The Renegade Cowboy Returns. Tina Leonard

      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