Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping (15 page)

“Bombshell? Really, Andy?” Wendy asked him. “Besides, beauty is only skin deep, and Cassie could have a very annoying personality and be extremely difficult to live with.”

“Now you sound just like Kylie,” I told her. “She just said the same thing, and I know you both are right, but I just can’t quite picture them as a couple.”

Just then the roar of a chainsaw firing up distracted us. Without introduction or comment, Harley began shaving chunks off a large upright log in front of him. In what seemed like mere moments, a perfectly shaped black bear emerged, and the artist began burning definition into the statue with a small blowtorch. The crowd stood silently in awe as we watched the impressive transformation of the block of wood into a work of art. I was wishing I’d videoed the demonstration to show to Stone later on. He would have been impressed by Harley’s talent and skill.

After the show, I was able to purchase the bear that had caught my eye and make arrangements to pick it up at the office the following day after Harley had personalized the wooden plaque for me. I handed him fifty dollars for the bear, knowing I’d really gotten a bargain. Wendy and Andy also purchased a bear to take home to their ranch that had a plaque which would read The Rocking V Ranch with a curved line below the V. The V stood for his last name, Van Patten, which I prayed would soon be Wendy’s last name, as well. It would have been mine if I’d chosen to take Stone’s last name when we’d married, but it seemed easier to me to leave things as they were, and Stone hadn’t argued.

While the two of them were busy purchasing their bear statue, I walked over to the gorgeous redhead, who was now standing next to the pavilion. I was surprised to see two children standing with her; a strawberry-blonde girl, about ten or so, who was a miniature of Cassie, and a dark-haired boy who appeared to be a couple of years younger.

The young girl was engrossed in reading a paperback I’d earlier seen her pull out of a backpack she was wearing. The book had
Quantum Physics
printed on the cover. How, I wondered, would a girl her age know anything about that subject, or even care to know? I’d have expected her to be more interested in a Judy Blume novel. At her age, I was fascinated with Astrid Lindgren’s
Pippi Longstocking.
To this day, I’d rather be reading a story involving the pigtailed, eccentric child with super-powers, than anything even remotely related to physics.

The boy was looking down, his hands in his pockets, dragging his right foot in a circular motion, stirring up a small cloud of dust. He had a forlorn air about him, as if the weight of the world was on his tiny shoulders.

To break the ice and initiate a conversation with Cassie, I said, “Isn’t Harley unbelievable with that chain saw?”

“Yes, quite a talented fellow,” she replied, without much enthusiasm. She didn’t seem to want to continue speaking with me, but that was never a deterrent to me when I was trying to dig information out of someone.

“What brings you folks to Cheyenne?”

“You mean other than the famous annual rodeo?” Cassie asked, with a touch of sarcasm. A simple “duh” would have sufficed to make her point.

“Yes, of course.”

“We’re here to take in some horseback excursions at the Rolling Creek Ranch.” Cassie now seemed more invested in the conversation. She threw her long red hair over her left shoulder, and continued. “After my divorce, I decided to take up horseback-riding as a new hobby, and I got my children involved with it, as well. My goal is for us to go on a horseback excursion in every state in the union, and after this week, we’ll have nineteen under our belt. Brandi wants to be a barrel-racer one day, and Chace has shown an interest in wanting to take up calf-roping in a couple of years.”

“How do you find the time to travel so much?” I asked.

“I’m a fashion model, but at my age, the modeling jobs are drying up as fast as my skin in the winter. Seriously, I buy moisturizer by the case. But I do have a part-time job, working as a claims adjustor for an insurance company, a lot of which I’m able to do on my computer when we’re on the road. My boss, who’s actually my Uncle Cole, is very accommodating.”

“How nice it must be to have your Uncle Cole as your boss. I’m sure that’s very beneficial when trying to arrange your schedule, and it’s nice that it allows you to travel whenever you please. But doesn’t that get expensive on your salary?”

“Well, yes, but I also make quite a bit on the side teaching children, and occasionally adults, to ride and care for horses.”

“You certainly must keep busy. I’m sure the side job is one you really enjoy, as much as you like to go horseback riding. Speaking of which, the horseback-riding excursion tomorrow sounds like a lot of fun. I must say, you have very ambitious children. I’m so sorry about the death of their step-mother, but I’m sure they’re excited that their father is here, as well.”

It occurred to me the model may be pondering the fact I knew more about their personal life than I should, and be reluctant to continue the conversation. So when Cassie just looked at me without responding, I changed the subject and continued, “My daughter and I are horse lovers ourselves, so we’ll have to check it out.”

I was actually scared to death of being within fifty feet of a horse. It’s not that I didn’t think they were beautiful creatures. It was just that every horse I’d ever been near had either thrown me, bit me, laid down and rolled over on me, or, on one painful occasion, kicked me clear across the barn at my late husband’s parent’s ranch. Now I was certain they could sense my trepidation whenever they approached me and felt they had to live up to my expectations of them.

However, I might have to face my fear and convince Wendy, who actually does love horses, to go on a horseback trek the following day. I knew it wouldn’t take much arm-twisting, because she had inherited her love of anything equine-related from her father, Chester Starr, who had spent his youth growing up on a ranch that bred Quarter horses. Besides, she was as intrigued as I am with the family dynamics in the Bumberdinger clan, which might have a killer in the mix.

Before I could ask anything about her relationship to Avery and Fanny, and any possible involvement she might have had with the author’s death, she bade me a quick farewell and ushered her children away from the crowd, which was beginning to disperse. Brandi walked alongside her mother without ever taking her eyes off the book she was reading.

I joined Wendy and Andy, and my daughter was delighted at the idea of going on a lengthy horseback ride the following day. Andy said it would work out splendidly because he and the other two men were planning to go trout fishing at a place Stanley had told them about on a stream, ironically called Horse Creek. The prime fishing spot was located about forty-five minutes north of Cheyenne. They had all purchased appropriate tackle and fly-fishing rods during our stop at the Cabela’s in western Nebraska on the way to Wyoming, and were anxious to try them out. I encouraged Stone to get home before dark, because we gals didn’t want to assemble a search party in the middle of the night.

Stanley had told them the brown trout were plentiful in Horse Creek, but to keep an eye out for rattlesnakes, which were also plentiful on the prairie. He’d also told them that if they didn’t spray themselves down with insect repellent from head to toe, they’d be bleeding like butchered hogs by the time they reached the stream. Ironically, again, from horsefly bites.

The more Stanley had talked, the more Stone had considered just staying home and watching old movies again, but the itch to try out his new sporting good purchases was too much to resist. After listening to Stanley’s warnings, I wanted no part of a search party combing an area riddled with horseflies and rattlesnakes at night.

“I think Wyatt told me once that Veronica liked horseback riding too, so it would be an ideal way for you three ladies to spend the day while we’re fishing,” Andy assured me.

My backside suddenly began to ache at the mere thought of the long trail ride we were planning to partake in the next day, and I was already regretting my impulsive decision. But as I have often said, No Pain, No Gain! First I had to get through a Vex Vaughn concert that evening, in the midst of a frenzied standing-room-only crowd. The very thought made my feet begin to throb in perfect harmony with my backside.

Chapter 9

As Andy had predicted, Veronica was thrilled at the idea of the horseback riding excursion the following morning. With Emily’s help, I was able to make reservations for the ride. We were all sitting in lawn chairs on the patio, visiting and drinking coffee, while waiting to catch the shuttle bus to the fairgrounds. I was drinking cup after cup of strong brew, wishing I were gathering up my snorkel, beach towel, sunscreen, and latest Alice Duncan cozy mystery, to spend the next day lazing on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, instead of the trail ride that was actually on my schedule. Veronica brought me back to reality with a thud when she reached over to kiss Wyatt on the cheek and squealed in delight.

“With the Vex Vaughn concert tonight, and horseback riding tomorrow, this is turning out to be one of the greatest weeks of my life,” Veronica said. “Thanks so much for inviting us along, Stone. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m glad you were able to join us, sweetie,” Stone said, with a warm smile. Then he reached over and patted my knee. “We’ll need to catch the next shuttle bus to get to the concert on time. Honey, are you sure you should be downing so much coffee? Finding a johnny-on-the-spot might be difficult in the standing-room-only section.”

“No worries, sweetheart,” I said with a smile. “You know I have the bladder of a camel.”

Despite my show of nonchalance in front of the others, I had almost choked on my last gulp of the stuff. I’d been so busy concentrating on how much I dreaded the concert and the trip to the ranch the next day that I hadn’t taken the availability of restrooms at the fairgrounds into consideration. I considered tossing the remaining coffee in my cup out onto the gravel, but that would contradict my comment to Stone. So, when I noticed there were only a few swallows left anyway, I finished what remained in one long gulp and walked my empty cup into the motorhome to set it into the kitchen sink. I used the restroom, just in case my camel theory didn’t pan out, and then picked up my fanny pack and latched it into place around my waist.

Finally, I grabbed a sweatshirt off the back of the couch, knowing how cool the evenings were at this altitude, and rejoined the rest of my party out on the patio, where they were folding up the lawn chairs and preparing to proceed to the shuttle bus stop.

With the uneasy notion of not being able to locate a restroom if I truly needed one later on in the evening, I mentioned needing to take along a pack of Kleenex, which I’d actually already placed in my fanny pack, and rushed back into the motorhome to utilize the restroom one last time. I squeezed out exactly three drops of urine that hadn’t emptied from my bladder ninety seconds earlier, and I’m not positive the third one wasn’t a mere figment.

As expected, the shuttle bus was jam-packed. According to the metal regulations plaque attached securely to the back of the driver’s seat, I judged the mass-transit vehicle to be about two tons over its legal weight limit. The riders were in an excited state of anticipation because Vex Vaughn was the must-attend concert of this year’s festivities. And to think, I’d never even heard of the performer until I’d met Fanny Finch. My age was showing more and more with each new artist who produced a hit song, and it wasn’t a trend that was likely to get any better in the coming years. I normally only listened to the radio while driving back and forth to the grocery store or Wal-Mart, both of which were no more than a couple minutes away.

I would not have minded the lack of breathing space in the bus had I been on my way to a George Strait concert, or practically any other artist I’d ever heard of before. One consolation was that, because of the drowning death of Fanny Finch a couple days prior, I had to admit a curiosity about this singer she’d demonized in her tell-all bestseller.

* * *

Approximately forty-five minutes later we were being shuffled and herded into the standing-room-only section amongst a throng of young people who didn’t seem to mind that they were being handled like a herd of Angus being led to the slaughterhouse. By the time we reached a place in the mob where we would stand to listen to Vex Vaughn sing for the next couple of hours, I’d had my feet stomped on a dozen different times by various cowboy boots. Listening to Vaughn sing would be the extent of my evening, because at five-foot-two, I couldn’t see over the sea of cowboy hats in front of me.