The Renegade Cowboy Returns. Tina Leonard

      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