Page 19 of Misadventures And Ms. Demeanor

He rolled his eyes as he held up his hand for Goldie to stop. "I don't think that's far enough," he replied. "It's like a road trip with the Three Stooges."

I couldn't help but grin because his comparison was dead on. I guess Aunt Velma would be Curly. "Why don't we just drop you at the airport so you can get a rental car and be free of this fiasco?" I asked, knowing he wanted to run away screaming right about now.

"I'd walk through this parking lot asking for a ride right now, even that older couple with the Iowa tags wearing matching Yellowstone sweatshirts, I'm that desperate." He sighed, torn between two terrible options. "It's my bike. I can't leave my bike with the Three Stooges."

I glanced at the mangled motorcycle secured to the trailer.

"Is it that or whatever secret Goldie's got on you?"

His jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. He wasn't thrilled to be on this road trip and it showed, but the mention of what Goldie knew about him had his face going blank, his eyes darken, lips in a grim line. It was like he put a wall up. WhatdidGoldie have on him?

We walked back to the side door of the RV and JT opened it, letting me enter first. He had no intention of answering my question, and perhaps I didn't want to know. As I looked back at him over my shoulder, he was staring at my ass. Was it my ass he was ogling or Silky Tangles'?

6

"Goldie, interstate ninety was that way," I called to the front.

Esther was in the recliner, fully reclined. She was so small her feet didn't even dangle off. The cat carrier was next to her on the floor and all was silent from within. "We're stopping at Pompey's Pillar first."

JT perked up at that. He'd been lying down on the narrow bench seat, eyes closed, one leg on the floor, the other knee bent. One broad shoulder hung off the side. It was a very good view, and very distracting. For being such a pain in the ass, he certainly wasn't a pain on the eyes.

"Why?" I asked. Why in the world did anyone from Montana want to stop at a big rock and see William Clark's signature—of Lewis and Clark fame—carved in it from 1806? We'd all been there, done that at some point in our lives, usually in middle school on a field trip. It wasn't too far out of the way from the highway we needed to take, perhaps thirty miles each way, but at the rate we were going, we'd never get to Sturgis.

Esther leaned down and picked up her big black handbag, dug around and pulled out a little blue book. "It's my nationalpark passport. I've been to Pompey's Pillar a handful of times but never got the stamp."

"What are you talking about? What stamp?"

"Here," Esther said, tossing me the little book like an expert southpaw pitcher. I fumbled as I caught it and checked it out. JT sat up and ran a hand through his unruly hair.

On the front it read National Park Passport in big gold letters. Inside there were indeed stamps, like a postage cancellation, in the shape of a circle, with the name of the place curved across the top, the location across the bottom and a date in the middle. One page had a stamp from Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, another from Exit Glacier, Alaska, and another from Arches National Park in Utah.

"We're going there to just get a stamp for your little book?" I asked, surprised by the shallowness of the visit. "Don't you want to see the signature on the rock? "

She waved her hand nonchalantly, which somehow made her second chin wobble. "Been there, done that. I've even got the t-shirt. Actually, I do. I just want the stamp."

JT held up a hand. "Hold on. I need to get to Sturgis. I can't go driving to a two-hundred-year-old signature which we don't actually look at it so you can get a stamp for your collection. I don't have time for any of this." He sounded cranky and I didn't blame him. The way his jaw tightened as if he was holding back his true feelings, which most likely involved quite a few swear words strung together, was actually really hot. No. Don't think that way.He thinks you're a porn star and he tased you.

"It's only a little out of the way," Esther replied, swiping her hand through the air in a casualwhatevergesture. She sure liked to talk with her hands. "Look, it's close to five." She glanced at her wrist. "It's time for a drink." She kicked the recliner back into its closed position, shimmied her small frame out of the seatand went to snoop in her cardboard box, bottles clinking as she did.

JT stormed to the front of the RV and crouched down to talk to Goldie. His jeans molded snuggly across his ass. God, I was mentally stalking the man. If he knew the direction of my thoughts—or at least my wandering eyes—he'd probably go postal. Or maybe he'd jump me since he thought I was Silky Tangles.

The only thing we had going for us was that we were driving east. The only bad thing was that we were headed for North Dakota, not South Dakota. Omaha was east of Bozeman so we were technically getting closer, although if we were playing the Hot and Cold game, we'd only be heading toward Warm.

Whatever Goldie said to JT was lost on me, the RV too loud to hear, and Esther was clinking bottles around like she worked in a saloon, but he turned around and came back, eyes narrowed. He wasn't happy. He stood to stand next to Esther, who continued to work her mixology. "Okay, if we stop and get your stamp, that'll take, what, five minutes?" He towered over the older woman, but she wasn't cowered in the slightest.

"Plus a bathroom break," Esther said, pouring a drink into a plastic cup she found in one of the small cabinets above the tiny stove. "Here." She held out the cup to JT. "You look like you could use one first."

He eyed it for a moment, sighed, then murmured, "What the hell." A big swig later, he slumped back down into his spot across from me. Wincing, he looked at Esther. "What is this, jet fuel?"

"It'll put hair on your chest, all right." Esther chuckled before gulping down half her drink, eyeing the man like she had x-ray vision. "Five minutes for the stamp. Five minutes for a potty break. Then we're done."

Pompey's Pillarwas pretty interesting, if you're into history. A signature that explorers carved in a rock along the banks of a river they'd used as their mode of transportation—no doubt they'd have taken the interstate like us if it had existed in 1806—was the sole reason it was a National Landmark. This part of Montana was far from the mountains, therefore it was a little more arid, scrubby and dry. The Yellowstone River meandered through the vast expanse of...nothing. So when we pulled into the visitor center, we weren't surprised it wasn't overly crowded. The sun was getting lower in the west, the day cooler now.

Esther was the first out of the RV, passport book in hand, motivation in her step. JT, a good hundred pounds heavier than Esther, was a little slower moving, clearly whatever she'd mixed in his cocktail had mellowed him out. We only made it halfway to the entrance before she was on her way back. "Bad news," she grumbled. She looked clearly disappointed and had the strong aroma of a distillery about her. "Visitor Center's closed for the night."

"Great!" JT clapped his hands together. It was his turn to be gleeful. "We can make it to Sturgis by one, two in the morning. I just need some dinner and I'll be sober enough to drive."

"What?" Esther asked. "Dinner, sure. I'm hungry. But we're not leaving! I don't have my stamp."

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