Calamity Jayne Heads West (12 page)

“God, you’re gonna drive me to an early grave,” Townsend said, stopping to catch his breath. “But what a way to go,” he added, lowering his head to take my lips once again in a kiss so hot and wet the interior of the Suburban felt like a sauna. I opened my eyes briefly and couldn’t see beyond the steam on the windows.

“Uh, we’re fogging the place up,” I said against Townsend’s lips.

“Who the hell cares?” he growled.

“It’s hot in here,” I said, my lips tracing a path to his ear and nipping at his lobe.

“Take some clothes off,” he suggested, nuzzling my neck and pulling my white shirt out of my waistband, letting his hand crawl under my blouse and up over my breasts.

“You first,” I said, and I heard him chuckle against my neck.

He touched the tip of one aching breast then re-moved his hand, and giving me one last quick kiss, he moved away.

“I wonder what you would do if I did shuck my cloth-ing,” he asked, looking at me with a fire, only slightly banked, still glowing in his eyes. “You’d probably take off running like you did that day a year ago when I showed you my tattoo,” he said with a wicked grin.

“Duh. You were supposed to chase me, fool,” I growled, still breathless from his kisses and feeling a need inside me so deep and urgent that it was almost a physical pain. I shook my head. “And I’m supposed to be the half-wit.”

His eyes widened. “What are you saying, Tressa?” he asked, and I could swear he wiped a moist palm on his pants. My god.Was it possible?Was Townsend as scared as I was? As nervous at the prospect of making love?

I frowned. Oh boy. This wasn’t good. I’d been rely-ing on Townsend to make the first move. Uh, and the second and third and so on.

“Tressa?” he asked again, his body turned slightly in my direction. “What are you saying?”

What
was
I saying? Was I ready for this? I hadn’t lost that ten pounds I’d sworn to shed before I shucked my clothes for any man—and most certainly for a man with a body like Rick Townsend. My hair was still . . . well, my hair, in all its untamable, unruly, unmanage-able glory. And this early in the season I still sported a pretty bad case of farmer tan to boot. Not quite the package I’d hoped to deliver.

So, what was I saying? That I was okay with lower marks for presentation if I snared high ones for per-formance?

I thought about my mom and dad. Craig and Kim-mie. Even Gram and Joe. I thought about leaps of faith, runs for the roses, and reaching for the stars. But most of all, I thought of Ranger Rick Townsend. And in that moment I knew with crystal-clear clarity what I was saying. What I’d wanted to say for a very long time, but just hadn’t let myself admit.

I turned to Townsend, my feverish back pressed against the cool glass of the car window.

“You got room under that hotel bed for a pair of boots, pilgrim?” I said, feeling my lips quiver as I at-tempted to keep my teeth from chattering in my head.

Even in the limited light of the parking lot, I could see Townsend’s Adam’s apple yo-yo up and down. And again.

After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded.

“I think something could be arranged,” he said, and I was gratified to hear that his voice sounded as husky and tentative as mine. “If you don’t mind my grand-dad in the next bed, that is,” he said, and I winced at that mental picture. He couldn’t be serious. “On sec-ond thought, I’m thinkin’ a room with a king-sized bed, a great big tub with a Jacuzzi . . . ,” he went on. “Yeah, I think I’m up for that,” he added with a crooked smile.

I grinned back at him.

“There’s one more thing to consider, buckaroo,” I said.

“Oh? What’s that?” Townsend asked with a wary look.

“A cowgirl wants more than an eight-second ride,” I said with a slow wink I prayed didn’t come across as a nervous tic.

Townsend grinned and reached out to pull me next to him, kissing me hard on the mouth. “That definitely won’t be a problem,” he said. “Not a problem at all.”

We headed for my aunt and uncle’s house so I could pick up a few things. On the way I sat next to Townsend, his hand resting on my knee, and I felt very out-of-body sitting so close to him in this intimate way. We’d been adversaries for so long that the transition to . . . whatever we were or whoever we were to become to each other was hard to adjust to. I didn’t know how to act. Where to put my hands. Where not to put my hands. What to say. What not to say. God in Heaven—what had I just agreed to?

As we pulled onto the street where Aunt Kay and Uncle Ben lived, I contemplated jumping out of the vehicle and hauling ass down the street like the girl in that runaway bride movie. Panic welled up in my throat. At any moment I was going to let out this go-dawful bloodcurdling scream.

I opened my mouth.

“What the hell is going on?” Townsend said, and I turned to explain that I was about to have a panic at-tack and expected to be hyperventilating at any mo-ment and did he have a paper sack handy, when I realized he was talking about the flashing lights down the block. He slowed the Suburban and parked across the street from my aunt’s house. “What the—?”

Two police cars were parked in my aunt’s driveway, their top lights reflecting off windows down the block. Townsend opened the driver side door, got out, and helped me out.

I spotted my aunt and uncle and my folks in the front yard and I began to run, fear causing my heart to pound in my chest like an out of control dinner gong.

I ran up, breathless and scared.

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” I looked around for my grandma. “Is Gram all right?” I asked, not seeing her.

“No. I am not all right!”

I let out a relieved breath when I recognized my gammy’s voice. I ran over to her and put an arm on her shoulder. “What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked.

“Some asshole broke into the house while we were out and trashed the place. Bastard destroyed the wed-ding dress your Aunt Kay bought me. And you should see what he did to that John Wayne bobble head of yours. Snapped his head clean off.”

I looked at her. What kind of burglar took time to destroy an old lady’s dress and behead a deceased western actor?

Townsend walked up and put an arm around my gammy. “It’ll be okay, Hannah,” he said. “Granddad won’t care if you don’t wear a stitch as long as you marry him.” Rick winked at her. “In fact, he’d proba-bly prefer you did wear nothing—except a smile, of course,” he said.

I stared at Townsend, my heart doing little flip-flops in my chest at the soft, comforting manner he’d used with my gammy. I felt a sudden yearning to cuddle up to that softer side of the ranger, to lose myself in his embrace and regret it in the morning.

“Bless your heart,” Gram said, patting Rick’s cheek. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t much care for that dress anyway. Kay has such old fuddy-duddy taste. I’ll have to go shopping tomorrow and pick out something new. You interested in coming, Tressa? You need a dress, too, you know. Don’t want you coming wearing nothing but a smile or nobody will notice the bride.”

I looked at Townsend, smiling my regret. “I’m in,” I told Gram.

“You tell Joe not to worry, that I’ll find something that’ll knock his socks off,” Gram promised, and went back to make sure the officers did their jobs.

“I guess this means I’ll have to take a rain check,” Townsend said, reaching out to touch my lower lip with his thumb. “And a long, cold shower,” he added with a grimace.

“Sorry,” I said, thinking maybe this was Someone’s way of telling Tressa to proceed with caution. If so, I wanted to punch them and their amber lights out. “Maybe we can get together tomorrow?” I suggested, and he tucked a strand of wayward hair behind my ear.

“Count on it,” he said. “Maybe this will give me time to pen some poignant poems especially for you. Now that I know you like poetry, that is.” He smiled. “Let’s see. There once was a cowgirl named Jayne. Who put a ranger in oh, so much pain.”

I giggled and he started to bend down to give me a kiss, but must’ve sensed prying eyes, as he straight-ened and settled for tweaking my nose.

“I’ve got to go diddle with my ditty,” he said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind? I could use your help, you know. Ditties can be . . . difficult to diddle with, you know.”

“They can also be dangerous to diddle with,” I replied.

He shook his head. “Goodnight, Tressa,” he said. “Enjoy dress-shopping with your granny there.” Hehanded my backpack over, crossed the street and climbed behind the wheel of the SUV, and he started to pull out.

A thought occurred to me, and I chased after him, unzipping my bag as I sprinted across the yard. “Wait! Townsend!”

He stopped the Suburban immediately and rolled down his window, and from his look, I knew he was hoping I’d changed my mind and was going along for the “ride” after all.

I jogged up to the car window and, after checking that Gram was safely indoors, I pulled Kookamunga from my bag and handed it to Townsend through the open window.

“Could you keep this?” I asked, slightly out of breath and not all due to my trot across the avenue. “If I keep it here, Gram will be sure to discover it and I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” I said, meaning I wanted to see Joe’s face when they opened it together—and he had to pretend to like it for his new bride’s sake.

Townsend took the figurine, looked at it and shook his head. “If I keep this in my room tonight, it will give me nightmares,” he said. “That or major inadequacy issues,” he added with a grimace. “You sure you don’t want to come hold my . . . hand and stroke my, uh, brow while I sleep?” he asked. “Last chance.”

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “Not with the whole household in an uproar.”

“And that’s the only reason?” Townsend asked.

I couldn’t bring myself to fib. Not to him. Not about this. “There is a certain level of
trepidation
on my part,” I admitted. “No doubt related to a jockstrap juvenile delinquent who turned my formative milestones into a minefield,” I said. “Not to mention a battle of wills. I guess I’m still trying to get a handle on this new dy-namic we’ve got going. It’s like going from an Englishsaddle to a western pleasure saddle. It takes a little time to adapt, but the ride is so worth it.”

Townsend sighed. “I guess it’s just you and me Kookamunga,” he said, talking to the statuette. “But I’m first in line for the cold shower, hear? And T, I’ll look into a room of my own. Just in case you change your mind,” he said with a crooked smile and drove off. I watched his taillights fade until they disap-peared, resisting the temptation to run after him like a car-chasing pet.

I headed for the house, wondering just how critical Duke’s condition was and if there was any hope for the cowpoke at all. Once inside, I surveyed the damage, stunned at the amount of senseless destruction in-flicted on my aunt and uncle’s home. Drawers were dumped. Mattresses flipped. Closets ransacked and cupboards cleared. Taylor’s and my suitcases had been emptied and pawed through, our unmentionables strewn around the rooms for all the world to see, and my novelty T-shirts tossed. It creeped me out to think some lowlife thugs knew what kind of panties my sister and I wore. (Taylor prefers thongs while I go for the hipsters. Horseback riding while wearing a thong can be . . . tricky.)

Surprisingly, apart from some odds and ends and a small amount of cash, nothing had been taken.

Uncle Ben’s art studio—a large add-on behind the garage that featured great big windows, a huge sink, and a work area that ran the length of one wall—had also been hit hard. Paint tubes had been opened and squeezed all over the walls and windows, a disturbing abstract. Canvasses had been slashed and sculptures dropped and crushed beneath a heartless, unfeeling heel. It broke my heart to see Uncle Ben bent over, picking up the ruined remnants of hours of painstaking work and inspiration and depositing them in the trash.

I bent down to help him. “I’m so sorry this hap-pened, Uncle Ben,” I said, carefully cradling an oil painting that featured red rock cliffs and wild ponies—and a large footprint where someone had tracked neon green paint on the oil painting. I hung it where it had always hung. It had been the first painting he had finished and framed when he came west. “This one is my very favorite,” I told him, touching the frame with a fingertip.

Uncle Ben got up and joined me, and together we studied it. “I know,” he said. “It’s not my best, though. Not by a long shot. Still, I’m kind of partial to it, too.”

“Can you fix it?” I asked. He nodded.

“It’ll take a little doing, but yes, I can restore it.” He winked at me. “Maybe I’ll even make some improve-ments,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders. “I always thought that black rogue stallion there was slightly disproportionate. You’re the horse expert. What do you think?”

I put my head on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t change a thing,” I told him truthfully.

Later, in the sofa bed, as I waited for Sophie to re-turn home, I pondered the events of the last twenty-four hours, amazed at all that happened in the span of one day. It had started off fairly normal. Our sightsee-ing trip to Tlaquepaque. Lunch at the Grill. The beer. The roadside vendor. Bobble head Duke and Kooka-munga. Then things suddenly went south. Raphael at Oak Creek Vista. Whitehead. Numbers. Speed-dating at Numbers. Raphael at Numbers. Designer bag snatch. Hot kisses. Steamy clenches. Dangerous admissions. Close calls. Break-ins. More thefts.

I scrolled through the day’s highlights once again, this time in how-slow-can-you-go motion. How was it possible that, in the span of a single day, one person could be involved in three separate incidents that in-cluded theft or attempted theft and have them be hap-penstance and coincidence? Even for me, a person whose biggest talent is finding trouble, the odds of this occurring purely by chance were roughly the same as my gammy settling for a wedding dress that was age-appropriate.

So, what was the explanation? A full moon? Bad karma? Bad timing? Business as usual for Calamity Jayne?

The day had held such promise. The night, I re-minded myself, even more. I groaned and grabbed my pillow and put it over my face. I thought of poor Duke who had made the ultimate sacrifice, and Kooka-munga who’d luckily escaped unharmed and was, at this very moment, where I by rights should be: in Ranger Rick’s nicely appointed luxury hotel room.