By the time Kari and I had rejoined the Historical Village's answer to Back to the Future, I was itching worse than my pooches did after they've taken a midnight run through the thicket.
Kari and I parted ways. I wasn't comfortable with this, but as soon as I got to the area cordoned off for dancing, I noticed Gram standing outside the restrooms.
"Would you believe he's in there again?" Gram exclaimed.
"Joe?"
"No. Joe's getting a beer. Him. Abigail's bum. The guy has a problem. S'pose it's his prostrate?"
"I doubt it, Gram," not bothering to correct her. "Why don't we get something to eat and wait for Joe over there?" I steered her over to the bratwursts. "Aren't these just lovely? Oh, look! Sauerkraut!"
I got Gram a heaping helping and got her settled at a table.
And then I saw them.
Mick Dishman and Jada Garcia.
The demeaning duo who'd made a joke out of Joker.
The terrible twosome who pink tornadoed our property.
The football star and cheerleader who didn't have a clue who the f-bomb they were dealing with.
These boots were made for kicking cheerleader booty.
I set a course for the oblivious couple, Mick dressed in all black (naturally) and Jada in a Panther Posse outfit, this time worn over tight black leggings. Uber tacky.
I struck out across the area roped off for dancing, zigging and zagging between the dancers until I cleared the revelers.
My name is Tressa Jayne Turner. You colorized my horse. Prepare to dye.
(Love The Princess Bride, don't you?)
I knew the second they saw me and accurately divined my intent. The next second I found myself yanked off my feet and into a group of two-step swing dancers.
I looked up into the face of Manny DeMarco.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" I said, for some reason moving right into the dance steps like I'd received a proper "shall we dance?"
Feet together. Walk. Walk.
Quick. Quick. Slow. Slow.
Turn.
"The man who's going to save Barbie."
"Save me? From what?"
Walk. Walk.
Quick. Quick.
Slow. Slow.
Turn.
"From herself."
"Ha! Fat chance! It's that horse-hating, homey cousin of yours who is going to need saving. From me!"
Quick. Quick.
Slow. Slow.
Turn.
"Barbie needs to chill."
Slow. Slow.
Stop!
I planted my feet, pointed my finger, and jabbed Manny DeMarco in the chest.
"The name is…Tressa!" Poke. Poke. Poke. "And don't you forget it!"
I whirled on my heel, prepared to resume my initial course when I heard someone yell my name, and Taylor rushed up looking like Linda Evans' character, Audra, on The Big Valley but without the cleavage. I could see her eyes go all "what is he doing here?" huge when they spotted Manny behind me.
"Are you…busy?" she asked.
"Kind of. Why?"
"It's Kimmie. She's…well, you'll see. That is, if you can break away."
I looked over to where Mick and Jada had been, and they were gone.
"Dang!"
"Tressa? Can you come?"
I nodded.
"Thanks for nothing, DeMarco," I said, giving him my finest Martha Jane Cannary up yours look before following Taylor.
"What's the big deal about Kimmie? So she's enjoying a beer or two. I don't see the harm in—hot time in the ol' town tonight!" I stared at my sister-in-law. At least I thought it was my sister-in-law. It was hard to tell with all the war paint. Streetwalker variety. "What happened to Kimmie's pioneer outfit? The one with the cute yellow and white checked apron and matching bonnet?" The demure one.
"Apparently a saloon girl was hiding beneath, ready to spring forth."
A saloon girl with a hankering for burgundy and black corsets, sheer frilly black bloomers, black fishnet hose, black lace gloves, and a black velvet choker.
"Where's Craig?" I asked.
"I saw him with Rick and Frankie earlier. I called Frankie and told him what was going on and told them to keep Craig away. Oh, God, Tressa. He can't see Kimmie this way! He'll go bat shat crazy!"
I couldn't take my eyes off Kimmie. She stood by the light pole, one hand on the pole, her body swaying seductively like she was gearing up for her first set.
Slack-jawed frontiersmen and their pursed-mouthed wives couldn't seem to take their eyes off the show either.
"Do something!" Taylor urged.
I thought a second.
"How good are you on-the-fly?"
"You know I suck at improvisation or impromptu."
Leave it to Taylor to throw big words around at a time like this.
"Just follow my lead. You're the prudish shopkeeper's wife and I must say, perfect for the role, and I'll be the law around these here parts. Ready?"
"No, but I'll do it anyway. For Kimmie and Craig."
"Good. You get that motivation workin' for you, Miss Prude. And…action!"
"What's this here goin' on in my town?" I hollered, and took off in the direction of the pole dancer, sounding like an Iowan with a head cold rather than Marshall Dillon. "Is someone disturbin' my peace?"
"Oh! Thank God, it's you Miz Calamity! We've got soiled doves right here in our beloved Historical Village. Please, Miz Calamity. Help us!"
I had to give her credit. As a prude, Taylor wasn't half bad.
"Never fear, Miss Prude. Calamity Jayne is here," I said. "Now, young lady," I said, reaching my hand out to Kimmie, "you're comin' with me!"
"No, thank you," Kimmie said.
I blinked.
"Maybe y'all didn't hear me right, Miss Soiled Dove, but you are comin' with me."
"I heard."
"And?"
Kimmie shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"No?"
She shook her head.
"No."
I grabbed hold of her and leaned in with my lips to her ear.
"Kimmie. You may be drunk, but you're not too drunk to understand that you've got one shot here. One shot to keep your reputation intact. One shot to bow out of this gracefully. One shot to get out without losing something you may never get back. One shot. Don't blow it."
Kimmie hiccoughed then sighed.
"I thought we were friends, Tressa. Sisters!" she hiccoughed again.
"We are. Both of those. That's why I'm here instead of your husband. So," I said, raising my voice to performance level again. "What's it gonna be, Miss Dove?"
She sighed loudly and put the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh, Miz Calamity! I've been a baad girl. Take me to the hoosegow." She held her hands out as if to be cuffed, and I led her away—straight into the hands of my waiting parents who whisked her off the stage.
"Oh, Calamity! You're our hero!" Taylor said and ran up and put her arm through mine, and we walked off.
Tepid clapping sounded—it was improv after all—and I may have heard a comment or two about lesbian lovers, but it was loud, and I could have been mistaken.
What mattered is that we'd saved the day for Craig and Kimmie so they could fight another one. Less publicly, one hoped.
I gave Rick a call and filled him in on what was going on with Kimmie and how we'd had to sort of talk her down off the ledge—or, in this case, the pole.
"You missed the Turner trio's one-act play," I said. "It got mixed reviews. How's my bro?"
"Let's just say he's feeling no pain."
"Oh, God. We can't put the two of them together until they sober up," I said.
"No worries. We're heading over to my place for coffee and more coffee," he said. "How about Kimmie?"
"The folks are looking after her. She's more indignant than intoxicated."
"What about Martha Jane Cannary? How is she?"
"Heading for the bunkhouse shortly. Is Frankie still with you?"
"Affirmative. He has a fondness for boys' night out."
"I don't think Frankie's had too many bromances," I said.
"Brian called a little bit ago," Townsend reported. "He's on his way over, too. Kari told him to get bent. Don't know what that means exactly."
Nothing fun for Brian—or Townsend, that's for sure.
"Well, you boys enjoy your night. I'll hitch a ride with Taylor. Call me later?"
"You better call me. I might require a welfare check."
I grinned at his jest and purchased a beer (you'd think just one person who saw my performance would offer to buy) and walked over to a nearby table and sat down, listening to Garth Brooks sing about friends in low places.
"Sing it to me, Garth," I mumbled, thinking about Kari and what we'd heard under the covered bridge and what that meant for her and Brian and what the future held for Kimmie and Craig and Rick and me.
Soon, Taylor joined me. And Kari. Then Dixie.
An alcoholic cross-dressing sharpshooter. A pioneer prude. A schoolmarm. And a party pooper.
Glum and glummers.
"What a day," Taylor said.
"What a week," Kari said.
"What a month," I said.
"What a pathetic bunch of whiny babies," Dixie observed. "So today sucked. Get over yourselves. Our men are occupied. We're on our own. We've got beer. Music. Cowboys—or reasonable facsimiles."
I smiled.
"Dixie's right. I mean the whole episode with Kimmie was bound to make Dixie nostalgic for last summer."
"Last summer?" Kari asked.
"At the state fair. Bottoms Up."
"Oh, God. You're not going to bring that up again," Dixie said.
I put my hand out.
"Picture this. A hot, stuffy, smoky beer tent. Sawdust on the floor. A makeshift stage. The lights dim, and our star steps to the mike. And the caterwaulin' begins. Enter Dixie Daggett, Queen of the Karaoke with her rendition of Should've Been a Cowboy, but I can't mount a horse."
"Oh, for God's sake. Get some new material! And all I'm saying is, what's to stop us from enjoying ourselves for a few hours?"
"That, maybe," I said, pointing at the county sheriff's car that pulled up, lights flashing.
A second patrol vehicle followed it.
"Now that can't be good," Dixie said.
"You don't suppose someone complained about Kimmie's and our performance, do you?" Taylor asked.
I made a raspberry sound.
"If that's all that agency has to do—and I know for a fact it isn't—then this county is in need of Miz Calamity more than I thought."
I watched Doug Samuels get out of the lead patrol car, followed by the deputy in the second vehicle. They disappeared around the side of the two-story stagecoach inn next door."
"I wonder what's going on?" Taylor asked.
"Probably some obnoxious drunk," I said.
"I thought you said Kimmie went home," Kari said, and I winced.
"I wish I'd thought to bring my scanner with me," I said. "I left it in the Buick."
"You know. A reporter worth her salt would be over there with her nose stuck in the middle of all that," Dixie said. "I bet Drew Van Vleet is over there right now with his nose so far up Sheriff Samuel's—"
I jumped to my feet.
"I'm going! I'm going!"
"No need. Here they come," Taylor said.
"Looks like they have a couple of people in custody," Dixie said.
I watched the procession and, for a second, the crowd parted, and I got a glimpse of the individuals in handcuffs who were being led to the patrol cars by the officers.
I stared. My jaw dropped like a trapdoor.
"Oh, my God! Is that Robbie Rodgers?" Kari asked. "Isn't he your boss's kid?"
I nodded.
"It is!"
"Who's that other kid?" Taylor asked. "I don't think I know him."
I did.
It was Manny's cousin, Mick.
"I wonder what's up with that," Kari said.
"I'm going to find out," I said, watching the patrol cars pull out of the park. "Taylor, the keys to the Buick, if you'd be so kind."
"I wouldn't. I'll drive."
"I need a lift, too," Kari said.
"Me, too," Dixie said.
"We piled into the car, Dixie and Kari in back. Taylor behind the wheel and yours truly riding shotgun. Taylor was about to back out when a sharp rap on my window scared the living bejeebers out of me.
"What the hell was that?" Dixie asked.
"I can't see anything with this blasted tornado on the window!" I said, hitting the power window button to roll it down.
"Aaagh!" I screamed when a face peered back at me.
"Who is it?" Kari asked.
"It's me. Jada. Jada Garcia. Please! I need your help!"
I stared at the girl.
"Why should I help you?" I asked. "You maimed my horse."
She shook her head.
"No. No. I didn't. I didn't do that."
"Well then, your boyfriend did," I said.
"Mick? Oh no. It wasn't Mick. Please! They can't see me talking to you. Let me in!"
I looked at Taylor, and she nodded.
"Get in back and hunch down, and tell us what this is all about."
"It's Mick. He's been arrested."
"I know that. He, no doubt, deserves it."
"Oh no! He doesn't. He doesn't deserve it at all. But he will be in big trouble if the police go search his car."
"What kind of trouble exactly?" Dixie asked. "What will they find?"
"A gun," Jada said. "A stolen gun."
Four gasps filled the Buick's interior.
One from a schoolmarm. One from a pioneer prude. One from a party pooper.
And one from an ace cub reporter who totally didn't see that coming.