Calamity Jayne Rides Again (3 page)

"Well, that was nice. The least she could have done was offer me a lift," I grumbled, staring at the steep, graveled incline
that led to the campground.

"Can you blame her?" Townsend chuckled. "You treated her as if she was about to jump your uncle's bones. She got the hands-off
message loud and clear, Calamity."

"Good," I said. "Then I won't have to bring out the big guns."

Townsend shook his head. "Big guns?"

"My Grammy," I said, and Townsend put his hands up as if in surrender.

"Right," he said. "Hannah the Hellion. Must run in the family."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Ranger, sir," I teased.

"You know, I got a real nice thank-you from your uncle in there, Tressa." He stepped closer. "How about you making a little
nice? You are grateful for my help to your family, aren't you?"

I shuffled my feet. My association with Rick Townsend was long and complicated, often characterized by name-calling, pranks,
and sparring of the verbal kind. He was way too nice-looking for his own good—and mine—which made him Trouble with a big
T
and, quite frankly, maybe too much man for this simple cowgirl to resist. That's why I'd always kept my distance in the past,
keeping things on an adversarial footing. I was pretty good at mouth-to-mouth combat. I was well-armed for it. I could float
like a butterfly and sting like a bee when it came to one-line putdowns and cynical comebacks. I just wasn't sure I was equally
competent at the mushy love stuff—although I was certainly ready to give it the old college try, even though I was a college
dropout three times over, when the right man came along. The problem was, I just wasn't certain Townsend was Mr. Right—or
even Mr. Right Now. Maybe that was because I sensed from him that he didn't know either.

"Sure, I'm grateful," I said. "Of course I'm grateful. Who wouldn't be grateful?"
Nice job of verbal sparring, Tressa
, I thought with disgust.

"I think you can do better than that, T.J. Your uncle expressed his gratitude warmly and with feeling," Ranger Rick pointed
out.

I thought about the pair's handshake. "You're right, Townsend," I said, wetting my lips and stepping closer to the hunky ranger.
"You're absolutely right."

I slid my hands lightly down one of his muscular arms and took his rather nicely shaped hand in both of mine. I looked up
and into two very dark, intense eyes and ran my tongue across my top lip for effect.

"Thank you, Ranger Townsend," I said, my voice breathless and not all due to my little performance.

"From the bottom of my heart, I thank you." I leaned in, as if to seal my thanks with a kiss... then suddenly gripped his
elbow with one hand and started pumping his hand with the other in an energetic down-home handshake, the kind politicians
give prospective voters in the reception lines or CEOs trade when they announce a beneficial business deal.

Townsend's mouth flew open. I laughed and broke the handshake and skipped off toward the campground. I stopped and blew him
a kiss, then took off as fast as my tired old dogs would carry me.

Ain't I a little stinker?

CHAPTER 3

My sandaled toe caught in loose rock at the base of the incline leading to the campground that, from my weary world view,
seemed as daunting as the seven-mile climb to the top of the Snow Bowl near Flagstaff, Arizona, where a branch of our family
tree had taken root.

I grimaced and wished for one of those way convenient state fair trolleys pulled by the big green tractors and designed to
transport pooped-out fair-goers to the campground. Unfortunately for my tired tootsies, I'd teed off Lucy, and the trolley
had long ago called it a night. I gave a long, considering look at a bench near the campground gate, thinking maybe I should
give my feet a rest before I hoofed it up the hill. I slapped at a buzzing near my left ear, and decided that sore feet beat
West Nile virus any day. I took a deep breath and sucked it up before setting my aching arches in motion.

Every year the entire Turner-Shaw-Barlowe clan sets up camp, literally, at the state fair campgrounds in assorted RVs, campers,
motor homes, and tents. Camping spaces at the fairgrounds are as cherished as a lock of

Elvis's hair to an Elvis fanatic. Or immunity to a Survivor contestant. People have been known to bequeath these prized rectangles
of grass to family members in their last wills and testaments.

I can see it now:
To our son, Craig, we leave Dad's truck and the family home. To our daughter, Taylor, we leave the sixty adjoining acres and
our Buick Regal. To Tressa Jayne, we leave the critters, the Allis Chalmers, Grandma Turner in the event she is still living,
the RV, and our state fair campsite.

Craig and Taylor are my brother and sister. Both, major overachievers. At least compared to yours truly. Especially Taylor,
a full-ride scholarship recipient studying psychology in her second year at the University of Iowa. She's also gorgeous enough
to be on the front of magazines that have nothing whatsoever in common with
Psychology Today
and everything to do with perfect teeth, perfect hair, and perfect hooters. Deep sigh.

I'm not really envious. At least, not as much as I used to be when I pretended I wasn't. How can I explain it? I'm like the
scrawny freshman who'd really rather hide in the locker room than be a skin in a game of shirts-and-skins with guys who have
six-packs. Of course, said scrawny freshman doesn't want to admit such insecurity. So the scrawny freshman volunteers to be
a skin and proceeds to act like an outlandish ass to prove he doesn't feel inadequate at all. Is this clear as chocolate syrup
or what?

Really, guys, I love my little sis. I do. I just try to avoid being in the same area code as much as possible. And I'm kind
of afraid that once she gets a few more psych courses under her belt she'll figure I'd make a wonderful research project.

I slapped at a few more pesky skeeters and wished for a jug of Deet. The campground was hushed and quiet due to the late hour.
Many of the campers would be up in three hours and eager for that first cup of coffee and bag of fresh, hot mini donuts—a
personal favorite of mine as well.

I headed for my folks' Jayco travel trailer, which is capable of sleeping five people in various stages of discomfort. I always
get stuck in the coffin. You know, the bed that hugs the ceiling and forces you to slide in and out sideways? I always feel
like Dracula at rest. Or, in my case, I suppose, Akasha, Queen of the Damned— without the impressive set of jugs, of course.
I'd never fit in the coffin with anything bigger than a B-cup.

This night, however, I would have the queen-sized bed all to myself—unless, of course, that hunky cowboy I'd daydreamed about
earlier decided to make my wildest cowgirl dreams come true. I yawned, realizing that even a naked cowboy couldn't keep me
awake tonight. Jeesh, was I in bad shape or what?

Uncle,Frank's big tan RV, parked in an adjacent space, was dark. My folks and Aunt Reggie would arrive the next morning with
my grandma in tow. I rapped on the nearest window, figuring Frankie was inside pretending to be asleep so he wouldn't get
a butt-chewing from Uncle Frank in the wee hours.

"Frankie?" I said in a low voice, so as not to rouse the interest and ire of the neighbors. "Frankie?" I went to another window
and rapped again. "Frankie?" I tried the door, but it was locked.

Bone-tired, I shuffled next door to my parents' trailer, opened the door, and switched on the lights, half expecting to see
more brazen bugs skitter to safety. I moved through the tiny living room area, switched on the air conditioner, then shut
off the light and headed back to the bedroom. I collapsed onto the bed, facedown, and let out a long groan. Man, oh, man,
was I beat.

I kicked off my sandals and lay there a couple minutes, savoring the soft pillow and mattress, reveling in the pure delight
of being off my feet. I rolled over on my side, reached for an extra pillow to be my hunky cowboy surrogate ... and grabbed
hold of a nose—a long one, if touch counted for anything.

A squeal sounded, but I wasn't sure if it was from me or the nose. I rolled off the opposite side of the bed, switched on
the light, and gasped.

"Frankie?"

"I think you broke by doze!" my cousin's muffled, nasally voice responded.

Whoa there, Nellie. Don't blame me for the nose twang. Frankie's always had a nasal thing going. I've actually gotten used
to it. Others find it a bit off-putting. It sounds like he's perpetually whining.

"What are you doing here, Frankie?" I asked, my erotic dreams of the Marlboro man cruelly dispelled by the stark contrast
of my nerdy cousin reclining on the bed holding a pink tissue to his nose.

"Is it bleeding?" he asked, dabbing at his nostrils. I suddenly knew how Dorothy felt when she'd slapped the Cowardly Lion.

"Of course not," I said, parroting Dorothy's response, if not feeling the same level of remorse.

"You twisted my dose and yanked!" he accused, still checking the tissue for telltale signs of injury.

"And you scared the peewadden out of me!" I countered. "What the heck are you doing here, Frankie? And where have you been
all day? We've been looking everywhere for you."

He sniffed and dabbed. "I've been... busy," he said.

I gave an eye roll and crossed my arms. "Busy?
Busy
? Is that what you call running off and leaving an ice cream establishment in the hands of a guy who regularly handles reptiles
for a living? What were you thinking, Frankie?"

He blew his nose, and I winced. "All right, all right. So, I was trying to prove a point," he said, sniffling. "I figured
if I stayed away log enough for the line to get log, people would complain, and maybe Dad would fi-dally get the point. I
do not want to be Mr. Dairee Freeze after my dad retires. Ed of story."

"What do you want to be, Frankie?" I asked.

Another sniffle. "That's the problem. I don't know, cous. I really don't know."

I looked at the pale, red-nosed, tousle-haired goofball and felt instant empathy. I knew what it felt like to be chasing the
wrong end of somebody else's dream just for the hell of it. I knew what it felt like to be running furiously to catch up with
everyone else, only to discover you were headed in the wrong direction. And although I didn't have everything figured out
in the career department, the events of earlier this summer had given me a not-so-gentle kick in the seat to get the ball
in play, headed toward the right goal line this time, and to continue that forward progress no matter the opposition.

I sat down on the foot of the bed. "As you know, Frankie, I can speak with some authority on this subject," I said, and patted
one of his rather large feet. "And the best advice I can give you is to get real with yourself." Frankie made a someone-tooted
face at my Dr. Phil remix, but I went on, determined to impart life lessons I'd learned in Finding Tressa 101. "Discover what
you're really passionate about. Identify your talents and gifts. Learn all you can about related opportunities. List them
all and then cross off the ones that don't trip your trigger. Experiment. Down deep, I think you have a general idea of what
you want to do with your life." I grabbed hold of his big toe and pulled. "Sometimes you just need to stir things up a bit
before the answer bubbles to the surface."

He finally met my eyes. "Ya think?" he said, a touch of humor now apparent in the look he gave me.

I grinned. "Turner's Law," I said with a wink.

Frankie crumpled up the tissue in his hand and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket. "Dad'll never forgive me," he said, sobering.
"I let him down. Embarrassed him in front of all his friends. Competitors, even. I bet Luther Daggett was in wunderbar heaven.
His sales probably skyrocketed as a result."

I shrugged my shoulders. "So Daggett got off to an early lead in the sales department this year. Big deal. We'll get him in
the end."

"But Dad's gonna chew my butt big-time," Frankie said. "And I guess I can't blame him. I do the dumbest things sometimes."

I put a hand to my chest. In that moment I felt closer to Frankie than ever before.

"That's why God invented 'do-overs,'" I told him. "So we can fix what we screw up. Again, speaking from experience. Or perhaps
I need to introduce myself again. Calamity Jayne Turner," I said, holding out a hand. "Finder of dead bodies. Corrupter of
senior citizens. Bail bondsman for bikers," I reminded him. "I'm sure we've met before."

Frankie gave a half-hearted laugh. "Dad's still gonna be pissed, though, isn't he?"

"Oh, buddy. Will Gramma Turner insist on wearing hot-pink flowered flip-flops tomorrow and complain about her bunions all
day? Will Ranger Rick make you pay for his dairy disaster in spades? Hello: Your dad is totally pee-ohhed. And the roach rumpus
didn't help matters. I expect Uncle Frank will be on a medium-to-high simmer for a while. But I think I managed to convince
him that you weren't the one responsible for the bug brouhaha." I paused and squinted at Frankie. "You weren't, were you?"
I asked.

Frankie's smile disappeared. "Bug brouhaha? What are you talking about?"

I proceeded to fill Frankie in on the major health code violations we'd avoided by our little midnight roach round-up.

Frankie slowly got to his feet. "You're saying someone let a bunch of cockroaches loose in the Emporium and Dad thinks I'm
the culprit?" he asked.

"Not anymore," I assured him. "At least I don't think so. I mean, he wasn't threatening to hang you from the flagpole by your
apron strings when I left, so that's a good sign. Isn't it? Uncle Frank will get over it. Remember how he was after the incident
at the Dairee Freeze back home? It took a while, but he came around."

"There was glass inside the colored sprinkle containers and blood all over the order window," Frankie kindly pointed out.
"Not to mention the fact that one whole side of the place was missing."

"Yeah, but Uncle Frank really needed to modernize," I insisted. "You know, update the place. That Beaver Cleaver look just
didn't cut it anymore. Besides, there was no structural damage. And afterwards, Uncle Frank had customers by the droves. The
place was packed. So, I figure I did him a favor."

"Oh, so you put his business on the map. And what, I'm trying to put him out of business?" Frankie put a hand through his
hair. The brown strands stuck out like a scarecrow's bad hair day.

I stood up and walked over to Frankie and put a hand on his arm. "You have to understand: Your dad had just walked into his
eating establishment and found a carpet of cockroaches. When he learned you'd walked off the job in a very cool, calculating
way, what was he to think? You yourself said you tried to prove a point by delivering a low blow to his business," I reminded
him.

He shook my hand off his arm. "I meant to go back. Honest. But when I saw Rick Townsend in there kicking the candy condiments
and cursing the confections, I panicked and bolted. And the longer I stayed away, the harder it was to face up to what I'd
done." He turned and bent down to stick his feet in a long pair of dirty sneakers. "And now Dad thinks I roached the joint.
He'll never forgive me. Ever. I'm outta here."

Frankie hurried out of the bedroom, with me trailing along behind him. "What are you doing, Frankie?" I asked, shadowing him.
"Where are you going?"

"To find
my
destiny, cous," he announced. "And, hopefully, find myself in the process." He pushed the door open and was gone amid a community
of cracker box trailers and four-wheel-drive vehicles.

"Frankie!" I yelled. "Come back here! Frankie!"

I shook my head. "Oh, Frankie—what are you doing man?" I said to myself.

"I wonder if we'd better knock first. She might have someone in there with her, you know. It could happen. Not likely, but
it could."

I was still in bed, watching early morning sunlight peek in at me from the window at the head of the bed and wishing for a
few more hours of sleep before the bedlam of opening day at the Iowa State Fair.

"What if she's not alone? What if she and that hunky ranger are lying in that bed in there right now, naked limbs intertwined,
bodies slick and sweaty, their breathing rapid and shallow?"

I jumped off the bed.

"You read too many romance novels, Hannah," my mother responded.

"Maybe she doesn't read enough. If she did, she'd know just what to do with that boy," my grandma continued. I put a hand
to one cheek. My face felt warm as a car hood in the state fair parking lot in midafternoon. I raced to the front door and
opened it.
Hey, like I had a choice here, guys.

"Greetings, loved ones!" I welcomed.

"Is it safe to come in?" Gram inquired after she had already entered the trailer and checked out the bedroom and bath.

"Of course, why wouldn't it be?" I asked, and followed her back to the bedroom, playing dumb, thinking that was the smart
choice. See how my brain works?

"We just thought you might have had a friend sleep over," Gramma remarked, walking over to the bed and examining the sheets
like a CSI analyst, minus the penlight.