Read Calamity Jayne Rides Again Online
Authors: Kathleen Bacus
Calamity Jayne Rides Again
CALAMITY JAYNE
RIDES AGAIN
KATHLEEN BACUS
LOVE SPELL NEW YORK CITY
LOVE SPELL
®
July 2006
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold
and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Copyright © 2006 by Kathleen Cecile Bacus
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission
of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 0-505-52669-7
The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.
For Erick, who listened to every chapter, every word, and every syllable of this manuscript, ad nauseum, last summer without
one complaint when he could have been doing way more fun things. Like watching the Iowa corn grow. That's a pretty terrific
son I have there. Thanks, Bubba. I appreciate it.
Thanks, too, to retired Iowa State Patrol Sergeant Charlie Black, ex-ISP 336, my first State Patrol Field Training Officer,
for giving me a "behind-the-scenes " introduction to the Iowa State Fair—including an up-close-and-personal encounter with
"The Great Bozo " —as a rookie trooper way back when. Those experiences proved, uh, helpful in crafting this story. I still
owe you one, Chuck, you dog!
Contents
A blonde decides to try horseback riding, even though she has had no lessons or prior experience. She mounts the horse unassisted
and it immediately springs into motion. It gallops along at a steady and rhythmic pace, but the blonde begins to slip from
the saddle. In terror, she grabs for the horse's mane, but cannot seem to get a firm grip. She tries to throw her arms around
the horse's neck, but she slides down the side of the horse anyway. The horse gallops along, seemingly ignorant of its slipping
rider. Finally giving up her frail grip, the blonde attempts to leap away from the horse and throw herself to safety. Unfortunately,
her foot becomes entangled in the stirrup, and she is now at the mercy of the horse's pounding hooves as her head is struck
against the ground over and over. She starts to lose consciousness, but to her great good fortune, Bob, the Wal-Mart greeter,
sees her and unplugs the horse.
I know a gazillion and two dumb-blonde jokes. I began hearing them at about the same time I discovered Dr. Seuss. I laughed
it up along with everyone else, only realizing later in life that I was really the butt of those jokes. Nope. Not even my
own head of bleached blond hair gave me a heads-up. It took the conferring of a rather humiliating nickname for me to finally
make that personal connection. Yep, that's right, a nickname. You know, like Biff, Billy Bob, Bubba, Princess, Precious, Peaches,
Stormin' Norman, Slick Willy, J. Lo, Calamity Jayne... Uh, if you haven't already guessed, I'm Calamity Jayne.
The really frustrating thing about my particular nickname is that it has followed me into adulthood. Not too traumatic if
you happen to be an Angel Eyes, Sweet Cheeks, or even a Stud Muffin, but hardly flattering when you're almost twenty-four
and still saddled with a pet name that promotes the sale and use of such things as rabbits' feet and good-luck crystals, and
causes folks to perform the sign of the cross when they meet you on the sidewalk.
Used to be, the nickname really gave me fits. But after the events of earlier this summer, which found yours truly in the
middle of a hometown whodunit and the target of a multiple murderer, the nickname, while gaining notoriety, has actually lost
some of its sting.
My real name is Tressa Turner. Tressa
Jayne
Turner. I make my home in a nice, but borrowed, doublewide mobile home adjacent to my folks' rural Iowa acreage. My father
harbors "Green Acres" fantasies. My mother just wants my grandmother away from populated areas. When Gram became prone—no
pun intended—to frequent falls, and seemed to be auditioning for a part on one of those I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up commercials,
she moved in with the folks. My mom is a CPA. She has a home-based accounting and tax service. It works out well. In between
debits and credits, W-2s and W-4s, she can keep tabs on the feisty, but lovable, senior citizen. Since I have two dogs, three
horses, and a history of intermittent unemployment, the arrangement works for everyone.
While I'm happy to report I am at present gainfully employed at the local newspaper, the
Grandville Gazette
, the pay is not commensurate with my level of debt—or desire for frequent new shoes, horse paraphernalia, and the occasional
bling. As a result, I work several jobs to supplement my income. My job at Bargain City, a discount chain, precipitated my
just past odyssey of murder and mayhem. Purely by accident, you understand, I happened to drive off in the getaway car of
a murderer with the still-warm murder vic stuffed in the trunk. I played hide-and-seek with the disappearing stiff (and cat
and mouse with the killer) for several days before a rather, shall we say, messy confrontation with the villain, all resulting
in a somewhat strained relationship with my Uncle Frank. While I won't go into the gory details—"gory" being the operative
word—let me just say that Uncle Frank and I are still working through the trust issue.
As much as I would like to take full credit in the heroism department for taking down the bad guy and saving the local citizenry
in my little "Murder at Silver Stone Lake" saga, sadly, I cannot. I had a little help. Okay, a lot of help. Divine intervention,
as it turned out, came on the wings of the last dragon slayer I would ever choose to save this fair maiden. Rick Townsend,
or "Ranger Rick," as I like to call him—among other things—is an officer for the State Department of Natural Resources. He
spends his days (or nights, as the case may be) hunting down poachers, protecting the waterfowl, and enforcing boating regs.
In his off-duty hours he likes to give me a hard time. Townsend and I go way back. He's been my brother's best friend since
before they started wearing jock straps. Townsend is one of those guys who comes to mind when you think of the word "hott"
with two t's.
Townsend and I are presently circling a relationship like two paranoid Sumo wrestlers. We share a yo-yo past. You know: up
and down, up and down. Rick Townsend first stuck me with the Calamity Jayne label, which, of course, hardly endears him to
me. He has a pattern of bedeviling me that dates back to elementary school, when he wrote a mushy love note to Parker "Pig
Pen" Williams and signed my name along with lots of Xs and Os. As a result, I got a big, wet, slobbery kiss from Parker at
morning recess, and two days out-of-school for tying him to the jungle gym by his sweatpants.
Townsend and I made this way-over-the-top bet involving a stolen (unintentionally, I remind you!) car, a disappearing corpse,
and an adorable, yet tasteful, raccoon tattoo.
After my rather dramatic rescue from probable death at the hands of a cold-blooded killer, Townsend and I initiated an uneasy
truce. We've shared a few kisses and a couple of clinches kind of like the ones you see on the covers of those romance novels
you'd just as soon your pastor not see you with in the checkout line. I kept my top on, though. Well, all except that one
time. But that was totally Townsend's fault. Pinky-swear.
Sometimes I think since Townsend saved my cookies he believes he has the God-given right to sample them. At other times, I
worry he is seeing me through damsel-in-distress eyeglasses and not focusing on the real me— the girl he's carried on a feud
with that makes the Hatfields and McCoys look like kissin' cousins.
So, as you might expect, I'm making like I'm driving through a construction zone. You know: proceeding with caution. A broken
heart is the last thing I need after I was almost sliced and diced with one of Uncle Frank's Ginzu knives.
In my home state of Iowa—the corn state, not the potato one—the annual state fair is a huge deal. You've heard of the musical
State Fair
; yup, that's our fair. A
great state fair. Probably the best. For sure we have the best state fair cuisine anywhere. Hands down. From hu-mongous turkey
legs that you'd swear were steroid-enhanced, plate-sized charcoal-broiled burgers made only from the best Iowa corn-fed beef,
to chops so thick you have to shove your bites in sideways, we've got it all. Plus, we've got anything edible you can manage
to slam on a stick and deep fat fry, freeze, or both.
Food takes me to the Iowa State Fair every August. I'll go about anywhere for quality junk food, but in this case I'm the
one preparing it. Okay, okay, so I eat my share, too. However, I primarily go to the fair to promote Uncle Frank's various
ice cream confections. Uncle Frank's family has operated the same ice cream concessions at the same locations at the fairgrounds
for more than three generations. Seniority at this event counts for a lot. And tradition. Traditionally, Uncle Frank recruits
family members to man his stands annually two weeks in late summer. Traditionally, I'm one of the first tapped for service.
You'll hear no complaints from me. I've always loved the fair. I was one of those cowgirls who slept with their horses in
the huge, smelly horse barn while city slickers maneuvered their way around piles of horse manure reciting bad poop jokes
and getting their pictures taken with horses that looked like Trigger. Once I collected my ribbons, I'd sell root beer floats
and twist cones to hot, hungry fair-goers with tired feet.
Uncle Frank's fair businesses are in highly coveted places on the fairgrounds. Uncle Frank owns a modest-sized brick red ice
cream parlor called—I warn you, this is bad—Barlowe's Ice Cream Emporium. It's one of the various permanent structures that
were erected on the fairgrounds property years ago. It's located on the main drag, just up the hill from the Old West Town
and a hop, skip, and a jump from the biggest beer tent on the fairgrounds. Talk about your location, location, location. Uncle
Frank's mini-stand is on the Grand Concourse, the street that runs right down the center of the fairgrounds and supports much
of the foot traffic. Every year Uncle Frank receives oodles of offers to acquire his fairgrounds concession stands. Yep, prime
real estate, for sure.
I'm always drafted for set-up day due to my heavy-lifting prowess, a skill honed from years of lifting and stacking seventy-pound
hay bales for my four-legged beauties. The state fair comes earlier and earlier each year. Used to be kids didn't have to
worry about heading back to school until after Labor Day. Now, school resumes the second or third week of August. Since fair
officials rely on schoolkids and their parents to make up a significant portion of the almost one-million folks who pass through
the turnstiles at this wildly popular event, the fair begins its ten-day run the second week of August to accommodate the
school starting dates. This hot, humid August day found me in the emporium dripping worse than one of Uncle Frank's triple
scoop-ers. With the fair scheduled to open in less than twenty-four hours, my Uncle Frank was well into his "We'll never be
ready! We'll never be ready!" mantra.
"That's the last of it," I said, coming out of the small, walk-in freezer where we stored the goodies. "You've got enough
buckets of ice cream back there to build a respectable igloo."
"You remember what I told you about that door," Uncle Frank reminded me. "I installed a gizmo that makes it impossible for
you to get locked in. You just turn it and the door opens. Okay?"
I nodded, aware that Uncle Frank was keeping a closer eye on me than those bachelors did on the bache-lorette on that reality
TV show. "I heard you, Uncle Frank. And I promise there won't be any trouble this year. Everything is going to run just like
clockwork.
Tick-tack. Tick-tack." I performed a cash-register action. "Ka-ching. Ka-ching. Just think of all that money coming in if
it stays this hot. This is one of the few air-conditioned buildings on the grounds—and the only one that offers cool treats
and way cool people to dispense them. This place will be busier than the Food-mart on double-coupon Wednesday the first of
the month."
"From your mouth to God's ears," Uncle Frank grumbled as he swept the reddish-brown industrial-quality tile behind the shiny
clean stainless steel and glass refrigerated ice cream case. "The only thing I really care about is topping that old fart
Luther Daggett's sales figures. Last year, he came too damned close for comfort. The way the economy is, people will probably
stay home and suck on Freezer Pops and eat frozen Snickers bars."
Uncle Frank is always a grumblepuss just before opening day. Every year it's the same; Uncle Frank's predictions of doom and
gloom are offset by my Aunt Reggie's unemotional, analytical businesswoman approach to life. Must have something to do with
being a CPA's sister. Aunt Reggie is the barometer of her family. She keeps cool when Uncle Frank's temperature is in the
red zone. Their only child, Frank Jr.—or "Frankfurter," as I call him—is ... how can I put this in a nice way? A wiener. A
one-hundred-percent, no-filler-added, honest-to-goodness weenie. You know, he's one of those kids who wears a suit coat and
tie to the middle school band concerts, his pants just a tad short and on the Urkel side. The kid who always orders the salad
and yogurt instead of the burger and fries. Who's allergic to everything you can see, smell, taste, or pet, and has the Rudolph
nose to prove it.
I do feel a certain empathy for Frankfurter. He's one year older than me and still lives at home with his parents. He's trying
to figure out who he is and what he wants in life. Hello. Talk about your deja vu moments.
Uncle Frank would love to be able to retire in warmer climes and leave the ice cream businesses to Frank Jr. Sadly, Frankie
shows little or no inclination to follow in his father's soft-serve footsteps. He did take an interest in the Dairee Freeze
during a recent remodeling project. Frankie wanted to replace the off-white countertop with one called Shades of Southwest
turquoise. He was all set to pull the entire motif together with a colorful desert dusk and turquoise border featuring delicate
mauve flowers. Uncle Frank was ready to stroke out. Aunt Reggie just liked the fact that she finally had someone to go with
her to look at wallpaper patterns.
"I'm out of here, Uncle Frank," I announced, snagging a chocolate bar from a display by the cash register. "I'm supposed to
relieve Frankie at the mini-freeze at six, right?" I asked, referring to the much smaller Dairee Freeze location, also known
as Site B, down on the concourse across from the grandstand.
"Six sharp." Uncle Frank leaned on his broom and frowned at me as I unwrapped the chocolate and began to nibble away. Have
I mentioned my uncle is tighter than a pair of thigh-high hose? "You know how Frankie gets when he isn't relieved on time.
He's liable to shut the place up and walk out, and we do some of our best business before the fair opens."
I nodded, familiar with my first cousin's often petulant ways. "Frankie is just a little confused, Uncle Frank," I said, wanting
to somehow minimize Uncle Frank's disillusionment with his only son. I knew how it felt to be the cause of repetitive head-shaking
and shushing among family and friends. "He'll come around."
Uncle Frank smiled. "Like you came around?" He put a hand to his head. "Heaven help us. I don't think my business can afford
another family member's defining moment."