Banks had been expecting something Western or country, and nothing fancy. A lot of people played guitar in a standard sort of way. But when Clancey’s long fingers touched those strings, the sound they produced was incredible. He just stared at her, his lips faintly open on a breath of surprise. Her eyes were closed as she played. Her fingers moved faultlessly along the frets, her other hand delicately strumming the nylon strings with the longer fingernails that acted as a pick. She didn’t notice that Banks wasn’t the only person drinking in her performance. Diners at nearby tables had stopped eating to listen.

She finished, the last chord dying away to an odd, profound silence. She opened her eyes to a sudden burst of applause from the people around her. She flushed like a beet and laughed softly, bowing her head at the other diners in gratitude.

She handed back the guitar. The man just shook his head, still smiling. “A rare gift, young lady,” he said gently. “Were you taught?”

She nodded. “My grandfather played. I still have his guitar. He taught me to play when I was in grammar school.”

“Well, if you ever need a job, you can come and work with us,” he chuckled.

She grinned. “Thanks. But it’s too embarrassing to play for other people,” she added, still red faced as she glanced shyly around her.

“You could play professionally,” Banks said quietly. “You really are talented.”

“Thanks. But I just do it for my own amusement. Mostly when I’m worried or sad. It calms me.”

He nodded, as if he understood.

Cal Hollister stopped by their table on his way out.

“You told him,” she accused.

He shrugged, his hands in his pockets. “People who can play like that should play.”

“I’ll get even,” she said with a wicked grin.

“I superglued my hood shut,” he said blithely.

She burst out laughing while Banks sat frowning at the byplay.

“She knows how to take out a rotor,” he told the Texas Ranger. “I couldn’t figure out why the hell my old ranch truck wouldn’t start up. My car was in the shop, so I’d driven the truck to work. I started to go home and the truck wouldn’t crank. I was cussing and Clancey was standing at the back door of the building laughing her head off.” He glared at her. “I didn’t even make a sarcastic comment. I just said you needed to learn to change the cartridges in the printer before we all got fired. The police commissioner himself sent us a note about the faded documents we were forwarding to him.”

“Wasn’t my fault,” she said haughtily. “It was a stupid printer.”

“Well, it was, but no printer is going to work without having its ink cartridges changed periodically.”

“He tried to shoot ours,” she indicated Banks.

“It wouldn’t work,” he replied defensively.