Calamity Jayne Rides Again (17 page)

"Well, what is it about, then?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.

Did I? The realist in me (yes, there is such a critter) knew that if Rick Townsend and I were ever to have the opportunity
to draw closer, I had to figure out how to hog-tie the commitment-phobic part of me that kept pushing him away. The part of
me that just wasn't ready to risk a Texas-sized heartbreak. And the horny little devil in me just wanted to jump Townsend's
bones and damn the consequences. With so many conflicting feelings and insecurities vying for ultimate survivor status, it
was a miracle I could walk and chew gum at the same time. (What's that? I can, too! Except when I wear three-inch stilettos.
It takes all my concentration to walk in those. I usually end up swallowing any gum I'm chewing.)

"What do
you
think it's about?" I asked, deciding this was both a fair question and a safe response.

Townsend sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "You wanna know what I think? I think you've created a monster, Dr. Frankenstein.
A long time ago, for whatever reason, you decided it was safer to hide under a mop of blond hair and an I'm-clueless-and-proud
banner. It worked for you. Or so you think. You made it through on a set of dimples, big blue eyes, and a cocky cowgirl attitude.
But now? Now you have so much invested in that persona, you can't give it up. Or won't. Maybe you've nurtured it so long it's
become part of you. Maybe it's still a safe place to hide—a nowhere land where little is required and even less dared. But
catering to a lackadaisical lifestyle that was low risk when you had a family safety net to catch you, Tressa, is putting
you at great risk of harm as an adult. Don't you see that?" He paused to see if I was paying attention. And boy, was I ever!

"Proceed," I said.

"Being reckless and rash and hard-headed and stubborn—hell, Francis the Talking Mule has nothing on you in the stubborn department—can
be downright dangerous in a world where some people are motivated by darker passions and emotions," he went on. "And unfortunately,
rapists, criminals, and serial killers don't come with 'Hi, I'm Psycho Cy' nametags for easy identification," he finished,
pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger like I did when I had a sinus headache coming on.

I was thrown off-balance. Wow, this guy couldn't have nailed me better if he'd had a Craftsman heavy-duty deluxe nail gun
and twelve-penny stainless-steel nails. It was incredibly insightful, and so unexpected I wanted to yell "Hallelujah, he gets
me!" Either that or scream "He sees right through me!" and run as fast as my shoes with the comfy gel insoles would carry
me.

"Is there anything you
do
like about me?" I finally asked, looking down at my feet, wondering if he suspected his next words had the power to eviscerate.

Townsend seemed to be having trouble knowing what to say. This is something I can't relate to, as I usually just blurt out
what's in my head. No wonder I'm in it up to my rhinestone belt and horseshoe buckle so frequently.

"Too many to name," Townsend said. "That's the problem. The same things I want to strangle you for are many of the same things
I like about you." He shook his head. "I sound almost as goofy as you," he said, with a smile that made me forget the insult.

"What kind of things?" I asked, feeling if I didn't ask now I might never know for sure. And I wasn't about to let pass by
an opportunity to hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

Townsend hesitated. "This probably isn't a good time—"

I grabbed his hand. "What things?" I urged. Seeing him wince, I retracted my fingernails from his palm.

"Just... things," he said. "Like your enthusiasm and energy."

I frowned. He obviously hadn't seen me after a double shift at the Dairee Freeze followed by a regular night shift at Bargain
City.

"Go on."

"And your quirky sense of humor. Sometimes I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing. Later, though, when I think
about it, the laughs come."

Oh, great, I was a source of amusement. Roseanne Barr without the facelift. Every girl's dream come true.

"Despite a reputation for being dumb, I've always had a smart mouth," I told him, thinking this conversation was going nowhere
fast.

He nodded. "You do have quite a mouth on you, that's for sure," he said, and I sensed a subtle change in his tone. Maybe it
was the slight movement of his body in my direction. Or the look in his eyes as they moved over me, coming to rest on my mouth.
All I know is that my body heat rose faster than my credit card balance at a buy-one-get-one-half-off shoe sale.

"You know what else I like?" he asked, and I ran my tongue across lips suddenly so dry they made Gram's heels seem smooth
as silk. "Your lips," he said. "I like them a lot."

Damn, I knew I should have slapped some of Gram's lip color on.

"What exactly do you like about them?" I asked, always having thought them pretty ordinary. As long as they covered my teeth,
didn't have a bunch of creases around them for lipstick to find its way into, and remained free of cold sores, I was happy.

Townsend moved closer, insinuating one long, short-clad leg between my two much shorter ones. I was thankful I'd shaved my
legs, thighs included, the day before. Hey, I admit it: Sometimes I only shave so far up when the prospect of anyone seeing
me above the knees is remote. Ah, come on, women, get real. You've done it, too, and you know it.

Townsend placed a hand on either side of my face and moved closer. "I like them because they belong to you," he said, hitting
the what-every-woman-wants-to-hear ball clean out of the park.

"What?" I said, wondering at the last time I'd had my hearing checked by a certified audiologist.

"Your lips," he said. "They intrigue me. I've watched them enough in the last fifteen years to be somewhat of an authority
on them, you know."

"Is that right?" was all I could get out, since I was now very much aware of how closely he was looking at my mouth. I just
hoped to heck I didn't have something stuck to a tooth or breath from the leftover garlic bread I'd consumed before I'd crawled
into bed.

He nodded. "There's just one thing I haven't had an adequate opportunity to analyze," he said. "One area that needs more research."

"Yes?" I croaked, thinking how really unfair it was to be looking like a skank just when the guy you've had a secret crush
on since you were twelve and discovered that
National Geographic
and anatomy books made for very interesting reading, was finally showing an interest in you beyond arm-wrestling and wars
of words.

"I need more hands-on experience to make an overall assessment, though," he said, taking his thumb and trailing it ever so
gently and slowly across my bottom lip. I shivered despite the warmth of the night.

"Cold?" he asked, and I shook my head, liking the touch of him on my mouth.

"You were saying something about hands-on experience," I reminded him, unable to resist the naughty impulse to flick his thumb
with my tongue.

He took a noisy breath. "I think this is going to require something a bit more intensive," he said. "More along the lines
of lips-on experience." He put his arms around me and drew me close. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest and wondered
if he felt it, too. I knew my eyes reflected my conflicting emotions. Nervous anticipation versus enter-at-your-own-peril
warning sirens blared in my head. Should I or shouldn't I? There they were again, the saint and the sinner sitting on my shoulder,
one saying, "Don't you dare," the other saying, "I double-dog dare ya."

I was still debating which advice to listen to when Townsend dipped his head and took my lips in a kiss so hot it was guaranteed
to have the little devil on my shoulder dancing with glee and the saint cooling off with a tub of Haagen-Daaz and a big spoon.

We kissed and stroked and caressed for a while, enjoying those activities that might fall under the category of foreplay.
(Use your imagination here, ladies. I'm blushing just thinking about it. If I actually wrote it down—well, how could I face
the congregation at Open Bible next Sunday? Besides, you guys can no doubt spice it up more than I ever could.)

I moaned into Townsend's mouth, figuring my breath must be okay or he wouldn't keep kissing me.

"Do you have a key?" Townsend asked.

"Key?"

"To the emporium." He nodded toward the front door beside us.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "You want ice cream at this hour?" I said, initially wondering how he could think of food at a time like
this, then realizing I often thought of food at inopportune moments as well. Like, stopping at a fast-food drive-up while
tailing a murder suspect. Or eating tacos on the floor in the back seat of a car while hiding from the cops.

He shook his head. "I want to be alone," he said. "With you."

I wasn't sure I didn't want the same thing, but I did know the Emporium didn't afford the opportunity for privacy that Townsend
was looking for. Not with my cousin Frankie sacked out on the floor and waiting to catch him a bad guy. No telling what he
would do if we walked in and started making out. Knowing Frankie, I didn't want to find out.

Townsend looked at me. "Is there a problem, Tressa?"

There was. A six-foot-two-inch, gangly, scruffy cowboy/clown problem, but I wasn't sure I wanted to tell Townsend that. Not
when we'd just been getting along so well. Besides, I wasn't altogether certain I was ready to be somewhere alone and private
with Townsend. Not until he exposed more. As in,
confided
more. Geez, you guys take things so literally.

The truth was, I needed him to share more. More about his true feelings for me. More than "You're more stubborn than Francis
the Mule, but I like your lips." Okay, okay, I hear what you're saying:
What is she doing? She's too dumb to live
. Yeah, like I haven't heard that one before either. But, trust me on this. A cowgirl knows when her stallion is ready.

"It's pretty late," I said. "I probably need to get back to the campgrounds."

Townsend squeezed my shoulders and put his forehead next to mine. "Give me strength," he muttered and started to pull away.

Some crazy impulse, or maybe a natural impulse— I'm a healthy woman with urges—made me reach for him and pull his mouth down
to mine. I kissed him, pouring all my conflicted feelings for him, all my confusion about myself, all my desires as a woman
into that kiss, and just wanted it to go on and on.

The sound of shattering glass ripped through the night. I didn't understand the significance until Townsend had taken back
custody of his tongue, yelled at me to stay put (as if!), and run across the street toward the emporium, me on his heels.
Before we got there we heard more glass breaking and picked up the pace. Townsend made it around the corner of the brick ice
cream establishment just before I did. I stared at the back of Uncle Frank's Emporium. Two windows had been shattered, shards
of glass still hanging from the panes.

"Hey, you! Stop!" Townsend yelled. I turned and saw a clown peeking out from behind a kettle-corn stand.

"Frankie!" I yelled, forgetting that Frankie had told me he'd had to lay off the clown costume for a while due to zits. "Frankie?"

The clown suddenly took off running, and Townsend took off in hot pursuit after him. I quickly unlocked the Emporium and went
inside.

"Frankie!" I called. "Frankie?"

I turned on the lights and hurried around the counter. "Frankie?" No sign of Frankie on the floor, or in the Emporium at all.

I grabbed my cell and called the cops, giving them as good a description of the clown as I could, advising them Townsend was
in pursuit, and waited for Townsend to return and the cops to show up.

"Dammit, I lost him!" Rick said, rushing back into the Emporium and looking around. "For a big guy in clown gear, he can sure
motate. You okay, Tressa?" he asked, no doubt noticing I'd spaced out and was looking at an object sitting on the counter.

I stared at it, trying to figure out how a horn could have ended up inside the emporium. A horn just like the one the psycho
clown had blown in my ear at the watermelon stand. A horn that had no reason to be here. No reason at all.

Unless...

"Tressa?" Townsend came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Was that clown Frankie?" he asked.

I laid my cheek against Townsend's hand and, for once—and mark this on your calendars, folks—for once, words escaped me.

CHAPTER 14

"Two men have been very important to you. I see one shrouded in shadow and the other—"

"Cloaked in green neon?" I asked, earning a "Shush" and a poke in the ribs from my gramma and a dirty look from Sonya the
Seer, midway psychic extraordinaire.

"I see romance on the high seas in your future," Sonya continued, stroking Gram's liver-spotted hand with fingers that had
nails so long they rivaled Freddy Krueger's steel devices of death.

"You plan on buying a Jacuzzi, Gram?" I asked.

"I cannot do the reading in this atmosphere of skepticism," Sonya said, waving a hand about her in frustration. "It's not
conducive to the flow of positive energy."

Gram pinched me on the arm. "You hear that? You're disturbing her energy flow. Hush up! I paid good money for this reading."

Every year my grammy dragged me to a new attraction. One year it was the infamous hypnotist encounter. She'd begged me to
volunteer to be one of the subjects and, doubter that I am, I thought I could resist the hypnotic suggestion. You know, like
some people think they can beat the box when the cops ask them to take a polygraph. Turns out, I was the first one under and
the most entertaining chicken of all. Some claim to fame.

This year it was psychic Sonya's turn. I didn't recognize Sonya from past years and wondered if she was a last-minute replacement
for Flavia the Fortune-Teller, who'd been our resident reader for several fairs.

"I sense turmoil in your family. A dark cloud of suspicion. Betrayal, perhaps. Does this make sense to you?" pyschic Sonya
asked.

I looked at Gram and shook my head.

"Maybe," she said. "Go on."

"I foresee heartbreak and a family torn asunder if change does not occur soon. Only a fresh start can avert the turmoil ahead."

Gram sat up in her chair. "You picking up any names by any chance?" she asked. "Distinguishing features?"

Sonya shook her head. Draped in a loose-fitting, red silk jacket with lots of shiny spangles and beads, her black hair was
streaked with gray strands and scraped back tighter than mine was into a tight bun on the top of her head. Long black sticks
with fake crystals stuck out of the bun, resembling insect feelers. "It doesn't work that way, my good woman," she said. "I
pick up impressions only, feelings that I interpret through my gift."

For a not-so-modest fee, I thought.

"What about this romance thing? When do you see that happening? I'm not getting any younger, so I haven't got much time left."
Gram paused. "Or do I?" she asked.

Sonya shook her head. "I don't get into end-of-life issues, but rather dwell on one's quality of life while one yet lives."

"Well, you hit the family turmoil dead-on," Gram said. "This family's got issues right now."

I poked my grammy this time. "You're not supposed to offer information, Gram. The psychic is supposed to enlighten you, not
the other way around."

"I was just letting her know she's on the right track. With all the hoopla surrounding Frank's business, his missing son,
and certain rumors I continue to pick up, well, 'turmoil' just don't cover it."

"Gram, stop blabbing personal family business!" I scolded, at the same time acknowledging that loose lips were genetic. Although
they had skipped a generation in my dad's case; I'd apparently been bequeathed his portion.

"I do feel that there is hope for this family. I feel that the answer lies with a patriarchal personality. If he can embrace
change and diversity, all will be well."

Gram turned to me. "See there? She's talking about your Uncle Frank."

"Gram!"

"What else do you see?" Gram asked. "You know, about my love life?"

"I see you going on a trip," Sonya said. "Somewhere very warm and sunny. And I see a large ship and many people who appear...
larger than life. I hear music and laughter. There's dancing."

"What about sex? You see any sex?" my granuny asked.

"Gram!"

"It's a valid question. What about my granddaughter here? You see any sex in her future? She's in a bit of a slump, but you
probably know that already, since you're psychic."

"Gram!" I put my head on the black tablecloth.

"There is an extra charge for an additional reading," Sonya said.

I jumped up. "Well, it's been real," I said. "But we've got to go. You ready, Gram? You don't want to be late for the husband-calling
contest. Plus, I need more pictures for my fair feature," I reminded her.

"I remember the year I took first place in that contest," Gram said. "I coulda won it every year running but decided that
was just plain greedy. Besides, once I got my tonsils out, I never could yell quite the same. Here." She handed Sonya money.
"Let's hear what you got for Tressa, here."

"Really, I'd rather not—"

"Sit, girl!" Gram pointed to the chair I'd just vacated and I dropped into it and folded my arms.

"This is such a waste."

"I sense hostility," Sonya said.

"Gee, ya think?" I responded. "What else you got in that bag of tricks, Felix?" I asked.

Sonya gave me a tight smile. "Ah, a comic," she remarked. Grabbing my hands firmly in both of hers, she shut her eyes. A frown
created furrows in her forehead and crinkles collected at the corners of her eyes. "You have been in great danger," she said,
opening her eyes and looking at me. "Death has visited you in the recent past."

I looked over at Gram, whose eyes were big as donut holes. "Anybody who picked up a paper in the last couple months would
know that," I pointed out.

"Chaos often walks in your wake," Sonya continued, and now I was the one frowning. "You lead a life that invites mayhem, courts
calamity."

I jumped to my feet. "Okay. Who blabbed?" I asked Sonya, figuring someone had divulged my nickname and colorful history to
the seer.

"I don't know what you mean," the woman responded.

"You mean to tell me you didn't know about my nickname?" I asked. "You know, Calamity Jayne."

The psychic shook her head. "What does a character from the Old West have to do with you?" she asked, and I gave her credit
for a pretty good job of acting.

"This is hooey," I told Gram. "Let's go. I'm thinking a caramel apple right about now sounds good."

"I can't eat a caramel apple with an upper plate. I'd need a knife to slice it," Gram argued.

"A grinder, then. Have you had a grinder yet?" I asked.

"I sense much confusion," Sonya interjected.

"We're always ambivalent when it comes to food," I said, preparing to vamoose.

"I also sense great sexual conflict," she continued, and now 1 found myself sliding back into my seat. She looked at me. "You
have deep feelings for a man, yet you keep a tight rein on them. You wish desperately to let go of those burdensome reins,
kick free of the stirrups, and embrace that wild ride—yet you hold back, keep your feelings in check, waiting... for something."
She paused. "A sign, perhaps. An assurance or possibly reassurance. Your greatest fear will always be not of physical harm
but of irreparable emotional harm. But I'm getting a feeling that all is not safe for you even yet. In both realms. All is
not as it should be."

I felt a chill and rubbed my arms.

"You never answered my question," Gram said. "Do you see sex in her future?"

Sonya smiled. "The stronger the sexual tension, the more powerful the climax," she said. "At least, that's the way it is in
romance novels," she added.

My face grew warm. "Let's go, Gram. It's getting hot in here."

I took my gramma's hand and helped her out of the dark tent. She snorted. "I get a big boat with lots of large, laughing people,
and you get steamy sexual tension and promises of powerful climaxes," she grumbled. "I want your fortune," she said, as if
we could exchange them like fortune cookies. "Let's trade."

"Deal," I agreed, shaking her hand. Right about now, the idea of boarding a boat and heading out to sea to enjoy music and
dancing with a ship full of strangers didn't sound too bad at all.

Anchors away!

It was coming on noon when I dropped Gram off at the Tooterville Trolley for her ride back to the campground and a bit of
rest. She'd opted out of the grinder and decided, instead, to have mozzarella sticks and a foot-long with sauerkraut. I joined
her, purely because I know she doesn't like to eat alone. She'd handed me a couple of peppermint candies wrapped in plastic
just in case my tummy began to hurt later. I was already sucking on the last mint.

I needed to leave a note for Frankie at our predetermined location to let him know that my cover at the mini-freeze had been
blown and that we needed to switch surveillance duties. I also wanted to set up a face-to-face meeting with Frankie—not face-to-clown
or -cowboy—to get a few things straight between us. Like, why wasn't Frankie at the Emporium last night, as he was scheduled
to be? And how had that stupid clown horn come to be in the Emporium?

I headed down the paved street in my Chestnut Dingo Hornback slouch boots, a pair of denim shorts, and a pale blue T-shirt
with a gorgeous cowgirl mounted on a perfect Palomino rounding a red, white, and blue barrel with the words, you wish you
could ride like a girl. I figured I would attract less attention in the horse barn if I looked the part. Besides, I'd really
missed my boots.

The minute I walked into the horse barn and smelled the hay, the poop, and general aromas of horse, a wave of horse-sickness
swept over me. I missed my babies so much. With everything that had been going on the last couple of months, I'd neglected
my animals. I looked forward to spending some quality time with the gang when I got home. Frankly, sometimes people wear me
out. I'm sure I wear other folks out, too. Heck, lots of times I wear myself out.

I headed to the bulletin board, checking out the latest postings on horses for sale. I'm always in the market for a new horse.
Unfortunately, with my budget and the current price of grain and hay, the only additional horses I can afford either come
in boxes for display purposes or have a stick rammed into their necks.

I found the poster Frankie had mentioned and pulled it up. You've got no mail, I thought, and thumbtacked my note requesting
the stakeout change underneath. Replacing the poster, I went to a picnic table outside the horse barn near Charley's Coney
Shoppe and wondered what I should do with myself until my next shift at the Emporium at three. I decided to mosey over to
the outdoor pavilion and watch the 4H-ers compete in the pee-wee division and snap a few pictures. The peewees are so cute.
They look like dwarf cowboys and cowgirls. I sat in the stands and remembered bygone days when I'd competed, garnering first-place
ribbons and hoorays from my family. Taking my victory trot. Ripping my pants and having Rick Townsend broadcast it from the
announcer's table. Ah, childhood.

I felt the bleachers behind me drop and detected a knee in my back.

I scooted as far up as I could, but the knee kept jabbing me. I turned around.

"Do you mind? Your knee is—" I stopped when I saw that the knee in question belonged to one of the Li twins. "Uh, hullo,"
I said, turning away from Tai and Chai and trying to focus on the peewees about to compete. I moved up one bleacher seat and
was not pleased when I felt another sharp jab in my back.

I turned and gave the pair a dark look. "Is there a problem?" I asked.

"Yeah," Tai—or was it Chai?—answered. "You shined our dad on."

I looked at them, not quite sure what they were accusing me of. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"Shining. Led him, spirited him on."

"Huh?" I asked, still not getting a clear picture of what I'd done that was sticking in their craw.

"You told him your uncle was gonna sell out, just so you could get free eggrolls," one of the twins accused. "That's toad,
man. Real toad."

I wasn't totally tuned in to "toad," but I got the gist of the rest. "I most certainly did not tell him any such thing," I
told them. "Your father misunderstood—"

"That's low, man. Low. To get an old man's dreams up and then shoot him down. And all for crab rangoon and lo mein."

I shook my head. "There was no lo mein. And the crab rangoon never materialized either. And for the last time, I did not tell
your dad that Uncle Frank was going to sell. As far as I know he hasn't considered selling, although he always has plenty
of offers."

"He's had offers?" Tai/Chai said. "We want first dibs."

I wanted to scream. These guys were as delusional as their pop. "There are no dibs, because there are no offers," I told them.

"You just said that your uncle had plenty of offers," the twins pointed out. "What's he doin'? Holding out for the highest
one?"

"Well, naturally when someone sells something they first consider the best offer," I said. "But Uncle Frank has shown no—"

"So he is considering offers."

I was ready to get out a pad and pencil and write "Un-key Frank no sella the ice cream concessions," but remembered how that
conversation had gone with Mr. Li.

"No!" I said. "No sale!"

Tai and Chai frowned at me fiercely. "We know what this is all about," one of them said. "This is racially motivated. A case
of discrimination. You don't want to sell to an ethnic food franchise. You want everything to remain Americanized."

I stared at them. "I love ethnic food. All kinds and colors and textures. I even have my own booth at the China Express back
home!"

Tai and Chai put their faces close to mine. "It would be advisable if you would use what influence you have with your uncle
to get him to see the benefits of retirement while encouraging small business entrepreneurship among the Asian community,"
they said. I swallowed, the sound loud even to my ears.

"I'm a big fan of entrepreneurs," I told them. "Especially ethnic entrepreneurs. But I don't see Uncle Frank selling—"

"Your Uncle Frank has had a run of real bad luck lately, hasn't he?" the Li twosome reminded me. Not necessary, of course;
I'd had a front-row seat. "It would be too bad if that run continued all through the fair. That could really be a business
buster," they said.