Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 10

"Don't worry, Turner. We've got you covered." Stan said. "Literally." He winked. "In exchange for your waiver signature, you will receive a very broad, all-encompa.s.sing insurance policy that covers you from now until you dip your tire in the Mississippi. All paid for by your generous sponsors."

Insurance policy? All-encompa.s.sing?

Pen in hand, I bit my lip.

"Before I sign..."

"Yeah?" Stan said.

"That thing about the underpants and the baby powder-"

"Yeah?"

"It doesn't leave this room."

Stan nodded.

"Where do I sign?"

TribRide: Where no Calamity has gone without underpants before.

And lived to tell.

CHAPTER NINE.

My bags were packed. I was ready to go.

I considered belting into that sappy sixties song I'd hear my gammy warble when she was channeling her inner flower child, but, frankly, I felt like singing about as much as I felt like giving up beer and chocolate.

The no-escape noose was tightening around my neck like a hackamore bit on the nose of a high-strung stud, my final hours of freedom dissolving like a Trekkie crew through a transporter.

TribRide loomed-a gargantuan black hole in the galaxy, ready to suck this novice in like so much s.p.a.ce debris.

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger! Danger!

With Shelby Lynn's help, I'd started a competing blog to counter Drew Van Vleet's site. The guy had made a photographic record of every preparation for the ride-and every Tressa Turner pothole moment.

I'd been immortalized down and dirty in the ditch, pitted out and sporting a Bozo frizz below my helmet after my ponytail came loose. I'd been photographed spewing water, wiping sweat, dozing in the gra.s.s, and-humiliation of humiliations, pulling a wedgie out of my whazoo. On multiple occasions. From various angles.

I'd finally received the promised 4G phone. From my ultra-exclusive backseat vantage point, there was a decent chance I'd be treated to views of Van Vleet's pale, ugly b.u.t.t crack from time to time. I planned to post each and every crack shot with the urgency of a breaking news flash. Get it? Flash? As in flasher? Oh. You did? You're good.

I'd survived Stan's last briefing-basically a reminder to use the cash card conservatively and to avoid impugning the reputation of the Gazette. I had to Google that one. It took a while. I kept leaving the g out.

Once final instructions had been given-and my pleas for an alternate pathway to a pay raise summarily rejected, (I'd suggested something more up my alley like an America's Rodeo Sweetheart compet.i.tion) this stroker had been deemed road worthy.

Yeah. Right.

Our elusive sponsors (I had yet to find out just who the s.a.d.i.s.ts were.) had made arrangements for our transportation and gear to be delivered to the ride's starting point. A local bike shop had been commissioned to deal with any mechanical kerfuffles that arose.

We were good to go.

"Good" so being a relative term here.

I finished up the barnyard ch.o.r.es, mucking out the last stall and putting down fresh straw. My mother would be feeding and watering the animals in my absence. It made sense considering one of them belongs to her. Queen of Hearts, a flashy sorrel Quarter mare with a striking white blaze is my mum's horse. I stuck with the male of the species: Blackjack (or "Jack" when he's behaving himself) a half-Quarter-half-Morgan, and Joker, a lovable goofball Appaloosa-Quarter.

I left the stall, put my pitchfork away, and grabbed the curry comb and brush and headed outside to give each of the horses a quick grooming.

"Wait your turn, Jack!" I pushed the dark horse's head away. "I'll get to you!"

Our horses are like pets. They tend to follow you around hoping for a handout and some attention.

I patted Joker's neck. Joker held a special place in my heart. I'd learned to ride on Joker-could do anything on the horse. I'd come close to losing the old boy last year when a psycho's bullet narrowly missed me and struck the Appaloosa instead.

There was h.e.l.l to pay, I can tell you.

"Blackjack! Stop that!" I swatted the air near my backside. "I said to wait your turn."

A sudden tugging in the center of my waistband hauled me backwards and practically off my feet.

"What the-?"

I looked around.

Rick Townsend, one hand still inside the waist of my jeans, laughed down at me.

"Blackjack's innocent," Townsend said. "I'm the guilty party."

The touch of his fingers inside the waistband of my jeans sent a s.h.i.+ver clean down to my toes.

"I see. So what do you think the punishment should be?" I asked and turned slightly. He reached up to cup my elbow with his other hand.

"I don't know. I've been a very naughty boy." He grinned.

This time I felt the warmth of a blush all the way to my toes.

"I usually give Jack a quick bop on the nose or a tap with the quirt when he's ornery," I said.

"The quirt sounds kinkier," Townsend said with a Groucho Marx lift of his eyebrows.

"It also leaves marks," I informed him.

"Oh? Like a brand?" he asked.

I felt a renewed flush of heat at the idea of Ranger Rick wearing a Tressa Turner brand.

"Isn't that racc.o.o.n tat sufficient body art?" I asked, a reference to a cute racc.o.o.n tattoo Ranger Rick had gotten on a certain fleshy-and flashy-part of his body, the result of a bet we made and I won.

He grabbed my other arm and turned me around to face him.

"I still think you should get a matching tattoo," he said.

I shook my head. "If I choose to desecrate my flesh, it'll be with a critter I'm more partial to than Ricky Racc.o.o.n," I said, wis.h.i.+ng I'd known he was going to drop by. When you're up close with a hottie, you'd rather not smell like manure, mighty mutts, and horse. "So, what brings you out this way?"

"I wanted to wish you luck. I hear you're heading west later today."

I nodded. I planned to catch a ride with Taylor and Frankie. No way was I spending an additional two hours in Drew Van Vleet's company. We'd practically be joined at the hip for the next week as it was. No sense extending the torture.

"We're leaving after lunch. That'll give me time to finish here and shower. I'm going to help get the Freeze Mobile set up. I guess traditionally there's a TribRide eve s.h.i.+ndig planned."

Beer. Brats. A country band. A good ol' girl's down-home good time.

"I'd hoped to have some time to take you out with the tandem and give you some tips," Townsend said, reaching up and tucking a stray, sweaty curl behind my ear. "But this week's been a bear what with state-wide firearms and CPR recertification. I don't like the idea of you riding without proper preparation."

"That's okay. Van Vleet's been a real pain in the padded bike shorts," I said. "He had us out from dawn to dusk, stopping and starting. Mounting, dismounting. Going up hills and down hills. Turning left. Turning right." I felt my body move side to side and up and down with each verbal cue. Ugh. I'd better add motion sickness pills to the checklist.

"It's good that you'll have Taylor there to keep an-" Townsend left the rest unsaid. Probably because I'd turned from putty in his arms to Play-Doh that's been left out too long.

"Keep an eye on me? Is that what you were going to say?" I asked. "Need I remind you, Mr. Ranger, Sir, that I happen to be the big sister in the Turner pecking order? If anyone should be keeping an eye on someone, it should be I. Er...me."

Son of a...gun.

Like a bad penny, the old insecurity was back. Just when I thought I'd proven I was capable of looking out for myself, someone, by word or by deed, would resurrect those old familiar doubts, and I was right back to Miss Righteous Indignation.

Dej doubt time all over again.

"That's not what I meant, Tressa," Rick said, alerted to the need for damage control. "I just feel better knowing you have family going along for the ride. That's all. I'd feel that way about any novice rider."

"Novice rider?"

That's what I was to him? A novice rider?

Okay. On one level, I realized I was being deliberately difficult. But the stress of the last several weeks-not the least of which was the post-cruise, post-coital second-guessing-had my innards knotted up worse than the macrame hanging planter holders Gram tried to make two years ago.

"Novice bicycle rider," Townsend clarified. "But, put you on a horse-or in a cruise s.h.i.+p cabin-and your riding is anything but amateur hour."

I could feel my backbone give slightly. Tell me. What cowgirl wouldn't want to be praised on her...riding ability?

"I was thinking," Townsend said, lowering his mouth to nuzzle my neck. "Maybe we could finish what we started the other night. You know. When your mother came bearing junk food. You mentioned a shower..."

I swallowed way loud. "You might be right," I said. "It's probably not a good thing to leave things...unfinished." My breath now came in fits and starts. "You know. Considering I'll be...unavailable in the short term."

Townsend sighed against my ear and brought his hands up to cup the sides of my face. "I'm hoping to make you unavailable in the long term," he whispered.

What? Wait! What was that? What did he say? My thoughts ricocheted off each other like spastic pinb.a.l.l.s. He couldn't mean- Steady, girl. Steady.

For a long moment, he looked into my eyes, the level of intensity in his gaze apparent from how his irises grew darker and darker.

I couldn't look away.

"What...are...you...saying?" I managed to squeak out.

Blackjack suddenly shoved his nose between Townsend and me.

Whop!

Snort!

Bl...oo...w!

"Ugh!" Strings of mucous and gobs of gunk covered Townsend's face. "Son of a b-! What the h.e.l.l?"

I shoved Blackjack's head away "Blackjack! No!"

Jack nudged Townsend's shoulder again, leaving behind a big patch of greenish, white spittle.

"Jack, go away! Go! Move!" I shoved the big horse away. "Oh, G.o.d, Townsend. What a mess! I'm so sorry!"

Townsend shook his head and put a hand up to his face.

"That's all right. I needed a shower," he said. "You know. I don't think your horses like me much."

"Only Jack," I said. "He gets jealous."

Townsend grabbed a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped it across his forehead and eyes.

I looked at his uniform. "Ugh. Your s.h.i.+rt. It's gonna need professional cleaning," I told him. "That green is pasture gra.s.s."

"Maybe we could go in and put it to soak," Rick suggested with that telltale Townsend gleam in his eye.

"We could do that."

"Besides, I have something to give you."

I felt my toes curl in my boots. "I'll bet you do," I managed. "I'll just put the comb and brush away."

I hurried to the barn and tossed the grooming tools on the bench and shut the barn door behind me, stopping to appreciate the picture Townsend made as he leaned on the barnyard gate, trying to make nice with Blackjack, who, unfortunately, was having none of it.

G.o.d, he was a looker. Townsend, that is, not Blackjack. Which is not to say Jack isn't a striking piece of horseflesh. Oh, you know what I meant.

I sighed.