"Too rich for my expense account," I said. I could see the fireworks now if I submitted a receipt to Stan for a fifty-dollar bottle of beer.

On the other hand, where was the harm in having a bit of fun at Stingy Stan's expense?

I grabbed my phone, hit the camera b.u.t.ton, opened the fridge again, and cautiously removed the Valley of the Kings brew. I put it to my lips, held the camera up and hit the little camera icon.

Click.

A few maneuvers later and the picture appeared on my blog where Stan was sure to see it and go ballistic.

I gently set Tut back where I found him.

"Blue Moon's more Barbie's speed," Manny said.

I eyed the Blue Moon bottles lined up on the refrigerator shelf.

"Three bucks each tops," Manny said.

"You're sure it's okay?" I asked.

"Go for it," Manny said.

I grabbed a bottle, sashayed over to the luxurious sectional and sat. I lifted the bottle to my lips.

"Ahh. This is the life," I said, sitting back and surveying the splendor, not one bit guilt-ridden for giving up my seat in Uncle Frank's Suburban in lieu of this sweet ride. I brought the bottle to my lips again and felt the bulge of the small box Rick had given me before we'd said our goodbyes.

I set the bottle in a built-in beverage holder and reached for the small package. I examined it.

It couldn't be a ring.

Could it?

It didn't look like a ring box.

I performed a mental head b.u.mp. I was at it again, imagining things-connecting dots that didn't go together-leap-frogging to far-fetched, fairy tale endings that proved to be no more than a children's fable.

An amateur profiler could see a pattern here.

I'd done the same thing on the cruise-with near fatal results.

Now here I was again. Making a.s.sumptions. Reading more into the story. Losing perspective. Tressa Turner's very own production of Fantasy Island: The Sequel.

I took another long drink of Blue Moon-an apt ale given my present angst-and unwrapped the package. Tucked inside was a silver chain. I pulled the chain out and held it in front of me. Attached to the chain was a delicate, adorable, infinitely precious racc.o.o.n.

Tears stung my eyes, the lovely tell-tale nose drip threatening to drip-drop at any moment. d.a.m.n. If I didn't get a grip, I would be literally crying in my beer.

I snuffed up the snot and cradled the racc.o.o.n charm in my hand. I turned it over. Inscribed on the back were two words: For luck.

I made a grab for the tissues housed in another built-in and mopped at my eyes and nose.

"Biker Barbie okay?" Manny asked, checking me out in the rear-view mirror.

Was I?

Let's recap: My parents were on the outs.

My sister was playing word games with my psyche.

My Maybe Mr. Right was keeping me guessing.

And me?

I was about to explore a strange, new world: A redshirted, Trekkie stroker spinning across Iowa on a fire engine red bicycle built for two.

Hmm. Was I okay?

I am a Vulcan.

I feel no pain.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"Isn't this something? Look at all these people! This is insane!"

I took a drink of my draft and made a face. The observation came from a wannabe cowgirl who looked all of twelve.

Hmm.

Insane...

A biking virgin agrees to ride a tandem across Iowa in July?

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks likes a duck...

Yup.

Insanity.

And that flirtation with madness currently found me sardined inside a vast, canopied tent-like structure in the middle of a Boy Scout camp that bordered the wide Missouri, drinking beer (so not the good stuff), munching on peanuts, and listening to a so-so country western band tw.a.n.g a totally lame TribRide version of Willie Nelson's oldie, but goodie about being on the road again.

Don't get me wrong. Normally, you give me a beer, some munchies, and a good ol' boy band playing a song you can two-step to, and I'm as happy as my labs when I bring them "lab leftovers" from Uncle Frank's kitchen.

Normally, I wasn't facing the sobering prospect of a statewide tandem bike ride with a journalistic jerk with a grudge.

All right. So I'd made Drew Van Vleet look like the contemporary equivalent of the journalist who'd proclaimed some other dude president when Truman actually won. It was like that song I couldn't get out of my head.

He'd had it comin'.

He only had himself to blame.

And how long could someone hold an unfair, unfounded, and unreasonable grudge anyway?

I thought about my gammy and her nemesis Abigail Winegardner.

To infinity and beyond. That's how long.

Thanks to my man of mystery, I'd ridden in style to the kick-off city. Once Manny dropped me off at the Mini-Freeze location and we got the stand open for business, I'd vamoosed. Uncle Frank had agreed to spring for a hotel room (one room for all four of us, the big spender) for TribRide eve. The remainder of the week, Frankie, Dixie, and Taylor would be pitching a tent like the rest of us, or sacking out in the Suburban.

I'd showered and slipped into denim shorts, a T-shirt featuring a black silhouette of a cowgirl kicking it up that said, "It's all in the boots", and my comfiest pair of slouch boots. I plopped one of my favorite Stetsons-the one that sported a totally cool, black and turquoise band-on my head. I might be consigned to wearing a Trekkie Tee, padded pedal pushers, pedal-friendly footwear, and a dorky-looking bike helmet during the ride, but dang if I was going to hang out in a beer tent wearing tennies and hatless.

After all, this cowgirl had a reputation to uphold.

I looked around and frowned. I stuck out like my gammy on Easter Sunday. Bless her heart, each spring Gram embarks on a search for the perfect Easter bonnet. Last year's creation had a brim so wide we had to leave the seats on either side of her open.

"Hey you! Blondie! Calamity! Calamity Jayne!"

I turned my head in the direction of the call and was rewarded with a click and a camera flash.

"What the-!"

"Thought I'd better commit the pre-TribRide Tressa Turner to photographic memory," Dixie Daggett, also known as The Destructor, said. "You know. To immortalize the moment. Just in case of..." She raised her shoulders. "Well, whatever."

"I thought this get-together was for registered riders only. What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Vendors pay a fee so we're comped," Dixie said. She pointed at my beer. "What's that? Liquid courage?"

"Seriously? Since when do I need a reason to drink beer?" I said.

"Oh. So you're not even the least bit apprehensive about the ride?"

"Apprehensive? Do I look apprehensive?" I followed the query with a hearty gulp of beer. Unfortunately, it dribbled down my chin.

"Oh, no. You don't look the least bit nervous. In fact, you exude confidence and aplomb."

Aplomb?

"Why, you're just...full of it," Dixie went on.

I resisted the urge to accidentally spill my beer on her. Hey, it's beer, after all.

"I'm surprised you could take time off from your law enforcement academy pursuits to cater to cyclists," I observed. "What's up with that?"

"I've finished all the application requirements, and I'm just waiting for Public Safety to make offers," Dixie said. "Besides, I wouldn't miss Tressa Turner's Tandem TribRide for anything."

Great. I'd have Dixie Daggett d.o.g.g.i.ng my tail across the state.

"Speaking of duos, where is your fiance?" I asked. "You are still engaged, right?"

Dixie lifted her brow. Yes, that's right. I said brow. You know. As in unibrow.

"You know perfectly well we're still together," she said.

"Just checking," I said.

"Right." Dixie grabbed a handful of nuts. "We all were surprised to see you climb down out of that bus yesterday. We were even more surprised to see who had delivered you in said motor carriage. Manny DeMarco? Word on the street has it Manny took you by surprise by showing up on the little honeymoon cruise. Now, he shows up here in a customized bus and, lo and behold, who should step out but Grandville's answer to Baba Wawa, Calamity Jayne Turner."

"Was it a good surprise or a bad surprise?" I asked, not exactly thrilled with the blatant speculation concerning my love life.

"That's what I'd like to know," Dixie asked. "What exactly is going on between you and that guy?"

"Which guy?"

"Okay, I'll play. Just what are you doing hanging out with Manny DeMarco?"

"No comment," I said.

"Okay. How are things going with your new step-cousin then?" Dixie said.

I winced. That just sounded...wrong.

"There you are. I see you found her." My cousin, Frankie, walked up and wrapped a long, gangly arm around his fiancee's shoulders. He gave me one of his goofy grins. "Tomorrow's the big day," he said. "So. Tressa. How are you? Are you ready to r...r...rumble?"

"More like tumble," Dixie offered.

Frankie shook his head. "No, really. How are you, Tressa?"

I made a face. "How are you, Tressa? Are you ready, Tressa? Do you have a helmet, Tressa? A living will? Life insurance? Jeesh, guys. Give me a break, would you? What part of 'bike ride' are you missing?"

"Maybe the part where this bike ride goes on despite rain, heat, wind, hail, thunder, and, sometimes lightning, if you're really unlucky. Or that this particular ride historically averages sixty to seventy plus miles a day or four hundred seventy-five miles total," Dixie observed. "And, that this bike ride-"

"Thanks for the illuminating information, Ms. Statistician," I cut her off like a jagged toenail.

"You can't blame us for being...skeptical, Tressa," Frankie said. "It's a lofty undertaking."

"Like getting into the peace officer academy?" I suggested. "Hmm. Let's go back in time. Back to a time in the not-so-distant past when you aspired to such lofty heights-and where, if memory serves, your beloved and loyal cousin gave you unconditional support-this despite her own sense of er...skepticism."

To this day, just the memory of Frankie's grim performance on the state public safety academy obstacle course made me wince. The photographic evidence I shot that day? Well, it was enough to give you the w.i.l.l.i.e.s.

"Well, uh, er, since you put it like that," Frankie stammered.

"Oh, please. You had a calendar made from the pictures you took of Frankie on the obstacle course," Dixie pointed out.