Calamity Jayne Rides Again

238 Pages·2016·0.99 MB·English

by  Bacus Kathleen

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
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
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
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
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."