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