Calamity Jayne Heads West (11 page)

“Well, how do you like that?” I said. “I have never been so insulted in my entire life!”

“You mean he wasn’t talking about me?” Sophie asked, sinking into the chair across from me. I looked at her.

“He doesn’t even know you,” I said.

“People talk,” she said. “And there’s e-mail and phone calls, and letters.”

And our gammy, who loves to gossip.

“You know, maybe I shouldn’t say this, Tressa,” So-phie said, continuing just the same, “but I got the im-pression that Rick Townsend really wanted you to be here tonight just because of him,” Sophie said. “Ithink he felt let down and disappointed when he found out you weren’t.”

“But I
am
here because of him!” I said. “You know that! It’s just that
he
can’t know that. Trust me. There’d be no living with the man if he knew he had that kind of hold on me,” I told her.

“Are you planning to live with him?” she asked.

Was I?

Of course not. Still, he did have that room at the luxury hotel. And face it; I was so hot for the guy my silver belt buckle was in serious danger of melting. Or was that smelting? Either way, “burn, baby, burn” didn’t begin to cover how feverish Townsend made me. And, frankly, I wasn’t sure how long I could hold out before I burst into flames. I’d seen photos of peo-ple who had self-combusted. It wasn’t pretty. And frankly, I had no desire to be featured on Wikipedia or some medical Web site in a photo array of crispy critters.

On the other hand, I didn’t want my aorta immor-talized in a similar fashion if I finally gave in to my body’s ravenous craving for the too-tempting ranger, and I ended up with a broken heart even the best car-diac surgeons would be shaking their heads and checking the latest medical journals over.

“I was using ‘live with’ as a figure of speech, So-phie,” I told her. “After all, with our grandparents get-ting married, I’m bound to be around Townsend a lot more. I don’t want things to be awkward and uncom-fortable for Joe and Gram.”

“Uncomfortable? Gram? Not likely,” she said. “And I didn’t get the impression her groom was one to stew and fret either. Sometimes, Tressa, you just have to take a leap of faith,” she said, and I felt like the younger sister here instead of the older cousin.

“That sounds good in theory,” I said, “but my trackrecord doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Usually when I take a leap of faith, I end up flat on my face.” Or knee deep in shite. Or blood and guts. Or both.

“You need to have more faith in yourself, Tressa,” So-phie said. “Don’t be afraid to be who you are. Believe me. It’s much, much harder to be someone you aren’t. Or, rather, pretend you’re something you’re not.”

I nodded. Hadn’t I realized just that after playing the fool for way too long? And years later I was still paying for it. And that, I supposed, was what was at the heart of my reluctance to hop into the sack with Ranger Rick. While I had succeeded in getting others to see beyond the Calamity Jayne caricature—well, to some extent—it was glaringly apparent that I hadn’t yet convinced my-self that I was worthy of the attention—and affection—of someone like Rick Townsend. A guy who could make Johnny Depp insecure about his sexuality.

Well, what do you know? I was a complicated indi-vidual, after all. Who knew?

“You’re pretty sharp, Sophie. You know that?” I said. “And I’m ready to split this pop shack and head for the barn. What about you?”

“You don’t want to hang around and see what hap-pens with Townsend?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“And the Oak Creek Canyon maniac?

“His name is Raphael and I’ve, shall we say, smoked the peace pipe with him. I’ll fill you in on the way home.”

She nodded. “And you didn’t meet any nice guys during the speed dating you’d like to stay and get to know? None at all?”

“The guy with the shoe fetish admired my taste in boots,” I told her.

“It’s a start,” she said.

I stood and pulled my backpack from my chair andSophie reached down to collect her bag from beneath the table. “Uh, where’s my purse?” she said, as I slipped an arm through the strap of my backpack.

“It’s under the table there,” I told her.

“No. It’s not!” she said, and I watched her drop to all fours.

“What do you mean?” I asked, joining her on the floor. “It’s been there since you went off in a tiff,” I told her.

“I wasn’t in a tiff, and it’s not here,” she said. I scooted under the table to check for myself. “Maybe it got kicked down the tables,” I said, and crawled under the next one.

“Do you see it?” Sophie asked.

“Nothing yet,” I said, reaching out to pull a long denim skirt aside so I could see, and accidentally grabbing hold of an ankle. I heard a shriek, followed by a slap.

“Why, you pervert!” I heard above me. “How dare you play footsie with me!”

“I did no such thing!” a man’s voice yelled.

“Are you telling me I don’t know when someone’s playing footsie with me?”

Another slap sounded.

“Now just a damnable minute!”

A flurry of activity erupted above me. Grunts, curses, more slaps, and what sounded an awful lot like beverages being flung escalated into a cacophony I suspected would soon be a free-for-all.

I crawled back to the safe end of the table, climbed out and stood up, looking down the rows that once upon a time had been in a straight line. Now they were helter-skelter, and across their linen-covered tops fin-gers pointed, folks shouted, and ice cubes flew.

In the midst of the chaos, Sophie hauled herself out from under the tables and directly into the path of thewoman who had speculated about our sexual orienta-tion earlier in the evening. She spotted Sophie on the floor beneath her and her face turned the color of mine when I tried to run a mile around the track back home without stopping. (Okay. A half a mile. You guys don’t let me get away with a thing.)

“You again!” the woman hissed, her finger pointed at poor Sophie, who made the mistake of looking up at the woman—and as it happened, directly up her skirt. “Of all the disgusting, vile—”

She dove for Sophie, fingers curled like crimson talons, her red-tipped claws designed for ripping and tearing. I stood for a second in total shock at the melee before me. However, once I saw the woman go for a handful of Sophie’s hair, I dove into action. I grabbed the woman around the waist and attempted to yank her off my cousin.

“You’re . . . making . . . a . . . terrible . . . mistake,” I said, grunting with exertion as I tried to dislodge the frenzied woman’s hold on my cousin’s brown locks. “My cousin lost her purse. Her
Dolce & Gabbana
purse! We thought it might have been kicked under the table. That’s what she was doing under there! For God’s sake, woman, are you listening? It was a five-hundred- dollar white calf leather Dolce & Gabbana!”

“Seven hundred twenty-five dollars!” Sophie howled.

The fight went out of the woman like she’d sud-denly been unplugged. She looked up at me.

“She lost her Dolce&Gabbana?” she asked. I nodded.

The woman let go of Sophie’s hair and began to stroke it. “Oh, you poor, poor thing!” she cried. “Here, I’ll help you look. Everyone! We’re looking for a white calf leather Dolce & Gabbana handbag.”

I looked on as the woman maneuvered herself un-derneath the tables in search of Sophie’s designer purse.

“Oh . . . my . . . gawd!” I heard Sophie’s attacker-turned-comrade yell from under the tables. “Quick! Call the police! Sound the alarm! Close off all the exits!”

“What! What’s wrong?” I asked, squatting down and thinking no way could a body find its way under the table without somebody seeing. “What is it?”

The woman popped her head out from beneath the table, the maroon tablecloth fanning out from the top of her head and around her shoulders making her look way too much like a disembodied head for my peace of mind.

“Her Dolce & Gabbana!” the head shrieked. “It’s been stolen!”

I stuck my head underneath the table to see for my-self and shook my head in disbelief.

You don’t tug on Superman’s cape. You don’t spit into the wind. And you sure as hell don’t come be-tween a woman and her designer handbag. That was considered a hangin’ offense in these here parts.

I was about to scoot back out butt first when I felt pressure on the bottom of one foot. “Turner, what the hell are you doing down there?” came from above and behind me. I winced.

“Excuse me, but you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I said, lowering my voice a handful of notes. “I don’t know any Turners.”

“Well, I’d know that backside anywhere,” came the response, and I clenched my teeth. Dammit. And so not my good side.

I thought about crawling all the way under the table, but figured I’d been coward enough for one night, so I backed out butt first and stood, brushing off the knees of my black jeans.

I smiled at Rick and Carena.

“You have got to try the speed dating!” I said. “Whatan utterly fantastic way to meet, mingle, and interact with new people. Why, just look at Sophie!”

Townsend followed my nod to where Sophie and her new friend ripped tables apart and yanked linen coverings off like out-of-control illusionists, searching in vain for the lost bag.

Another “Hell!” reached me and my smile shriveled.

This was so not gonna be a keepsake moment for Gammy’s Southwestern Scrapbook. My number was up—and so was the jig, pardner.

CHAPTER NINE

“It had to be him!” I said for like the twentieth time, but received much the same response as I had the first time I said it. “Raphael, cakeophile and con artist,” I said. “I know it was him.”

“How the devil do you know that?” Rick Townsend asked, running a hand through his thick head of dark brown hair, as was oft his habit when we were having a conversation.

“He distracted me,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? How’d he do that?” Townsend asked.

I thought about it for a second.

“He was . . . nice,” I told him. “And sincere and apologetic and . . . and . . . and poetic,” I said, trying to explain how he’d gotten me off my guard. Which, I suppose when you think about it, isn’t all that difficult when you’re great-looking and come bearing promises of chocolate.

Townsend snorted. “Poetic? He was poetic? Since when do you give a shit about poetry?” he said. I bris-tled. I was not entirely without culture and sophistica-tion. After all, Dr. Seuss was one of my all-time favorite poets when I was a kid. And that poem about stopping off by the woods on a snowy evening? That, like, totally rocked.

“Contrary to what you believe, I enjoy well-crafted iambic pentameter as much as the next person,” I said. “And I’ve always been a huge fan of limericks,” I added. “You know. Like: There was once a ranger named Rick. Who sometimes could be such a—”

Sophie chose that fortuitous moment to join us, clamping a heavy hand over my mouth before I could finish my little ditty.

“For the record, I’d be interested in how this guy managed to distract you so much that you didn’t see him walking off with a huge handbag,” Sophie said, apparently figuring it was safe to uncover my oral cav-ity, and removing her hand so I could respond.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, he was dis-arming. Lyrical, even,” I said, trying to explain how I’d been duped a second time. “And charming. And sensi-tive. And sweet. He said if he’d known I was going to be here, he’d have brought me an entire cake,” I said, my mind’s eye conjuring up that image in my head. And the cute con man serving me up a slice in nothing but a Chef Boyardee hat, apron and a “Let-her-eat-cake” grin. I sighed.

Townsend shot me a disgusted look.

“If you’re right about this guy, he’s probably pur-chasing more than cake with your cousin’s plastic right about now,” Townsend pointed out. I slapped a hand to my mouth.

“Ohmigawd, Sophie! I am so sorry! I swear, if I thought for a minute that fast-talking rogue was going to pinch your purse, I never would have let him sit down in the first place, and I most certainly would not have accepted his apology.”

Townsend’s look grew even more disgusted. “Apol-ogy? He tried to grab a camera out of my niece’s hands, scared the hell out of her, took off with your dessert, and you accepted his apology? Are you nuts?” Townsend rubbed the back of his neck. “Why the devil didn’t you come get me so I could have a word with your newfound friend?”

“Because I didn’t want to disturb you and
your
new friend!” I said, glaring right back at him.

Townsend’s new friend Ranger Whitehead finally spoke up. “You know, Rick, I think I’m going to be tak-ing off. I have to work in the morning and it looks like you’ll be tied up here for a while. You’ve got my num-ber,” she said. “Give me a call if you free up sometime before you leave town.”

I rolled my eyes so far up beneath my lids I blinded myself. Boy, did I ever have her number!

She looked at me. “Miss Turner. I hope you are able to enjoy the remainder of your stay in Flagstaff. Goodnight.”

“I’ll see you out, Carena,” Townsend said, and gave me another dark look. “And you? You stay right here. Don’t move,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

I shook my head as he walked off with Carena. “Who does he think he is? God Almighty? I’ll go wherever I darn well please whenever I please, thank you very much,” I proclaimed. “I answer to no man.”

“So? Where do you want to go?” Sophie asked.

I gave her a sheepish look. “Nowhere,” I admitted. “But he doesn’t know that.”

“I’ve got to tell you, cous, I’m having a hard time getting a bead on you two,” Sophie said, giving me the once-over. “You have this thing between you. It’s so super-charged a bystander wants to back slowly away and keep a safe distance. You’re attracted to each other. That’s apparent. But, and this may sound reallyweird, I’m not sure if you like each other,” she said. I looked at her, surprised. I’d never thought of the rela-tionship with Rick Townsend quite in those terms, but what Sophie said made perfect sense.

I was undeniably in lust with Ranger Rick Townsend—and had been for some time. But did I like him? Could I love him? Be
in
love with him? After all, this was the guy who took the Polaroid of me in the porta-potty at the third-grade field day and posted it on the bulletin board at the public swimming pool. Who brought a duck call and tooted it as I walked in to prom with Tony Goosman my junior year. Who kept a menagerie of reptiles as pets when he knew I was petrified of all things scaly and slithery.

The question was, did I even care about all that any-more? Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe it was time to throw caution to the wind, to take that leap of faith and into the sack with Townsend and damn the conse-quences. After all, wasn’t it Townsend who’d said, “What’s love got to do with it?”

I felt my entire body tingle at the mere possibility of sleeping with Rick Townsend. I shivered again, experi-encing a feeling I generally got before I did something really, really foolhardy. Or naughty.

I watched Townsend make his way back over to us and couldn’t take my eyes off him. The way he moved so fluidly yet so casually. The way he commanded attention—and yet seemed oblivious to it. The way he scowled when he was cranky (i.e. at present) and grinned when he was in the mood to tease. The way he made my innards knot and my breath hitch whenever I was near him.

I turned to Sophie. “Maybe you’re right, cous,” I said. “Maybe it’s time for a good old-fashioned, cow-girl leap of faith.”

And meanwhile? I’d be hopin’ and prayin’ that if Idid throw caution to the wind, it didn’t boomerang on me and end up coming back to bite me on the arse.

A very efficient Flagstaff officer came to take the po-lice report and said he’d follow up with Sophie the next day. We were getting ready to leave when a nice-looking guy around Sophie’s age hurried over to us as we walked to the door.

“Sophie! I thought that was you. What are you doing here?” he asked, casting a curious look at Townsend and me.

“Oh, hi, Tristan,” she greeted the chap.

What was it with the names out here? Raphael. Tris-tan. Antonio. Carena. This was the southwest. Land of hot, dry deserts, red river crossings, Old Tucson. Come on. Give me Buck or a Clint or even a Billy for good-ness’ sake. But Tristan?

“I’m here with my cousin, Tressa, and her . . .” So-phie faltered. “Our cousin-to-be, Rick. Our grandpar-ents are tying the knot this coming weekend. We were just on our way out.”

Tristan looked like he was trying to picture this little family tree but had come up a few branches bare.

“I see,” he said, my go-to line when I don’t have a clue and really don’t even suspect anything. “So, I caught the tail end of you at Babes the other night,” he said. “Pun intended,” he added with a wink. “By the way, Tristan likes,” he said with a smile that looked shy but somehow wasn’t.

I watched Sophie for a reaction and I could have sworn her eyeballs began moving back and forth in a shut-your-pie-hole-now way.

“Cool,” Sophie said. “Uh, we have to be going. Lots to do before the big day, you know.”

“Okay. Yeah. Sure. See you at—”

“Yeah. Uh-huh. I’ll see you, too,” Sophie inter-rupted, cutting him off like Simon Cowell does those
American Idol
wannabes who are tone deaf and appar-ently no one has broken the news to them before. Yikes! Send in the hook!

“Oh, crap! I just forgot, my car key was in my bag!” Sophie explained, putting a hand to her neck. “We’ll have to call my folks and have them bring my spare key out.”

“What’s wrong? Where’s your bag?” Tristan asked. Sophie explained.

“Was it the Dolce or the Vuitton?” he asked.

I blinked.

“I can give you a lift home,” Tristan offered. “And bring you back to get your car, if you like,” he offered.

“That’s okay. I can give my cousins-to-be a—,” Rick started to volunteer, and I reached out and poked him in the side, grabbed his arm and stuck it through mine.

“Why, that would be lovely, Tristan,” I trilled. “And I bet Sophie wouldn’t say no to a cold drink before she packs it in. It’s been a stressful night for her. You two just run along and visit, and I’ll catch a ride with our cousin Rick here,” I said, pulling Ranger Rick to the door. “See you later, Soph,” I said, and waved back to her as we walked outside.

“What the hell was that all about?” he said, and I did one of those eye rolls that always earned me a lecture on insubordination from teachers. And people thought
I
was one tent pole short of a teepee.

“Hello! That guy is obviously interested in Sophie,” I pointed out.

“So? How do you know Sophie feels the same way?” Townsend asked. I stopped and looked at him.

“I just know. That’s all,” I said. “Women know these things.”

“Right. Women’s intuition,” Townsend said, steering me to the Suburban.

“That’s right,” I said, as Rick handed me up into thefront seat. He walked around and jumped in behind the wheel. “Women are intuitive creatures. We notice things that men simply do not.” I turned a skeptical look on Townsend and added, “Or claim they don’t.”

Townsend nodded. “And how’d that women’s intu-ition work for you when Raphael walked off with So-phie’s bag right under his arm and your nose?” He started the car. “Face it, Tressa. Women can be as dense as men when it comes to matters of the heart.” He looked over at me. “Some more than others.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked as he pulled out and sped down the road.

He looked at me for about a minute, suddenly veered off the road and pulled into a parking lot at a nearby strip mall. He parked the car and shut off the engine, and sat silent behind the wheel for several minutes, his face a slide show of so many emotions that I began to get dizzy. Uncertainty. Anger. Frustra-tion. Fear.

Fear?

When he finally turned to me, his expression was unreadable.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said, repeating my earlier query. “Just that if I’d known all it took to make you swoon was a few lines of romantic rhyme, a Betty Crocker mix, and a goddamned container of frosting, I’d have had pen in hand and ass in apron long before now. Jeezus, I would’ve become the freakin’ Pillsbury doughboy if I’d known that’s what it took.”

I stared at him.

“If that’s what it took to what?” I asked, my lips sud-denly dry as the sands of the Sonoran desert.

He hesitated for a very long second. And another. Finally, he took a long, noisy breath and looked into my eyes and said those words every woman yearns tohear from the drop-dead beautiful man she’s fanta-sized about since puberty.

“If that’s what it took to get you naked and into my bed,” he said.

I almost soiled the rented Suburban’s upholstery.

Red-hot searing heat flooded my cheeks. My chest felt tighter than when I tried on the miracle body re-ducer in the dressing room at Victoria’s Secret. The miracle then was that I could breathe at all. But I couldn’t breathe now. Couldn’t speak. (Yes, it does happen on occasion.) I couldn’t think. Couldn’t begin to know what to do, how to respond, how to act.

Okay, you tell me, smarty pants. What would you do if a guy who’d needled you since you were nine, with a perfect body and who knows how to use it, suddenly confessed he wanted you naked in his bed? Come on. Huh? What? Oh, a little tongue-tied there, I see. You’re a big help.

I ended up doing what I’d vowed never to do in front of Rick Townsend. I put my face in my hands and began to bawl. Not dainty little delicate whimpers, but big, monstrous, shoulder-heaving mucous-manufacturing blubbers.

I could hear Townsend rummage about for a tissue, so I unzipped my bag and pulled out the napkins I’d stuck in for the cake I’d never tasted. I covered my nose and blew long and loud, mopping my eyes with a dry napkin.

“Jeezus, Tressa, I’m sorry if I upset or offended you,” Townsend said, and I could tell from his tone he was extremely distressed. “I never meant . . . I didn’t think . . . Oh, shit, I should’ve kept my goddamned mouth shut,” he said.

I blinked the rest of the tears out of my eyes and Townsend took the damp wad of napkins and began to dry my cheeks.

“Dammit, Tressa, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said. I looked up at him.

“You didn’t?” I said with a sniffle. “You didn’t mean it?” Tears once again began to collect and pool in my eyes, along with that painful pressure you get in your throat when you’re trying really hard not to cry any-more. “You didn’t mean it?” I repeated, beginning to sob and snot like there was no tomorrow.

“Hell, Tressa, what are you crying about now?” he asked, patting my shoulder like a kindly uncle. Or a dad. “I said I was sorry.”

My crying was now at that stage of silent sobs where the top half of your body moves up and down but no sound comes out your mouth ’cause you’re all sobbed out.

“I’m crying,” I said between sniffles and tiny little whimpers, “because it was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me—and you didn’t even mean it!”

Townsend retreated for a moment, sitting behind the wheel of the Suburban and staring out the wind-shield. One minute he was a still-life, a silhouette in stone, a study in repose, and the next? The next he was an action figure come to life, a flesh and blood man, a hunter claiming his prey. Okay, okay, so I’m getting a little carried away here. Would you rather I say, “he was all over me like hot butter on a roasting ear”? Kinda kills the mood, don’t you think?

I went from whimpering like a little girl who’d lost her lollipop to whimpering like a big girl being soundly—thoroughly—and expertly kissed. Townsend drew me to his feverish body, flattening my breasts against his hard, hot chest, and I wound my arms around his neck and plastered myself to as much of him as I could, returning his kisses with all the passion I’d been saving for just such an occasion.