The Renegade Cowboy Returns

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.