"Not only one, but two apologies. Two in less than thirty seconds! That's got to be a record."

It was, but the ranger would receive confirmation of that factoid from me when my gammy stopped playing her fortune cookie numbers in the lottery.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

I rubbed the phone against the b.u.t.tons of my shirt and held it away from me.

"I can hardly hear you! There's too much static."

This scam rarely worked with the savvy ranger anymore. I'd used it way too often. Still, it generally got my point across.

"I hear you, Tressa. Loud and clear. I've been following the Keelie Keeler stuff. What the h.e.l.l is going on out there?" Rick asked.

Like I had a real clue.

"It's all smoke and mirrors," I a.s.sured him. "These reality shows? They're all very carefully ch.o.r.eographed and scripted. Nothing happens by accident."

"Oh? What about the attack on Keelie Keller's agent and you stumbling on him in the dead of night?" Rick asked. "Was that staged, or was it an accident?"

"Well, of course that was an accident!" I huffed. "You don't think I stumbled across another b.l.o.o.d.y body on purpose, do you?"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it, Tressa," Rick said. "I'm just saying, from what I hear of the agent's injury, it would have been impossible for him to inflict it himself."

I frowned.

"Just whom have you been talking to, exactly?" I asked.

"Taylor and I visited before she put you on the phone. She said it was obvious someone attacked the agent from behind. Dumb me. I thought I'd only have to worry about you when you were on your bike. It didn't occur to me that the stopovers would prove more dangerous. What made you agree to a night in the Murder House anyway?"

"Would you believe my id made me do it?" I asked.

"It's time you stopped blaming Freud for your destructive impulses, Tressa," Rick said. "We both know there's more than a personality triad run amok going on here. You have a gift, Tressa Turner. A gift for finding trouble."

We were making progress. Used to be Ranger Rick would tell you my gift was "making" trouble. Now, it appeared I was merely an innocent wayfarer skipping blindly into it. So. Yeah. Progress.

"There's sort of this wager going," I began.

"Wager?"

"You know. A team wager."

"On what exactly?"

"Well, that's not well-defined." I gave a short synopsis of how the contest climate had started and eventually shook out, including an overview of the back and forth with Keelie and Kompany and my hopes for a truce, as well as Stan's behind-my-back bet with Paul Van Vleet of the New Holland News. "So, you see, I'm really operating on several fronts. One. I'm trying to win a bet for the big guy, and, two, I'm trying to uphold the honor of my fellow Heartland inhabitants by taking on a bratty, big shot reality star from a Beverly Hills zip code."

"In other words, your compulsion to win is driving you."

"Hey. There's been no backseat driving of Miss Tressa here, Mr. Ranger, sir," I said, trying to divert Rick's attention away from my foibles and back on my amazing accomplishment. "I'll have you know this amateur biker has pedaled each and every mile of this hot, sticky, b.u.t.t-numbing road show so far." Something, I would bet my poor, abused bottom dollar my famous compet.i.tor could not lay claim to.

"About that b.u.t.t," Ranger Rick said, and my heart went pitter-patter.

"Yes?"

"I like it the way it is so make sure it isn't pounded down to a mere shadow of its former self," Rick said.

A flash of heat hotter than my Uncle Frank's deep fat fryers at high noon produced the sheen of perspiration on my face. I set my coffee down and fanned my cheeks with my free hand.

"Is that an order, Mr. Ranger, sir?" I asked.

"I know better than to give you an order, Calamity," he teased. "Look at it as a heartfelt request."

I fanned faster.

"I guess I'll er...see you when we overnight in Grandville," I stammered.

"Is that an invitation?" Rick asked.

Was it?

"Anything's possible in Team Trekkie's Rootin' Tootin' Reality Road Race," I hedged. "By the way, will you be joining TribRide when we leave Grandville?" I asked.

A pause.

"Anything's possible in a Ranger Rick to the Rescue Ride Across Iowa," he finally said.

"Thanks for the warning," I said, and hit end.

I could see the T-shirt logo now: Bikers do it in circles.

And c.o.c.keyed cowgirls?

They go along for the ride, of course.

Snap! Snap!

Van Vleet flicked his fingers in my face.

"Snap out of it, Red Shirt! Time to hit the road. Move it, Blondie. It's a long, hot ride to Creston. And, as you're so fond of saying, 'we're burning daylight, pilgrim.'"

I made a face. "Uh, quick point of fact here. That Duke Wayne quote-or any Duke Wayne quote, for that matter-should never, ever, ever, be recited by anyone wearing socks with sandals. It's just...wrong." I said, looking down at his feet and shaking my head.

"Funny. But it will be me laughing when your cousin's girlfriend pulls out leaving you to hoof it back to Highway 34, where we pick up the ride," he said.

"She wouldn't dare."

No sooner were those words out of my mouth than I understood how totally removed from reality I was.

"Yoo hoo! I'm coming! I'm coming!" I announced via the hayloft door to the ma.s.ses still a.s.sembled in the yard below. "Don't leave without me!"

I hoofed it to the narrow staircase.

I made it to the Suburban and jumped in the back seat and met Dixie's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I knew you couldn't leave without me," I said.

"Wow, Frankie. You never told me you had a psychic in the family," Dixie said. "And I didn't wait for you. Lucky for you, you still had Taylor's phone, and she wouldn't let me leave without it."

I held Taylor's phone out to her, and she s.n.a.t.c.hed it from me like my gammy grabs the last chocolate chip cookie on the plate.

"Your texts were safe with me," I a.s.sured her with a big wink. On the other hand, if some of her more interesting selfies happened to find their way onto my phone? I shrugged. Stuff happens.

We'd driven five minutes or so when a ker-thunk, ker-thunk got my attention.

"What is that noise?" I asked.

"Oh, please. We're not going to play that 'ghost, ghost come out today' game again, are we?" Dixie said.

"She's right. Listen," Taylor said.

Ker-thunk. Ker-thunk.

"d.a.m.n." Dixie pulled the Suburban over to the side of the road. "Sounds like a flat."

We got out of the car and, with collective dismay, surveyed the rear pa.s.senger tire.

"Dammit. I hate when Tressa is right. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often enough to be all that taxing," she added.

"I suppose someone should grab the jack," I said.

"Someone?" Dixie said.

"Someone big and strong...and male," I clarified.

"Right."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Taylor said. "Tressa, help me with the jack."

About that time I heard a sound like an air horn from a semi truck. I looked up in time to see Keelie Keller's bus pull slowly alongside.

"Oh, Turner! Tressa Turner!" Keelie's voice erupted from the loudspeaker. "All's fair in love and war-and wagers! Toodles!"

"Hey! What about our truce?" I yelled.

The luxury coach drove on by, oblivious to the Romulan death stare directed at it.

"Yep. That's right. I'm lookin' at you," I said to the bus's b.u.mper.

"That's it? That's all you've got?" Dixie's mouth flew open. "Here we are: disabled vehicle, a psycho head-basher on the loose, and your newest BFF and your former faux beau drive right on by, and that's your reaction. I'm lookin' at you? Ooh. Scary."

I sniffed.

"That shows what you know," I said. "Even as we speak, this crack mind is spinning various payback scenarios."

"Cracked mind is right," Dixie mumbled.

Okay. I was bluffing. Beyond my Romulan role-playing, I had nothing. Team Trekkie was fresh out of photon torpedoes.

And Tressa Jayne Turner?

For all I knew, this cowgirl could soon be a wanted woman-and not in your "Oh, baby, baby!" kind of way.

Talk about your final frontiers.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Stretched out on the Suburban's tailgate, I waved my fan-on-a-stick, a complimentary handout given to riders as they entered Creston, the host town for night two of TribRide.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

I wanted to bawl like a weary baby but couldn't summon the energy.

Night two? Night friggin' two!

Judging by the condition of my carca.s.s, (Yeah, I use that word deliberately.) I could swear I'd ridden to h.e.l.l and back on a bike with no seat.

I winced. The description even hurt.

To say the day had been tough going would be as much of an understatement as me saying I like bacon. The fact was Day Two of TribRide would go down as Murphy's Law Day. Yep. One of those "everything that could go wrong, did go wrong" days. I know. I know. We've all had them. (Just normally not while riding a bicycle built for two.) Day Two's ride wrap-up went something like this: Sleepless night. Cold breakfast. Late start. b.i.t.c.hing Van Vleet. Flat tire. Intense heat. No sweet corn left at noon stop. b.i.t.c.hing Stroker. Flat tire. Telltale signs of a hemorrhoid. More intense heat. And a partridge in a pear tree.

That I had been able to make the fifty-mile trip was nothing short of miraculous. Most of those miles were a total blur. The ones that weren't fuzzy consisted of me staring at the advertis.e.m.e.nts on the back of Van Vleet's Rent-a-Trekkie shirt.

Need brakes? Big Bob's in New Holland can fix you up. Craving a Dutch letter? Stop by the Dusseldorp Bakery. Want the best burger in town? The Windmill Grill is the place to go. Have a toothache? Anderson Family Dentistry will drill your pain away.

Honest to G.o.d. I would've gotten off the bike and kissed the "Welcome to Creston" sign when we reached it, but it required energy reserves I didn't possess. My Dilithium Crystals were drained to nubbins.

"I, uh, er, excuse me, but you look like you could use this."

I managed to open one eye. Kenny Grey, cup in hand, stood over me.

"It's lemonade. Ice cold. Freshly-squeezed."