"Yuck it up, Lois Lame," Dixie said.

"Who's minding the store?" I asked.

"Taylor, who else? Oh. And Patrick offered to give her a hand."

I sat up in my seat. A brown shirt serving up Slurpees? What would the bra.s.s think? "Are you playing matchmaker, Dixie?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Taylor told you to b.u.t.t out, not me."

"So where are you off to?" I asked. "To stock up on ice packs? By the way, your nose, Dixie? Looking good!" I made a thumbs-up. Dixie muttered something not very nice.

"Hey, at least I didn't make a joke about your Roman nose," I said. "You know. Roamin' all over your face. Like that. No. I totally respected your feelings. So, where did you say you were going again?"

"We didn't," Dixie snapped.

"We're taking a bus tour to some of the covered bridges," Frankie said. "Want to join us?"

"No, she does not want to join us," Dixie said. "You heard her. She's busy prosing. Besides, it's a couples' thing. You know. Romance."

Frankie colored. His Adam's apple did one of those I'm-in-so-much-trouble numbers. "Oh. Yeah. Right."

"Yes, but what trip to Madison County is complete without a visit to at least one of the famous covered bridges?" I asked.

"You wouldn't enjoy it," Dixie said. "Crowded bus. b.u.mpy roads."

"A bus would be a limo compared to a tandem bike," I pointed out.

"Everyone will be paired off. You wouldn't be comfortable. You'd feel like a third big toe. Isn't that what you call it?" Dixie pressed her advantage.

I winced. That's what my gammy called it.

"A reporter makes sacrifices in order to get the story," I said. "Besides, Kenny here looks like he could use a break. He can be my number two. Besides, what artist could turn down an all-expense paid trip to the bridges of Madison County?"

"The shuttle is free, ditz," Dixie pointed out.

"Even better! What do you say, Mr. Grey? Care to soak up a little local culture?"

"I guess that would work. Business has slowed up for the moment."

"Great! We'll just help you load these up. Right, Frankie?"

Dixie shook her head, and we watched Frankie help Kenny pack up his stuff and move it to the side door of a dirty white, soccer mom minivan.

"Remind me to horn in on your quality time with Rick Townsend," Dixie grumbled.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll make like my dad at a wedding. You won't even know I'm there."

"Right."

Frankie and Kenny rejoined us, neither of their expressions screaming, "I'm excited about this plan!"

We boarded a bus. I claimed the window seat, Kenny, the aisle. "Which bridge are we seeing first?" I asked Dixie, sitting in the aisle seat behind us.

"Roseman," Dixie mumbled, obviously still put out and not afraid to show it.

"Roseman Bridge." I did a quick search on my intelligent phone. "It says here Roseman Bridge is still located at its original location. It was featured in the movie."

"It's the bridge where Francesca leaves the note for Robert Kincaid inviting him to dinner," Kenny provided. "It's also known as the 'haunted bridge,'" he added.

I blinked. "How come?"

"Apparently, two sheriff's possees had an outlaw trapped on the bridge. Legend has it the bad guy rose up, straight through the roof of the bridge, let out a wild, anguished cry, and vanished into thin air."

"Holy Houdini! Did they ever find him?"

"No. He was never seen again."

First haunted ax murder houses. Now haunted bridges. Maybe this wasn't such a hot idea, after all.

"Hey! Look!" Someone yelled. "It's Keelie Keller's bus!"

Definitely not one of my better ideas.

Kenny sat up in his seat, craning his head to see outside the bus.

Oh. That's right. His Keelie connection.

We piled out of the bus. Once outside, the sounds of an argument could be heard. The group quieted, collectively eavesdropping on a not-so-private private moment.

"My best friend? You're hitting on my best friend!" I held my phone up, centering the group of people standing at the entrance to the bridge in my camera frame, and hit the video b.u.t.ton. Manny I could make out easily, his bulk taking up considerable lens s.p.a.ce.

"Jax Whitver, you are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Do you hear me? A b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

I zoomed in on the screecher. It was Keelie. She turned slightly in our direction.

"And Tiara. My BFF. You are through! Do you hear me? Your free ride is over!"

"Keelie! Wait!" Jax ran after her. She stopped, whirled-and wapp!-nailed him with an open-handed slap.

I winced. That was so gonna leave a mark.

Tour bus spectators, finally reacting to the tabloid bonanza unfolding in front of them, held their phones up to capture the moment.

"Get away from me!" Keelie screamed. "And don't you come near me again, or I'll have you arrested! Do you hear? Just leave me alone!"

Feeling a bit too much like a certain smarmy compet.i.tor for my comfort, I turned the camera off and put my phone away. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Kenny's ashen face. He looked like he was about to charge into the fray and save yon fellow ginger.

I took hold of his arm.

"Better not," I said. "See that big guy? That's her bodyguard. And, no. He's not wearing Kevlar. That's all Manny."

Keelie ran to her bus and boarded. Manny and Tiara, deep in conversation, followed at a slower pace. Jax ran a hand through his hair, shook his head, and walked to a beige Camaro. I watched him get in and speed away, gravel flying from his rear tires.

I looked around. "Hey. Where's your betrothed?" I asked Dixie.

"Over there. With his hero" She enunciated each word like she was spitting nails.

"Oh. I guess now is not a good time to ask if you've learned anything more about our mystery man," I said.

"Your mystery man. And, as it happens, I do have a little something. It's something Frankie overheard and let slip."

"Yes! Yes! What did Frankie let slip?" I grabbed her collar. "What? What?"

"Down girl," Dixie said, loosening my grip and straightening her clothing. "It seems Manny DeMarco has siblings."

I stared. "He does?"

She nodded. "A brother and a sister. He and his brother don't get along. Apparently this brother is the black sheep of the family."

I stared. Manny's brother was the black sheep?

Oy vey.

The plot thickened.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

"Did you know the word 'hoedown' comes, literally, from the act of putting the 'hoe down'-meaning to cease one's labor for a spell and enjoy the well-earned reward of a night of food, drink, music, and dance?"

"Fascinating, but when I think of a 'ho' down it's in a totally different context," Van Vleet remarked.

Eww! I made a face.

Nursing a major case of the sulks, Van Vleet was drowning his sorrows in beer because he'd missed the ruckus at Roseman Bridge. We were presently bellied up to the make-shift bar in the bogus barn, located in a whimsical, wild west cardboard town.

"Cheer up, Drew. Maybe if you're a very good boy, I'll enlighten you on the origin of the term 'hootenanny.'" I promised. Man, I loved my brilliant phone.

"I still can't believe you didn't upload that video," he said. "Talk about amateur hour. You blew it, stroker. When Stan Rodgers finds out you withheld that video-" He put a finger gun to my forehead. "Bye, bye, Blondie."

I winced. He was probably right. Maybe I was too much of a soft touch. But after viewing the video umpteen times, after hearing the pain and hurt in Keelie Keller's voice, seeing tears-real tears-pour down her cheeks, I just couldn't bring myself to air the clip. It wouldn't be any different from her airing Taylor's trooper true confession It just felt wrong. And two wrongs didn't make a right. Right?

"I'll leave the tabloid journalism to you, Drew," I said. "I'm looking for something a bit more...extraordinary than that," I said, in my best British accent.

"Sucker," Van Vleet said, and drained his gla.s.s of beer. "I sure hope those scruples of yours keep you fed and clothed and a roof over your head when Stan Rodgers kicks your f.a.n.n.y to the curb. Oh, and don't make me wait in the morning. The earlier we start, the cooler it is."

"I hear and I obey, my liege," I said.

Van Vleet shook his head and moved off.

"Twerp," I said, raising my gla.s.s to signal for another beer.

Winterset had certainly gone all out, even building a mock-up of a Wild West town on land donated for the night by a local farmer. Phony storefronts, including a general store and apothecary, blacksmith's shop, a bank, the sheriff's office, and a hotel, added to the old west atmosphere. A ma.s.sive steel outbuilding had been transformed into the "Ya'll Come Back Saloon" complete with swinging doors, makeshift bar, and a stage for the band. Strands of twinkle lights-indoors and out-added a modern and magical touch to the venue. In one corner of the outbuilding, the requisite mechanical bull sat, surrounded by a mountain of foam mats to cushion the fall.

I grinned, watching as a half-soused, old enough to know better, skinny dude dressed in European Capri pants and a T-shirt with a picture of the Holliwell Bridge on the front, bowlegged it up to the bull and hopped on. Or rather, tried to. The guy kept slipping off and sliding to the ground. And the bull hadn't even been turned on yet.

I shook my head. City slickers.

"Now that, Miss Turner, is a poster child for liquid courage, if I ever saw it," someone remarked, and I turned to find Jax Whitver on the seat next to me. "And I should know." He hiccoughed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Partying," he responded.

"You'd better not let Keelie see you." And her bodyguard, for that matter. "She was pretty clear on wanting you to keep your distance."

"It's a free country. You know. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," he said, obviously having partaken of liberal libations before arriving at the party.

"Aren't you concerned at all about escalating an already...explosive situation? Or," I finally thought to wonder, "was that dust-up rehea.r.s.ed, ch.o.r.eographed, and performed flawlessly."

"I wish," Jax said. "Hey, barkeep. Another round for me and my lady outlaw here."

He stared at my chest for an uncomfortably long time.

"Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway," he read. "Truer words. Truer words. Sometimes I'm scared to death, but h.e.l.l if I let anyone know it."

I blinked. "Scared? You? Of what?"

The mustachioed bartender set beers on the bar in front of us.

"Of losing myself," he said, and picked up his beer. "Losing sight of what's 'portant. Of who's 'portant."

I winced. The poor guy was drunk and clearly hurting. Separately, I am ill-equipped to deal with either one of these conditions. Together? Fuggetaboutiit.

"I effed up," Jax said. "Bad."

I winced. Drunk, hurting, and potty-mouthed.

"We all make mistakes. That's the easy part."

He turned bleary, red eyes on me. "Whazz the hard part?"