Calamity Jayne (25 page)

Annette had agreed to testify against Sheriff Thomason at trial. Sheriff Thomason had reacted with predictable rage, vowing
revenge on backstabbing bitches and Buttinsky blondes.

“I wish I had known your husband, Mrs. Palmer,” I found myself saying. “I wish we had met. Spoken. Because of everything that
has happened, I feel a connection to him somehow.”

Sheila Palmer studied me for a moment. “You probably wouldn’t have liked him much, Tressa,” she finally said. “He could be
a real son of a bitch. He didn’t want to take down the sheriff for the greater good, you know. I suspect he knew that exposing
the sheriff would make him a shoe-in for the next judgeship. He was ambitious, Tressa. Very ambitious. That ambition was his
undoing.” She put a tissue to her nose. “I’m sorry, Tressa. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but you deserve to know the
truth.”

I stared at her. All the noble, upstanding, good guy-versus-bad guy attributes I had gifted Peyton Palmer with eroded in a
cloud of disillusionment. I felt cheated. Bitter. Empty.

I sat on a hill overlooking the lake trying to make sense of what would probably never make sense at all. People were complex.
Hard to read. Like one of those Gump chocolates. You never knew what was on the inside by judging what you saw on the outside.
Which made life a hell of a crapshoot.

Townsend sat down beside me, and stretched out his long legs. “You look miles away. What’s going on inside that ace cub reporter
brain of yours?”

“Is anyone really who they seem to be, do you think?” I asked. “Or is everyone just wearing a cyborg-type mask that performs
suitable facial expressions and appropriate responses for all occasions?”

“What are you trying to say, Tressa?” Townsend shifted his weight subtly.

“I guess what I’m wondering is where can I find one honest man?”

Townsend cleared his throat, and gently took my injured hand in his. “You’re looking at one, Calamity. I’m a man of my word.”

I gave him a
yeah, right
look.

“Aren’t you the same guy who was working undercover with a certain deputy on this case all along, but chose to keep that from
me? And aren’t you the same person who made everyone believe you were performing under-the-covers moves with a certain widow?
Sorry, but I need proof you are who you claim to be.”

A dark eyebrow across from me went north. “Proof, huh?” he said, rubbing his chin.

I nodded.

Townsend suddenly reached out and pulled me into his arms, and gave me a long, searching, lingering kiss. He pulled away and
looked into my face. “Does that help my case?” he asked.

I sighed, mostly because of the kiss, but also because I still wasn’t sure of anything where this man was concerned.

“I need tangible proof,” I said. “Proof that can be seen, felt, and touched. You know. Verifiable.”

Townsend looked at me. “You’re sounding more and more like a journalist every day,” he said and stood. “Well, how’s this for
tangible, Ms. Ace Cub Reporter?”

Before I could respond, Ranger Rick Townsend had dropped his drawers. On one perfectly sculpted cheek was a dainty but tasteful
raccoon tattoo. He grinned down at me. “I believe you wanted proof that could be seen, felt, and touched,” he said with a
wicked gleam in his eye. “Go ahead. Touch it!”

I stared at the tattoo and then at the audacious fellow sporting it. I screamed, jumped to my feet and ran for the hills—but
not before making very certain, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the good ranger had, indeed, picked the perfect spot.

Hey, my mama didn’t raise no fools.