"I'm glad my humiliation provided you with so much amus.e.m.e.nt," I huffed.

"Ah, give it a rest, would you, Turner? Besides, it's a done deal. No one is asking you to be best biker buds with Van Vleet. You don't even have to talk to him if you don't want to. h.e.l.l. You probably won't have breath to spare for chit-chat anyway."

"I want it on the record that I think this is a very bad idea," I said.

"Duly noted," Stan said. "Anything else?"

"The guy can't be trusted," I warned Stan. "I don't plan to take my eyes off Drew the Shrew for a minute."

Stan chuckled. He grabbed a handful of chocolate candies from his Hawkeyes dish. "Looks like you'll be bringing up the rear on that bicycle built for two then," he observed and tossed the color-coated candy into his mouth. "Happy bike trails, Ace Cub Reporter!"

Oh, the pain.

"You? And Drew Van Vleet? On a bicycle built for two?"

My Aunt Reggie and my sister, Taylor, stood behind the counter of Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie's Dairee Freeze and stared down at me as I drowned my sorrows in a double fudge cookie dough and caramel ice cream concoction.

"It sounds even worse when you say it," I said, spooning a heaping, sure-to-cause-brain-freeze helping of the cold confection into my mouth.

Taylor's lips tightened into a worried slash. "And you agreed?"

I helped myself to another spoonful of Mr. Freezee.

"What else can I do? Stan the s.a.d.i.s.tic Puppet Man is dangling the carrot of a raise over my head. 'I got no strings to hold me down.'" I warbled, holding my arms up to perform a spastic Pinocchio move that only increased the anxiety levels radiating from clearly concerned relatives.

"But you? On a bicycle? In summer's heat? Hundreds of miles. Up and down hills. Steam rising from the pavement. Pedaling. Pedaling. How long has it been since you've ridden a bicycle?"

I shrugged. I'd spent most of my life on the back of a majestic, four-legged animal, not a two-wheeled metal contraption.

"It'll come back to me," I said. "You know what they say. 'It's as easy as riding a bicycle.'"

"They don't know you," Taylor pointed out.

"At least you'll have Taylor here and Frankie to look out for you," Aunt Reggie said.

I frowned.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Your Uncle Frank couldn't resist the lure of an uninterrupted stream of hot, hungry bike riders looking for cold comfort so Frank Jr. and Taylor are taking the mobile ice cream trailer on TribRide," Aunt Reggie explained.

My Uncle Frank is on the, er, frugal side. He subst.i.tuted generic chocolate sandwich cookies for the real deal in his Mr. Freezees until he got complaints. Okay. So I accidentally outted him. It's not as if cookie connoisseurs can't tell the difference.

"I thought Frankie was taking summer cla.s.ses," I said. Earlier this year my cousin, Frankie, ("Frankfurter" to those who know and love him) had ambitious plans to enter the state police academy. Unfortunately, Frankie is-how to put this nicely-a bit of a...wimp. A wimp with severe allergy and sinus issues and enough hypochondria to keep the local doc in yearly country club memberships.

When it became clear Frankie couldn't pa.s.s the physical strength and agility tests, (so not a pretty sight) he decided it might be cool to become a criminal a.n.a.lyst or one of those CSI techs. To make things even more interesting, Frankie's main squeeze, Dixie 'The Destructor' Daggett, had caught Frankie's crime-fighter bug. And, amazingly, she had whizzed through each phase of the application process with relative ease.

I'm somewhat dubious. Personally, it's hard for me to picture roll-out-the-barrel Daggett as a lean-mean crime-fighter. Okay. The 'mean' part, maybe.

Dixie and I have...issues. She thinks I'm a flake and I think she's scary. But since she's fated to become a member of the family, I'm trying to adopt an att.i.tude of...er...inevitability if not acceptance. (I can see the wedding video now: The Bride of Frankie starring Frankie the Frankfurter as the mad-in-love groom and featuring Dixie "Cankles" Daggett as his gruesome mate.) Talk about your monster matinees. You bring the beverages. I'll supply the popcorn and candy.

"Frankie is taking mostly online courses this term," Aunt Reggie told me.

I looked at Taylor and raised a questioning eyebrow. My sister's driving abilities didn't extend to maneuvering a large vehicle pulling a trailer-a skill I'd practiced and perfected over years of hauling horse trailers. .h.i.ther and thither.

"Maybe we could work out a deal," I proposed. "I could drive the pickup and you could-"

"Dixie's driving the rig." Taylor cut me off like the hook at a vintage comedy club.

Nice.

"Dixie of Dixie's Demolition Derby, Inc.? Good luck with that."

"Good luck with your itty-bitty bicycle seat," Taylor volleyed.

I blinked.

Taylor had changed since her abrupt decision to take a break from books and higher education. She's become more vocal. More testy. More like...me.

"I understand that nice Trooper Dawkins who has been so helpful to Frankie and Dixie will also be riding," Aunt Reggie said. I noticed the sudden lifting of her eyebrows at roughly the same time a sudden flush reddened Taylor's cheeks.

"P.D. Dawkins is going on TribRide?"

Aunt Reggie nodded. "He'll be on duty. He's riding one of the state patrol bikes."

I'd met Patrick Dawkins, P.D. for short, last August at the Iowa State Fair, and we hit it off right from the start. He likes me just the way I am (wow, what a concept!) And me? I'm a sucker for a good-looking guy in uniform.

P.D.'s fondness for farm life from summers spent on his uncle's farm, his natural affinity for animals, and his patient tolerance for eccentric seniors in their dotage, cemented the connection. At one time it wouldn't have taken much encouragement from me for Trooper Dawkins to pursue a relationship on a more...intimate level.

But old habits die hard. A decade of courting danger with a certain ranger via feuding worthy of the Hatfields and McCoys, interspersed with episodes of l.u.s.t, angst, and heartburn, had left me dazed and confused about what I wanted and needed in a mate. (Shocker, right?) "You hear that, Taylor?" I said. "Trooper Dawkins is going on TribRide. Why, it'll be just like old home week!"

I totally deserved the look Taylor gave me-one of those eyes-narrowed-to-tiny-slits numbers I suspect she reserves just for me.

I'd only recently discovered that Taylor had a serious case of the hots for the hunky brown shirt, Dawkins. However, rather than horn in on her older sister's supposed territory, Taylor had piously hidden her attachment to the peace officer until she realized my affections were fixed, er, elsewhere.

I suppose I should mention here that Taylor is considered the sensitive, caring sister.

What's that? Oh. You figured that out, huh?

"So, when are you and your biking buddy planning to get together for some pedaling practice?" Taylor asked.

"Pedaling practice?" I wrinkled my nose.

"You do know there's more to riding a tandem bicycle than getting on the bike and pushing the pedals, Tressa," Taylor reminded me. "You have to get a rhythm going, achieve and maintain your balance, get in sync with your partner."

"In sync? Isn't that the name of a has-been boyband?" I said with a snort.

"Would you get serious?" Taylor said. "Every year a biker is injured or even killed on the ride. Inexperience can be deadly."

Wasn't she just little Mary Sunshine?

"And there's the equipment you'll require," Mary continued.

h.e.l.lo. Again with the spandex?

"Doesn't Rick Townsend usually ride?" Aunt Reggie offered. "I bet he'll know exactly what you'll need."

This time it was my cheeks that did a burn-baby-burn number.

"I doubt he'll be all that eager to help," I said, tucking into my ice cream again. When you deliberately avoided someone you'd been, well, intimate with, that person probably wouldn't be in the mood to offer you bicycle safety lessons.

Aunt Reggie frowned. "Have you two been going at it again?"

I almost choked on my ice cream.

"Tressa?" Taylor pounded me on the back. "Are you okay?"

"Okay? Of course. I'm fine. Just fine. Tip-top. Dandy. In the pink. Mahvelous."

Babbling for all I was worth.

"You two aren't feuding again, are you?" Aunt Reggie persisted.

"Feuding?" I suddenly realized Aunt Reggie's "going at it" reference was about our history of pistols at twenty paces rather than my recent surrender at sea. "Oh, no. No. We're past all that, Aunt Reggie."

And then some.

"So why wouldn't he be eager to help?" Taylor the human I-smell-something-fishy detector zoned in on my earlier fl.u.s.tered bl.u.s.ter like my gammy does on the dessert table at church potlucks.

Okay. Me, too.

"No reason other than he's probably ber busy," I said. "'Tis the boating season, after all."

"Well, I'm sure we'd all rest easier if you found someone with experience to mentor you, Tressa," Aunt Reggie said.

"Maybe Lance Armstrong's looking for a daunting, new challenge," Taylor suggested with a wink at Aunt Reggie.

"Thank you both for your concern, but I've managed to survive bucking horses, killer geese, broken down fair rides, and runaway farm implements and lived to tell the tale. I think I can tame a tandem."

Taylor shrugged. "If you say so."

Aunt Reggie reached out and patted my hand. "Of course, you can, Tressa. Why, you're a regular little engine that could!"

I stared into my Freezee.

I think I can. I think I can.

I think I'm...screwed.

I shoved my ice cream aside, grabbed my keys, and left the Freeze. I needed to clear my head, approach this latest challenge in a responsible manner.

The time had come for a woman-to-woman talk with myself. One of those inner dialogues that can be so helpful and cathartic. Mine went something like this: Cheerleader Tressa: You can do this!

Debbie Downer Tressa: You have to do this.

Cheerleader Tressa: Think of the sense of accomplishment!

Debbie Downer Tressa: Think of the hemorrhoids.

Cheerleader Tressa: Be a team player!

Debbie Downer Tressa: Girl, you've never played well with others.

Cheerleader Tressa: You'll meet new people!

Debbie Downer Tressa: You'll be riding with a guy whose knuckles will drag on the pavement.

Cheerleader Tressa: It's only a week.

Debbie Downer Tressa: It's a whole friggin' week!

Cheerleader Tressa: It's a matter of pride.

Debbie Downer Tressa: It's a matter of your bottom line.

I sighed and Googled the number for the New Holland News.

"h.e.l.lo. Drew Van Vleet. Tressa Turner here. We need to talk."

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Witchiepoo, Grandville's very own tango queen. Hey, Witchie Woman. Dipped any old men lately?"

Wham! Bam!

What was that, you ask? That was the sound of Debbie Downer Tressa b.i.t.c.h-slapping Cheerleader Tressa.

Rah.

CHAPTER THREE.