Tina Leonard - The Renegade Cowboy Returns

“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.