s long-lost daughter. Grinding her teeth, she put on her headphones and went back to Detective Sang.

* * *

“GREAT JOB.” GAGE retrieved the can and set it back up on the bale. “Looks like you’ve got sharp eyesight and good hand-to-eye coordination. You’d probably like archery, too.”

“I don’t know,” Cat said, looking like Eeyore. He felt sorry for his daughter with her half-shaved head. She’d be such a pretty girl without the angst written all over her. A bit of anger boiled up inside him at his ex-wife. It had been simmering ever since he’d found out Leslie had kept Cat a secret. Anger, he knew, did nothing, didn’t help anything. He preferred to blot those emotions, any emotion, really. Seesawing emotions blinded one to what needed to be done in life.

But his daughter shouldn’t look so despondent, even if she was a newly minted teen. “Hey, what do you say we go for a horse ride?”

“I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“You live in Laredo. There are plenty of horses.”

“I know, but Mom’s afraid of them. So I never learned to ride.” Cat shrugged thin shoulders. “They’re just stinky animals, anyway.”

He remembered Leslie saying something like that. “Okay, you don’t have to ride.”

Cat looked around at the vast, empty acreage. “So I’m stuck here for the rest of the summer? With no friends? Surely there’s somebody besides the two oddballs in there.” She flipped her hand toward the house, and Gage sighed.

“First, we don’t know that they’re oddballs. Anyway, the truth about meeting people is that usually it’s best to give folks a chance. If you talk to them twenty times and you still don’t like them, then that’s just the way it is. But sometimes you get a wrong first impression. It’s easy to do.”

“Yeah.” Cat didn’t sound as if she thought she’d like Moira and Chelsea on closer inspection. “So, where’s your family you were talking about? Mom says you’re the loner, and that none of them really like you.”

Gage put his gun away and ran a hand over his daughter’s long side of hair. “Here’s the deal. I know you love your mom. And that’s a good thing. But let me suggest that Leslie hasn’t seen me in a great many years, so she doesn’t know me. And I think you’re old enough to make your own decisions about things.” He shrugged. “I’m not saying whatever your mom said about me and my family isn’t true, I’m just saying it may not all be true. And you owe it to yourself to make your own mind up.”

Cat took that in for a minute. “Okay.”

“Good.” Gage thought his daughter probably wasn’t a bad kid, probably just confused and somehow out of place. The mouth likely got her into trouble, and the air of I-don’t-give-a-damn, when she clearly very much did.

I remember that stage. It sucked.

“So, anyway, I guess I’ll never meet my aunt and uncles,” Cat said morosely.

Gage let out a breath and went to sit on the bale of hay. “Never is a long time.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged, and sat on the ground cross-legged. “Mom called your sister.”

Gage’s jaw clenched. “Did she?”

“Yeah. She told her about me. Mom said she was hoping maybe what’s-her-name would know where you were this summer.” Cat looked at him. “Mom said your sister didn’t know, but gave her your cell phone number and then said some rude things about her.”

Gage winced. “Don’t worry about that. It has nothing to do with you, Cat. Kendall’s mouth runs away with her at times.”

“I was hoping for a normal family,” Cat said, her tone wistful.

“We all do, sweetie. ‘Normal family’ is pretty much a fairy tale.”

“Brittany Collins goes to my school, and she has a normal family,” Cat insisted.

“That’s good,” Gage said, thinking that his daughter was very young, very confused. It was only to be expected that she might look around her and see girls whose lives she’d like to emulate. “We better get going to buy those groceries. And you wanted ice cream.”

“That sounds boring,” Cat said, and Gage laughed.

“Boring’s not so bad.”

“Maybe not,” Cat said doubtfully. “Maybe you should ask the Weirdos again if they want to go with us.”

Gage glanced at his daughter. “You wouldn’t mind?”

She shrugged. “We’ll look like a freak show, but no one knows me here, I guess. And the old lady was nice to bring me some birds. I really like them. Mom won’t let me have pets—she says they’re dirty. She’d flip out over birds, I bet.” Cat sounded cheered by that. “And that lady you stare at all the time—what’s her name?”

“Chelsea,” Gage said, “and I do not stare at her.”

“Yeah. You do. Kind of like my mom stares at Larry.” Cat shuddered. “Larry is such a loser. I don’t know why she stares at him. He looks like a frog.” She glanced at her father. “You don’t look like a frog.”

“Thanks.” Gage smiled. “You want to go inside and invite the ladies?”

“Do I have to?”

“Your idea.”

“Ugh.” Cat walked into the house to the kitchen, where she knew she’d at least find the old lady who loved pink clothes. “Hey, Dad’s taking me for ice cream. He said it would be nice if you and your daughter came along to keep us company. He says we don’t know what to say to each other, and that it’s pretty awkward.”

Moira glanced up from her cookbook and smiled at Cat. “What a bonny idea. As a matter of fact, I was thinking you and I should make a trip to the library one afternoon.”

“What for?” Cat asked suspiciously.

“As we were discussing Macbeth,” the old lady began, and Cat shut that down in a hurry.

“You were discussing Macbeth. I just didn’t want you giving me any fried newt eyes.”

Moira smiled and tied on her rain cap.

“What’s that for? It’s not raining.”

“You’re right. It’s not,” Moira said, tying the pink polka-dotted plastic securely on her head. “Could you be a love and run upstairs and get my daughter, please? Knock first, and only go in if she says you may. She might be writing.”

“Something awful, I’m sure,” Cat said, her tone depressed and certain that whatever Chelsea was writing, it had to be worse than a third-grader’s school paper. She banged on the door.

Chelsea opened it, smiling when she saw Cat. Cat sniffed to let her know she didn’t like her. “Dad says you and your mother have to come eat ice cream with us. He says he needs you because we don’t like each other very much. Your mom’s putting on her hair thing, and she looks kind of weird, but she’s going to take me to the library someday, so that’ll be a real drag.”

Chelsea nodded. “Ice cream sounds wonderful.”

Cat looked past Chelsea into her room. “You’re probably not a very good writer.”

“Um—”

“I bet nobody would ever buy your books.” Cat looked up at her. “Anyway, you should be a schoolteacher or something.”

“Why?” Chelsea asked, following her down the stairs.

“You look like one,” Cat said, making it sound as if it wasn’t good to look like a teacher.

“Thank you,” Chelsea said. “My mother was a schoolteacher. I always admired her.” A schoolteacher! No one probably ever told Tempest she looked like that.

Chelsea wondered if Gage thought she looked like a schoolteacher. She patted her hair, which had a tendency to get wild and unruly when she was writing, from constantly shoving a hand through her bangs when she was deep in thought.

“I’ll sit in front,” Cat said, “next to my father.”

“Perfect. This is a nice truck, Gage,” Chelsea said.

“I just bought it.” He turned to smile at her, and Chelsea noticed her stomach give a little flip. He had such nice white teeth in his big smile, and his dark eyes seemed so full of life that it was hard not to smile back.

She saw Cat glowering at her, and wiped the answering smile off her own face. “I saw you shooting, Cat. Was it fun?”

“No,” Cat said.

“Do you shoot, Chelsea?” Gage asked.

“Not unless I have to.”

“I do,” Moira said. “I can bag a quail at fifty paces.”

“She can,” Chelsea said. “Many a time we ate something Mum brought home.”

“Eye of newt,” Cat said.

“Maybe,” Chelsea said. “In my home, we ate what was on our plates, said thank-you, excused ourselves and cleared the table. No questions asked.”

Cat turned to look at Moira. “Are you going to make me do all that?”

Moira nodded. “Of course, lamb. Otherwise, I don’t cook.”

“Jeez,” Cat said. “This is worse than prison.”

“Cat,” Gage said, his tone warning.

Chelsea looked out the window, amazed by the lack of cars on the road into town. “Tempest is like an old postcard that never changed.”

“I like that,” Gage said. “I like that it seems preserved in time.”

“I do, too.” Chelsea jumped when Gage’s gaze caught her eyes in the mirror above the dash.

“It looks boring,” Cat said, her nose pressed to the window as she looked out at the farmland they passed. Cows and horses and an occasional llama dotted the dry landscape. “I’d be embarrassed for my friends to know I was stuck out in the middle of the desert. I’ll probably get stung by a scorpion.”

“That reminds me—by chance did your mom send you with a pair of boots?” Gage asked, glancing at her black-and-white-checked tennis shoes.

Cat shrugged. “I’ve never had boots. I don’t need any, because I’m not going to be an itin…itin—”

“Itinerant,” Gage supplied.

“Cowgirl,” she finished, convinced she had life all figured out.

Chelsea’s gaze once again caught Gage’s in the mirror. He appeared a little chagrined by his daughter’s attitude. Chelsea told herself that his and Cat’s problems had nothing to do with her. In fact, she should be at home writing, giving Bronwyn a chance to figure her way out of her mess.

It was so much more exciting to wonder about Tempest, and how she might handle the pitfall Bronwyn had landed in.

I’m not good at pitfalls. I don’t like guns. I don’t like scary stuff. How did I ever wind up writing mysteries?

Maybe I write mysteries because I love puzzles. And I crave adventure—just like Cat.

She looked at Gage, thinking he was pretty much the call of the wild in real life—but she wasn’t adventurous Tempest. Except for her and her mother’s excursion to America, adventure came to her only on the safe pages of her novels. She would never have the courage to walk away from her life and be someone she wasn’t. “Gage,” Chelsea said suddenly, telling herself it was folly to get involved, “do you know when the nearest rodeo is?”

“Santa Fe. This weekend.” He looked at her. “The four of us could go, if you’d want to see one. Moira, have you been to a rodeo?”

“Not a one, and I’d love to,” Moira said. She shot her daughter a glance of approval, then looked at Cat.

“I’ve attended one, and I’d really like to go again,” Chelsea said. And give Cat a chance to see boot-wearing cowgirls and cowboys outside her hometown, doing their jobs.

“Great. We’ll go,” Gage said.

“Sounds boring,” Cat said.

Chelsea smiled. “We’ll see.”

* * *

AFTER A QUICK GROCERY RUN, they ran into Blanche the waitress at Shinny’s Ice Cream Shoppe. Introductions were made, and when Moira went off to look at the photographs on the walls, and Cat and her dad were engaged in some getting-to-know-you chitchat, Chelsea wandered over to the gregarious waitress. “What flavor?”

Blanche smiled. “Peppermint. My favorite. You?”

“I think peach.” Chelsea liked Blanche. In fact, she liked much of what she’d seen around the town of Tempest so far. Which brought up the name that had been stoking her curiosity, even making her wonder if she’d plotted her heroine wrong in her current book. “So tell me more about Tempest.”

“You’re not asking about the town, are you?” Blanche gave her a smile that reached her big eyes behind red-and-blue-swirled glasses frames.

“I want to hear about that, too. But I have to admit you caught my interest with the tale about Tempest.”

“C’mon.” Blanche waved her over to a black-and-white photograph on the wall. “This is Zola when she was just a wee thing.”

Chelsea blinked. “She seems so thin.”

“Yeah. Well, it wasn’t for lack of eating, I don’t think. Her mom used to send her down every day to this very ice cream shop. My husband, Shinny, over there—” she pointed to a friendly-looking, balding man who was sweeping up “—he owns this shop. He gives ice cream out to the kids, especially the ones he knows got folks who can’t afford it. Zola was on his list of kids who always got a double scoop, or a milkshake if he could talk her into it. Chocolate,” Blanche said with a smile, “in case you were going to ask. Shinny’s special.”

Chelsea moved to a photo of Tempest’s most famous citizen standing in a field, looking at the camera with wide eyes. Her bare feet looked dirty and her overalls not much better. “Did she have a high school sweetheart?”

“No.” Blanche pointed to a football team photo with a pretty brunette standing in a shiny uniform beside the team. “Maggie Sweet was the girl the guys went for. Not a skinny, brown-headed sparrow like Zola. Funny thing is, when she grew up and left this town behind to become Tempest, men pursued her like mad. She went through men like candy, and I don’t think she was serious about a one of them. She had one serious guy, some minor royal from Scotland, I think. Anyway, she found out he had a lady on the side, and left him just like she’d left this town.” Blanche smiled, remembering. “We were all afraid she’d be heartbroken, but Tempest said it was his loss.”

“How do you know all this?” Chelsea had to know more. “I thought she went away and never looked back.”

“She used to call back here from time to time. It’s just been the last year or two we haven’t heard a peep from her. About to send a delegation over to check on her.” Blanche didn’t look convinced that that would have much impact. “We still love her here. She’ll always be Zola to us.”

She’d always be that dirty little girl in the threadbare clothes, Chelsea thought. No wonder she wanted to make herself into Tempest. Chelsea could understand wanting to get away from her old life. It would be fun to be a heroine in a book for a day. Not my heroine. She’s been dangling so long she’s afraid she’ll never get off that cliffside.

“Ready to go?” Gage asked Chelsea, smiling a greeting at Blanche. “I’ve got to get Cat home. She says she’s tired after her big day of traveling. If you want me to come back later and pick you up—”

“I’m good. Thanks.” Chelsea smiled at the woman in turn as she got up from the swivel seat she’d settled on while they’d been chatting. “I enjoyed the town history lesson, Blanche. Thank you.”

Blanche waved a hand, reached out to pat a grumpy-looking Cat. “You come back anytime, sugar. Free ice cream for pretty little girls.” She smiled at her. “You look so much like your daddy.”

Gage appeared pleased. “Thanks, Blanche. I take that as a real fine compliment.”

Cat glanced up at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded. “Sure I do.”

Cat didn’t seem to know what to think about that. She remained silent, following him as he went to escort Moira to the truck. Chelsea went out behind them, watching Gage interact with his daughter, thinking that for a man who’d just found out he was a dad, he was handling it very well.

* * *

“THANKS,” GAGE SAID as he walked the women to the front door. Moira and Cat went on inside to check on the birds, which Cat had named Mo and Curly—he guessed Larry hadn’t been her favorite of the Three Stooges—so Gage grabbed the chance to tell Chelsea exactly how he felt.

Damn grateful.

“For what?” She looked at him, surprised.

He shrugged, not certain how to express what he wanted to say. “Helping Cat make the transition. And me.”

Afternoon light glowed softly on her features as she studied him. Gage waited nervously, as if he was on a first date, not certain why he felt so skittish around Chelsea. Her eyes were so kind and radiated understanding. She wasn’t the type of woman who made men nervous, he was pretty certain.

Which meant…he must dig her.

A little.

The stray thought made Gage even more nervous. Since his relationship with Cat’s mother, Leslie, he’d stayed busy, making no time for dating. A night or two with a lady sufficed.

He shouldn’t feel differently about this russet-haired Irishwoman. For many reasons—not the least of which would be not wanting to play right into Jonas’s hands.

A man had his pride. Gage looked away from the redhead with the big eyes.

“I didn’t do anything for either of you,” Chelsea said. “I like Cat. She reminds me of myself at that age.”

He couldn’t imagine any resemblance, in any way, between the two of them. But he smiled. “Thanks.”

“No thanks necessary.”

There was no reason to keep Chelsea outside longer than he had, either. The shame of it was he really wanted to talk to her more. His heart drummed inside him, and he wished he had his typical easy talk at his disposal. But he didn’t.

And then he did the unthinkable, brushing his lips from the side of her mouth to her cheek, as “just friends” as he could manage.

God, she was soft.

“See you around,” he said, not hanging in to find out what price he might have to pay for stealing a brotherly peck. He didn’t know what had possessed him. He’d let his mouth do the speaking his voice couldn’t. “I’m leaving, Cat! Are you coming?”

“I’ll catch up in a sec!” she yelled back from upstairs. He heard the screen door close as Chelsea went inside.

Good thing, too. Or he’d be tempted to go back for another helping of “just friends.”

Now that he knew how soft she was, he was going to have to put the brakes on temptation. Hard.


Chapter Five

Chelsea went inside to help her mother with dinner, completely stunned that Gage had kissed her. Sure, it was a non-kiss, really, as kisses went—but yesterday they hadn’t even been on shaking-hands terms.

Of course, it hadn’t been anything more than Gage expressing his gratitude. New-overwhelmed-dad gratitude.

He appreciated her and her mom being nice to his daughter. That was all the brief peck had meant.

It had “just friends” written on it. Quick and fast and…like it hadn’t meant anything except thanks.

She was amazed to see Moira and Cat busy chopping vegetables. “What can I do to help, Mum?”

“Nothing at the moment. The cake is made, dinner is almost finished. We’re just finishing up a big salad for Gage. And a sweet potato casserole.”

Cat glanced up at her. “We get a baked chicken. Dad gets portobello mushroom skewers.”

“You go write, dear,” her mother said.

“You should,” Cat agreed. Chelsea wondered if that was her subtle way of trying to keep Moira to herself. “I read what was on your laptop—by accident. I went into your room to find you, but you weren’t there.”

Chelsea raised a brow. “And you just happened to make yourself at home on my laptop?”

“I didn’t touch anything. You left the screen up.” Cat shrugged. “Anyway, it’s going to get read if it ever gets published.”

“It is getting published, and I don’t allow anyone to read my work until I say it’s all right to.” This was something they were going to have to straighten out pronto. Cat would have to understand that her room was off-limits.

“Anyway,” the teen said, “I just thought you should know that Tempest is a real flesh-and-blood person. I can actually see her.” Cat took a bite of carrot, considering her thoughts. “Bronwyn, not so much. She seems kind of wishy-washy. Cardboard.”

Chelsea and Moira stared at Cat. Chelsea wasn’t certain what to think about the critique—although she had a funny feeling it was dead-on. “Please don’t read my work anymore, Cat, unless I give you permission.”

She nodded. “I won’t. Miss Moira says she’s going to take me to the library and get me some books by great authors. Great texts, is what she calls them. Suitable for my advanced level.” She beamed, pretty proud of that praise.

Chelsea shook her head, recognizing the teacher at work. She sank onto a bar stool and looked at Gage’s daughter. “Permission aside, that was a pretty confident critique.”

“I know.” Cat nodded. “My teacher says I should consider journalism. Maybe even poli-sci.”

The front door opened, interrupting the conversation.

“Cat!” Gage called from the front door.

“Yes, Dad?”

“I thought you were going to catch up with me?”

“I am.” She put down the carrot she’d been chopping. “I’m sorry, Miss Moira. I have to go help my dad.”

“You go, love,” she replied, amused.

“Will you finish helping her?” Cat asked Chelsea. “There’s a lot left to do.” She went out of the kitchen, and the front door closed a moment later.

“Goodness.” Moira laughed. “She’s a bit of an old soul, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Chelsea took over the chopping. “I’m not too happy with her critique, either.”

“Oh, don’t be angry with the lamb,” her mother said. “You know our rules may be different from what she has at home. I don’t sense that she gets a lot of supervision. Now that you’ve explained the boundaries, I’m sure she’ll respect them.”

Gage would insist on his daughter respecting boundaries. That much she could tell about Gage—he tried to keep distance where it needed to be.

Except when he’d kissed her.

And she hadn’t even smacked him, as she’d promised herself she would if he ever stepped over her lines.

Like Cat, he’d crossed her limit so nicely. In such an ordinary way. It had barely been a kiss—and yet it had felt strangely as if there’d been deeper meaning behind it.

Boundaries.

Like father, like daughter.

“Boundaries are good,” she told her mom. “We’ll work on them.”

* * *

DINNER WAS SET ON THE PATIO, and Gage and Cat gathered around, looking hungry, and in Cat’s case, tired and a tiny bit red in the face from exertion and late-afternoon sun. They washed up and then sank down gratefully to join Moira and Chelsea.

“This is great,” Gage said. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”

Cat looked at her dad. “That’s probably because you’re itin—”

“I know,” he said, ruefully interrupting. “But going from job to job is how I make money, kitten.”

“Mom does say you’re always right on time with the child support.” Cat grinned at her father. “It’s the one nice thing she says about you.”

“What did you two do all afternoon?” Chelsea asked, wanting to put Gage at ease.

“We went and talked to a man about knocking down the barn. Dad wants an estimate for that,” Cat said importantly. “Although I think his boss will be angry if he does it.” She looked at her father, not certain if knocking over buildings was really in his job description.

“And look who’s going to join us for dinner,” Moira said. “Just in time to say grace for us.”

Chelsea looked up, surprised to see Jonas Callahan pulling in with a horse trailer. “I’ll set another place.” She went to grab a plate and silverware, coming back out in time to see Jonas slap Gage on the back.

“Didn’t I tell you you’d like it here?” Jonas asked, glancing around at the wonderful spread on the table. “That smells good. I love roast chicken and portobello mushrooms.” He leaned over to kiss Moira on the cheek, tipped his hat to Chelsea, and said, “Who’s this beautiful girl?” to Cat, who blushed, to Chelsea’s delight.

“My daughter, Cat,” Gage supplied. “Sit down, Jonas.”

“I will.” He sat down easily, filling his glass from the tea pitcher. “Hi, Cat. You like it here?”

“Not really,” she said with her characteristic tact. “But will you please say grace for us? Miss Moira says you will, and we’re starved. Dad’s been working hard today.”

Jonas laughed. “Good for him. And I’m happy to say grace, thank you for the honor.”

They bowed their heads, and Jonas said grace, and then everybody began filling their plates with Moira’s good cooking. Chelsea was amazed by how well Cat seemed to fit in, with just a smidgen of guidance and structure. She caught Gage watching her study his daughter, and busied herself with the chicken and vegetables. I’m getting too involved. It’s none of my business. I’m here to write, and get my heroine out of her tangle, and take care of my mother.

Not get love-struck over a footloose cowboy.

“Fiona says to tell you hi, Miss Moira,” Jonas said.

“When’s she coming out to see me?” Moira asked.

“Actually, I’m to remind you all of the Fourth of July picnic at the ranch. You’ll be there, won’t you?” Jonas looked at Chelsea and then Gage.

“I will be,” she said.

“We can all drive out together,” Gage offered.

“Splendid.” Jonas grinned. “You know, Aunt Fiona said you would all get along like peas in a pod, and she’s never wrong about these things.”

Chelsea’s gaze caught Gage’s by accident, and she felt herself blush—just like Cat.

Jonas grinned at her, looking like a man who was enjoying his charmed life a bit too much. Chelsea frowned at him, letting him know she didn’t appreciate his statement, and he laughed.

She was going to stab him with a fork, she vowed, if he thought about trying any of the Callahan matchmaking games on her.

“How’s the writing, Chelsea?” Jonas asked, trying to get on her good side, probably having noticed the steam coming out of her ears on his behalf.

“Fine,” she said, her tone sweet for the sake of table manners, but with a definite edge of don’t bother.

“She’s still stuck,” Cat said, “but Miss Moira says if we shut her up in her room for a few days, sometimes that works. And sometimes a change of scenery helps, too.”

Jonas snapped his fingers. “Speaking of that, I need the two of you to run an errand for me.”

Chelsea felt her eyes narrow. “The two of who?”

“You and Gage, my two trusted house sitters.” Jonas waved a fork expansively. “I need you to go sweet-talk two peacocks out of our neighbor to the north, a Ms. Ellen Smithers.”

“Peacocks?” Chelsea said. “Why peacocks and why us?”

“I want two peacocks out at Rancho Diablo, and maybe here, once we get things settled. Ms. Smithers doesn’t like us. Or at least she didn’t like the man who used to own this house. I’ve talked to her on two occasions, even took Sabrina with me. Both times the answer was an enthusiastic no.” He grinned. “She’s a stubborn thing. But Ms. Ellen doesn’t know that I’m not above using a decoy to get what I want.”

“And you want peacocks?” Gage asked.

“Always have.” Jonas nodded. “The kids’ll love ’em. Cat, be prepared that when you come to Rancho Diablo, there’s a lot of babies, and a lot of toddlers running around.”

“Great. Sesame Street-a-palooza,” Cat said ungraciously.

“Nope. We don’t watch much TV at the ranch. Too busy.” He winked at her. “You’ll see. You’re just about the right age to be a great babysitter.”

Cat shuddered. “My friends are never going to believe the summer I’m having.”

“That’s right,” Jonas said, his tone jovial. “We’ll take lots of pictures for you to show your friends.”

Gage shot his daughter a warning look. Cat lowered her head. “Thank you.”

“Can you leave tomorrow?” Jonas asked. “I can stay over tonight in Tempest. I’d love to take the peacocks back with me.”

“Tomorrow? Jonas, I was going to discuss the plans for the barn and bunkhouse with you tomorrow, and—”

“Always time for that. Running out of time to get peacocks on the ranch for the Fourth. I want this year to be special. Can I count on you, Chelsea?”

She didn’t want to sound reluctant like Cat, but she was. Not meeting Gage’s gaze, she said, “I have no knowledge of peacocks, or buying peacocks, Jonas.”

“That’s my girl,” he exclaimed, as if she’d said “Absolutely, I’d love to.”

Moira had been silently watching the interchange with a smile on her face. “Now that that’s all settled,” she said, “who wants cake?”


Chapter Six

“I’ve known you two days, and Jonas has got us chasing peacocks.” Gage shook his head as he steered the truck onto the highway bound for Colorado. “Peacocks.”

Beside him, Chelsea looked out the window. “I’m surprised Cat wanted to stay with Mum.”

“What teenage girl wouldn’t rather go on a wild peacock chase?” Gage was somewhat annoyed with his boss, but to be honest, there were some perks to being on the road.

Namely, his shotgun rider wasn’t too hard on the eyes.

“The upside is that we won’t be gone long. It’s a long day at the most.” He was trying to comfort Chelsea, probably not doing too good of a job. Her deadline was heavy on her mind. He understood deadlines. The fact that Jonas didn’t seem as pressed about getting started on the plans for the ranch as Gage was put him on edge. He’d allotted six months for this job, hoping to wrap it up in four, depending on how fast he could secure building permits. This was no long-term job for him—Jonas knew that.

“What if this Ms. Ellen Smithers doesn’t want to sell us peacocks?”

“Not our problem. We’ll give it our best shot.” Gage shrugged. “Personally, I couldn’t care less about Jonas’s damn birds.” Thinking about birds made him think about his daughter preferring to hang back with Moira and Curly and Mo. He hoped Cat didn’t call her mother and mention that he’d left her behind with a woman she’d just met. Leslie would probably have a fit.

“Still, Jonas seems to have his heart set on them. I can’t believe Ms. Smithers is so ornery with him about peacocks. A paying customer is a paying customer.” Chelsea sighed. “Sometimes I feel like we all just jump around to Jonas’s tune.”

“Sure. He’s our boss. We signed on to his madcap adventures.” Gage frowned. “Normally I wouldn’t mind. If he’d sent me looking for horses, which is under my job description, I’d be fine. But the surprise element is what moves the Callahans.”

“Yes.”

In his peripheral vision he could see Chelsea’s hands fidgeting. She still wasn’t all that comfortable around him. He didn’t guess she had any reason to be. They barely knew each other.

“Listen, we’ll make this quick,” Gage said. “We’ll get you back to your computer, and me back to my kid, and we’ll all have some more of your mom’s delicious cake.”

Chelsea nodded. “That sounds good.”

Gage hoped he was right.

* * *

MS. SMITHERS WAS A TALL, large-boned woman who looked more like a woman who could tame lions than a peacock breeder. Chelsea could see why Jonas was a bit intimidated by her, not that he would ever say he was. For one thing, Ms. Smithers was almost Jonas’s height—and Gage’s. Both were tall men. Not only was Ms. Ellen Smithers tall, she was heavyset. She looked like a stern, no-nonsense person, and Chelsea found herself shrinking back slightly when the woman glared at her.

“You’re here about my peafowl?” Ellen asked.

“Yes. We are,” Chelsea said, noting that Gage seemed happy for her to lead. “We’re interested in purchasing a pair.”

She received a frown in return. “I mostly sell to zoos and other breeders. Not interested in selling to individuals usually.”

Chelsea offered her a smile. “We’re hoping you might make an exception.”

“The problem is,” Ms. Smithers said, “I don’t know if the birds get taken care of by people who don’t understand them. They’re beautiful animals. They have special needs. What do you know about peacocks?”

Chelsea gulped. Gage shrugged. “That they’re good watchdogs.”

“True.” Ellen nodded. “What else?”

“That we pay cash for them.” Gage pulled out his wallet. “And that peafowl can be noisy during breeding season. I’ll be building an appropriate pen with sprinklers and lots of shade.”

“Hot where you are, is it?” Ms. Smithers stared at him warily, one eye on his wallet. “Peafowl need lots of space, too. You got lots of space?”

“I’m from Hell’s Colony,” Gage said easily. Chelsea noticed he sidestepped saying that the birds would possibly be living on the despised ranch Jonas had purchased.

“And you?” the curious Ms. Smithers asked Chelsea. “You don’t sound like you’re from Texas.”

“I’m from Dublin.” Chelsea could tell by the look on her face that she wanted more information. “I’m in the States with my mum. She has some breathing issues, and the warmer, drier climate here is helpful.” Chelsea hoped that was enough to satisfy Ms. Smithers.

“Well, now.” Ellen nodded. “Come inside and have a bite while I ponder whether I have a pair of peafowl I want to sell.”

“We don’t—” Gage began, and Chelsea shot him a look.

“We’d appreciate that,” she said quickly, and he gave her a slight squeeze on the arm that she took to be appreciation as he followed the ladies inside. “Play along,” she whispered as Ellen led them into a small, bright kitchen that looked hardly big enough to contain her bulk. “Be nice.”

“I’m always Mr. Nice.”

Chelsea ignored that and sat at the table. Gage took the seat across from her.

“Looks like a storm is blowing in,” Ellen said. “These early summer storms are strong this year. We’ve had a couple of tornadoes.”

Chelsea took the glass of water she was offered. Gage did, too, watching her for cues. “I’ve never seen a tornado,” she said.

“Just hope you never do.” The breeder peered out one of the windows, worrying. “Yep, here comes the rain.”

Slashes of droplets suddenly hit the glass panes, loud in the small kitchen.

“Guess I should have had you move your truck into the barn,” Ellen told Gage. “That’s hail.”

Chelsea looked at him sympathetically. “It was too shiny-new, anyway.”

He didn’t look amused. “So, about the peacocks—”

“I don’t have any right now,” Ellen said. “I’ve got some old ones you wouldn’t want, and I’ve got some that are nesting, but—”

Chelsea thought Gage’s head was going to pop off his shoulders.

“You didn’t say you didn’t have any available when I called you,” he said.

“We’re so eager to see some,” Chelsea interjected, shooting a warning glance at him.

“You can see them. Of course, not now with this storm. The nesters are cozy in their pens right now. I don’t let my peafowl roam during nesting, you know.”

Chelsea had wondered why there were no peacocks roaming about when they’d driven into the red-fenced farm, heralded by a sign that read Smithers’ Peacock Farm and Honeymoon Cabin.

The lights went out suddenly, plunging the kitchen into darkness.

“Well, that’s that,” Ellen said cheerfully.

“What’s what?” Gage demanded.

“That’s the end of the juice.” She sounded so happy about the electricity going out. “Could be hours before it comes back on.”

“All right.” Gage rose, his patience at an end. He handed her a business card. “Why don’t you call me when you have a pair of peacocks you’d like us to look at buying.”

“I will.” She nodded. “You folks be careful pulling onto the main road. This rain’ll be making mud of the end of the drive. Can be tricky.” She smiled at Chelsea and lit some candles. “Of course, if you want to wait out the storm, you’re welcome to stay in my guesthouse. It’s two hundred dollars a night, and I don’t mind saying it’s kind of a honeymooner’s getaway. I’ve got about fifteen peacocks, and maybe in the night I’ll remember which of them is just right for sale. I do hate to part with any, but of course they’re prettiest now. They’ll lose their trains at the end of breeding season. I might find a pair if I have time to go over my records.”

Chelsea froze. She didn’t want to be in a honeymooner’s getaway with Gage. “We’re not in need of—”

“We’ll take it.” He tossed cash on the table to cover the cost of the room, and then an extra hundred to encourage her memory. “Maybe that’ll help you come up with a just-right pair for us, and cover your trouble for keeping us, Ms. Smithers.”

Her eyes glowed in the candlelight as she gazed at the money. “You’ll find food in the fridge. Best in the area. Everything in the Peacock Cabin is available for guests. Lots of towels, which you’ll need, because I don’t have a spare umbrella to offer you. You’ll need this flashlight to see your way over to the cabin. Once there, you’ll find candles and a torch on the entry table. As remote as we are, power outages are not unusual. Of course, you may not need the candles.” She smiled broadly, winking. “Please make yourself at home, and don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

Gage leaned close to Chelsea as they got up to follow Ms. Smithers down a long hall. “Just a pair of birds with eyes on their tails.”

“Shh,” Chelsea said, trying not to giggle. She was nervous at the thought of staying in a “peacock cabin” with Gage. But it wasn’t bad nerves. More like shivers of destiny and creativity finally awakening—the thrill of the unknown and adventure. And when he put his hand on her back to help her outside to the cabin Ms. Smithers pointed at, Chelsea accepted his assistance along the mud-washed, cobbled sidewalk. He clasped her hand as they ran to the cabin surrounded by trees, rain hitting them as they went.

They stepped inside, and Chelsea gasped. “Wow. This is the Peacock Cabin.”

Gage whistled, closing the door behind them. “Little less rustic than I’m used to.”

“Me, too.” Chelsea took off her shoes, leaving them on the Saltillo tile floor near the door as she lit the candles on the entry table Ellen had mentioned. When candlelight threw flickering light around the room, she could see their digs for the night. The centerpiece, she noticed with some dismay, was a round honeymooners’ bed covered with an emerald-green satin spread, and positioned beneath a heavy crystal chandelier. She stepped closer with a candle, seeing peacock-feathered pillows piled abundantly at the top of the bed, the colors glistening almost erotically in the candlelight. A mirrored wall backed the bed, emphasizing the florid color scheme. Chelsea lit candles on the bedside tables, noting that every wall had a painting, which seemed to be delicate nudes in a Garden of Eden–type setting, each of which included—what else?—peacocks.

“Holy smokes,” Gage said. “I think the bed is motorized.”

“Why?” She stepped closer to see what he was looking at.

“I guess so it can turn.” He stared underneath the bed with a flashlight, checking out the contraption. “I wondered why it was set so high. When the juice, as Ellen called it, comes back on, we’ll check it out.”

“She certainly wants this cottage to contain everything a honeymooner needs,” Chelsea said, checking out a glass-topped table with a gold-rimmed tray. “I was going to help myself to some fruit juice, but I see these are juices of a different kind.”

Gage grinned as he glanced at the tray of varying fruit-flavored body oils. “Who would have thought Ms. Ellen had such a sensual side?”

“Not me.” Chelsea shuddered. “Let’s not think about that. Let’s plan on how you’re going to get those peacocks away from her. I’m pretty certain she hijacked you for the honeymooner’s cabin and has no intention of letting you have any peafowl. How’d you know they were called peafowl, anyway?”

“First,” Gage said, handing Chelsea a towel so she could dry off, “she didn’t hijack me. She held up Jonas for the money, and he said I had his full permission to do whatever I had to do, including bribery, to encourage her to let loose some birds.” He leaned down and pulled off his boots, setting them by the door next to her leather flats. “Second, once I realized Jonas was determined to get his hands on some peacocks, I did a quick study of how the creatures live.”

Gaze shrugged, looking dangerous in the near darkness, his teeth gleaming whitely as he sank onto the bed. Chelsea’s nervousness picked up, warning her that this situation was fraught with danger, mainly from her own attraction to the cowboy. And I am attracted to him, I always knew I was. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

“You forget I’m in charge of building Jonas’s grand plan for Dark Diablo. Peacocks will need pens on the ranch.”

“And that means another project on your list.”

“Exactly. I wanted a time estimate. Since I’d hoped this job would be a four-to-six-month project, having to stop and direct construction of pens will add on time. It’s not like a doghouse or something else uncomplicated. Pens’ll have to be spacious to accommodate the five-foot tails when splayed. Peacock trains can be six feet in length when not open.” He sighed. “Jonas has always been a grand dreamer.”

“Or schemer.”

“Yeah. Anyway, that’s when I picked up some peafowl lingo. I was hoping to impress Ms. Smithers, knowing she’d given Jonas a bit of a rough road.”

Chelsea sank into a chair across from the bed, not wanting to get too close to temptation. “I had the strangest feeling she was giving us the runaround.”

“Not as much as we’re giving her.” Gage bounced once on the mattress. “I wonder if Jonas got the grand tour of this joint. I’ll bet he did, the old dog. This smacks of a Callahan setup.”

Chelsea froze. “What do you mean?”

Rain slashed the windows, and a burst of lightning lit the room. She could see Gage’s face clearly as he ruefully shook his head with a smile. “You find Ellen’s fridge and those goodies she promised us. I’m going to check on Cat and your mom, if I’ve got cell service.”

“Sure.” Anything not to sit and look at him lounging on the bed. “She did say she stocked this cabin with the best there is to offer.”

“Hope she lives up to her boasting. I’m starved.”

He handed over the flashlight, and Chelsea went to find the fridge in the kitchenette, hearing Gage in the other room talking to his daughter.

“That’s good,” he said. “You take care of Miss Moira.”

Chelsea smiled and got out some champagne that was chilling, and some chocolate-dipped strawberries, both dark and white chocolate. Further inspection showed a large salad and a loaf of bread, set side by side in beautiful bowls. Gage the vegetarian would eat both of those, Chelsea thought, considering the block of cheese attractively laid out on a marble cheeseboard. Almost as if it was waiting for someone. Chelsea narrowed her eyes, thinking. Ms. Smithers had had no notice that they’d be staying here tonight. Yet this food was all fresh, waiting. She pointed the flashlight at the chilled fruit, noticing that there were even bowls of fresh guacamole and dip, which looked tasty to her growling stomach. The ride up to Colorado had been longer than Jonas had claimed—his “short” ride to get the peacocks not as short as a drive into Rancho Diablo. Guacamole didn’t keep overnight, usually, unless one treated it with lemon and air-proof plastic wrap, and the delicate strawberries…

Chelsea walked out with the tray of fruit and the bottle of champagne just as Gage hung up the phone.

“All’s well at the homestead,” he said. “Moira and Chelsea are going to the library, now that they’ve finished their baking to take to Rancho Diablo for the Fourth of July gathering. They said they hoped we’re having fun. Jonas hung around for a while, and they all went for a dip in the creek. He’s been quite the host, apparently.”

“I’m sure,” Chelsea said, extending the tray. Gage took a dark-chocolate strawberry and smiled.

“Champagne? That’s fancy,” he said. “I don’t drink much champagne.”

“We might as well drink it,” Chelsea said, “because we’ve been had, cowboy.”


Chapter Seven

Gage put the strawberry back on the tray and looked at Chelsea. “Had?”

“Tricked. Bamboozled.”

“I know what the word means. I want to know what you mean.”

Setting the tray near the body oils on the long, slender table by the bed, Chelsea sighed. “You were right. This is a Callahan setup.”

He took the champagne from her, popping it open. The cork made barely a protest as it left the bottle. “If it is, I’m going to add on to my employer’s tab. What makes you think so?”

“There’s no meat in the fridge. Plenty of salads and fruit and tasty treats, but no meat. I’d say the guacamole was the ultimate giveaway.”

“Guacamole is really only good fresh,” Gage said. “I get why you’re a mystery writer.”

“It doesn’t take a detective to figure this one out. Smithers knew she’d be feeding a guest who didn’t eat meat. She prepared a great menu of what you could eat.”

Gage filled two flutes with champagne. “Why?”

“Because all the Callahans are born matchmakers. It runs in their blood. And like you said, they want everyone to share their misery.”

Gage looked at her. “It could be a coincidence. She could have had a customer who canceled. Besides which, Jonas is barking up the wrong tree, doll. The last thing I can handle right now is any kind of relationship. I’m not a relationship kind of guy, anyway. But the fact is, even if I were, my drama quotient’s too high to add a love angle right now. Probably ever.”

“Tell me about it.” Chelsea nodded. “I’m going to kill him.”

Gage tipped his glass against hers, the crystal clinking in the candlelit darkness. “I’ll help you. Here’s to killing Jonas.”

They sipped, studying each other over their glasses. Gage set his down on the table. “I’m more of a beer guy.”

“I’ll join you in a beer. Ellen does stock the libations well, I noticed.”

Gage followed her into the kitchenette, holding the flashlight so she could peruse the fridge. “You know, it could be a coincidence. Ellen might be the mischief maker here, looking to pad her monthly income. She strikes me as being a touch mercenary.”

“Don’t forget the fresh guac,” Chelsea said, “and the lack of even one chilled shrimp. What honeymooner do you know who doesn’t want a healthy helping of protein?”

“Not necessary.” He reached around her for the cheese. “Not all men need meat for boundless energy.”

“Why don’t you eat meat, anyway?” she asked, joining him at the small table with her own small ransacking of the fridge arranged on a plate.

“None of my family does.” Shrugging, he dug into the spreads and guacamole. “Never did. Dad had some disease, and my mom, considering herself a holistic type, believed that everyone could heal themselves with proper diet. As one tenet of Eastern medicine says, the four white deaths are white salt, white sugar, white flour and white fat. Mom added meat to the list. She had her own garden, even made her own pasta. It’s not as limiting as you think.”

“Did it help your dad?” Chelsea asked curiously, munching on the wheat cracker and cheese he offered.

“Dad’s disease wasn’t actually diet, it was financial. He loved money better than anything on the planet. And nothing can save a man from the lust for gold. Mom just didn’t want to accept that he loved money better than all of us put together.”

Chelsea looked at him. “So you’re going to be a really good father to Cat.”

“Yes, I am. As much as Leslie will let me. I suspect she’s got her own agenda. If I have to sue for custodial rights, I will. I’d prefer to work it out with her. This summer will be a trial run on how well Leslie and I can do joint parenting.”

Chelsea touched his hand. “Cat loves you.”

“She might one day. Right now she’s trying to figure out who I am.” Gage shrugged, his typical blow-off of life’s events that meant too much. “That’s my only mission right now, besides my job.”

“Are you going to take Cat to see your family? She mentioned she’d like to meet them.”

“No.” Gage dipped guac on a chip and gave it to Chelsea. “This is better than I would have believed Ellen the Amazon could fix. In fact, I find her a study in contrasts.”

Chelsea smiled at him, warming him. “Ellen is a sturdy lass, my mum would say. Anyway, I think Cat has plans to hound you about her aunt and uncles.”

“She can hound all she likes. I have very little to say to Xav and Kendall. I’d talk to Shaman if he was around, but my guess is he lets the military be his guide. Shaman’s a helluva free spirit, believes in Native American spiritualism, tosses in a little Catholic mysticism for balance, and says screw the family tree. I agree with him on all that.” Greg saw Chelsea’s eyebrows raise, and decided to elaborate. “Xav and Kendall inherited our father’s love of the almighty dollar, along with his penchant for making it. I stay clear.”

“Should that affect Cat, though?”

“Now, Miss Marple,” Gage said, not wanting to talk about his family anymore, “that’s enough digging for skeletons for one day. Even a mystery writer has to put away her pen and enjoy the moonlight.”

“Ugh, don’t mention mystery writing. I’m behind.”

“I hear. Cat says both of us have issues.”

Chelsea laughed. “I guess so.”

Lightning flashed through the windows, and thunder boomed over the cottage. “Well, if this was a Callahan setup, it could have been worse.”

“I guess so.”

Gage smiled. “You have a problem with the company?”

“Not exactly.” She looked at him. “In fact, not at all.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to avoid me like you do, say, snakes.”

Chelsea thumped his finger lightly. “Bad boy. You scared me out of my socks on purpose.”

“I believe, doll, I scared you out of your swimsuit.”

He saw a reluctant smile flash across her face. “So you did look,” she said.

“Hell, yeah,” he said. “I’m a red-blooded man. There’s not a living guy on this planet who wouldn’t have at least grabbed a fast peek at that set you’ve got.” He raised his beer. “Believe me, the memory is as burned into my mind as that nude in there with the artfully placed peacock feathers. But in my defense,” Gage continued, “once I realized you’d had a swimsuit malfunction, I heroically did not look again. And I’m hoping for points for that, minus one or two if I tell the truth and admit I would have gone for another bug-eyed ogle if you’d lost your bottoms, as well. Polka dots are great, but I have a thing for freckles. I think I deserve hero points.”

Chelsea slipped her hand into his, the same hand that she’d thumped a moment ago. “I’m wondering if maybe you’d like more than points.”

He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “More?”

“Yeah. Something to go along with the memory.”

She would regret this later. It was the champagne and the lightning and the erotic wall art working her over. Gage made a last-ditch attempt to throw them both on a pyre of sanity. “My memory’s pretty good,” he said. “Beautiful breasts tend to stay with me.”

She slid into his lap and put his hand on one of the breasts he’d thought about a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.

“Then again, touch is better than memory, as they say,” he said, carrying Chelsea to the peacock bed.

“Who says?” she asked, curling into his neck and placing small kisses there. His body hit horny overload.

He could not be this lucky.

“I say,” Gage said, and laid her on the mattress.

Chelsea thought she was going to die of the sexual attraction swamping her. A wild roller coaster of emotions threatened to overtake her senses—she knew that—but the fact was, once Gage kissed her on the lips, parting her mouth with his tongue, she was lost. And she was happy to be lost.

He was a man who wouldn’t stay in her life, wouldn’t want an entanglement. He was perfect.

“Are you sure?” he asked, running his hand under her blouse to her bra clasp.

“Positive,” she said, undoing his belt buckle.

“Changing your mind is allowed. Just say the word.”

He sounded worried, so she sneaked her hands around his muscled back and down into his jeans, kneading the skin, slowly moving to the front. He took off her bra, and she shimmied her jeans off, letting him make the final move with her string bikini underwear. Gage hesitated, his gaze on her in the flickering candlelight. And then, before she realized what he was going to do, he’d reached over and turned off the flashlight, blew out the candles and kissed his way down her stomach to her navel.

Gently, slowly, he removed her panties, kissing her there as thoroughly as he’d kissed her lips. She cried out, never imagining such pleasure existed, and when it seemed she couldn’t take anymore and grabbed his shoulders for the pleasure of it all, he rose and slowly sank inside her.

It hurt, God it hurt, and she swallowed the cry she nearly uttered.

“Are you okay?” Gage asked.

“Yes,” Chelsea whispered. But he knew anyway, because she was lying completely, rigidly still under him. So he rolled over and pulled her on top of him, holding her, and as the storm flashed light and fury through the windows, Chelsea knew she’d been right to wait for the only man of her impossible dreams.

* * *

“HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Gage asked, leaning over to kiss her lips about an hour later, after they’d dozed a little. Chelsea had stunned him. He’d never expected her to be a virgin. She was too pretty to have never had a boyfriend. Then he remembered that she’d mentioned she’d spent years taking care of her mother, and everything made sense.

“I’m fine,” Chelsea said. She nuzzled his neck. “I think I could be better, though.”

“Tell me how, doll.”

His voice sounded rough in the darkness, though he’d tried to keep the moment light. The last thing he wanted was for the electricity to come back on and her to be embarrassed by their lovemaking.

“Like this,” Chelsea said, moving on top of him.

His breath caught, and his body was instantly awake, roaring like a tiger. She was hot and tight and wet, and the crazy best part was that she wanted him.

Not half as much as he wanted Red right now. If she was game, he’d aim to please.

He grabbed another condom from his wallet on the nightstand.

“Come here, beautiful,” he said, kissing her, turning her onto her back and moving inside her. He hesitated, waiting for her to clench up again with pain, but when she didn’t, he began long, slow strokes to get her to the place he was already. At long last, he could tease her nipples, kiss them to his heart’s content. “Ever since I saw these, I wanted them,” he told her, his voice husky and tight like it hadn’t been since he was a teenager.

Chelsea moaned in response, reaching for what she didn’t know was out there, on the edge of pleasure. “Relax,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.” And moving inside her more swiftly, he listened for the sounds he needed to hear, letting him know he was pleasing her. When she suddenly went over the edge, crying out his name, Gage was startled. Burying his face in her neck, he said, “Chelsea, Chelsea,” over and over again like a drowning man, and when he felt her wetness washing over him, he let go, sinking into her accepting body, knowing somehow that everything he’d ever thought and ever wanted in life had just changed, miraculously, and completely beyond his control.


Chapter Eight

As Ellen had predicted, the “juice” had not come back on by daybreak. Gage was gone when Chelsea finally stirred. She grabbed a quick, satisfying shower, grateful that the small cottage had gas heat. She wished she’d been awake when Gage had gotten up—but waking up with him would have been awkward, too.

He’d probably thought to spare her.

Thing was, she didn’t regret last night. And if he was worried about her not understanding his feeling about no relationships in his life, he needn’t be. She pulled on her jeans and shoes, fluffed her hair to dry it a bit, and told herself she’d never had a long-term relationship, and now wasn’t the time for her to start. She couldn’t even be sure she’d get her green card. Her mother needed her, and she had a deadline looming.

Clearly, this was not the time for romance.

Not to mention she was pretty certain Gage had a daughter who wouldn’t accept a woman in her father’s life easily. Chelsea couldn’t blame her.

She went to find Gage, not surprised to see him outside with Ellen, looking over some tall, wide pens.

“I just can’t part with any of my birds right now,” the breeder said. “Good morning, Chelsea.”

Gage gave her a slow, sexy smile that flipped her heart, then went back to his conversation. “I believe, Ms. Ellen, you might have known that you couldn’t part with any last night.”

Chelsea’s jaw dropped. They had gotten taken for a night of room rental—and had taken full advantage of the moment to be alone. She blushed, knowing Jonas was going to be plenty annoyed when they returned without the colorful, beautiful peacocks he envisioned for Rancho Diablo.

“I said I’d think about it,” Ellen said, her tone defensive. “The problem is that it’s breeding season, as you might have heard last night.”

They had heard the loud calls of the peacocks searching for partners. Chelsea found herself blushing again, remembering that Gage had said he was glad he didn’t have to make those kinds of noises to get his lady into bed. And then he’d made slow, sweet love to her, feeding her a strawberry and making good use of the strawberry oil on the gilt tray, murmuring that she was his own delicious—

“What do you think, Chelsea?” Gage asked.

Her gaze snapped to his. “I think Miss Ellen has a point about waiting until after breeding season. We don’t have a pen yet, and it would give us time to build one. We could come back at the end of the summer, say, September, and get a pair of peacocks then.”

Nodding, Gage glanced at Ellen. “Works for me.”

“Well,” she said, pretending to think over the proposition, “I would feel better if you had your pens built. And once the ladies are done nesting, it wouldn’t be harmful to transport them so far. Where’d you say you’re from?”

“Hell’s Colony,” Gage stated.

“That’s what I thought you said.” She gave him a sharp eying. “I knew a man from New Mexico who wanted peacocks. I didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him with my birds.”

Gage smiled reassuringly. “Glad you like us, then.”

Ellen hesitated. “There aren’t that many people in the market for peafowl. So I have to be careful.”

Chelsea saw that the woman had her radar up for trouble. Nothing good could come of her asking more questions. “We’d like to make a fifty percent deposit, Ms. Smithers, and then pay the other half when we receive our pair. Would that suit you?”

Gage pulled out his wallet, retrieving green bills that caught Ellen’s gaze.





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