Free Turkey Ranch Road Rage by Paula Boyd Page A

you and your mother. Those bring in tons of letters and sell lots of papers. You’re great for my career.”
    That stopped me in my tracks. “Career? Sweetcakes, you don’t actually have a career. What you have is Uncle Fletch’s clout keeping you in a job no matter how much ludicrous crap you dream up and call news.”
    Kimberlee gasped and sputtered and almost let her bubble gum fall out of her mouth. She never actually articulated a “how dare you” but she tried real hard.
    “I’ll tell you another thing,” Lucille said, pointing a finger, an acceptable one this time, at Kimberlee. “My Jolene’s going to get to the bottom of all these shenanigans around here and you better stay out of her way. She’s a real reporter and investigates things like they should be. We won’t be taking any guff from the likes of you!”
    And with that, Her Highness spun on her heel, tipped up her nose and marched regally inside the Dairy Queen.
    I started to follow then stopped in the shade of the overhang outside and turned back to Kimberlee. “You know, it’s too bad you’re so intent on printing crap. There’s really a pretty good story here. If you actually did some research and learned to look beyond the obvious, you might make a decent reporter some day.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Any idiot can report what happened. It’s the ‘why’ that will get you a great story.” I nodded to the toadies. “We know why they say they’re here, but is there more? And what about that really tall guy in the dark glasses that was standing off to the side of them? Why is he here?”
    She frowned for a minute. “You mean Gilbert Moore?” I nodded and her eyes began to sparkle with either journalistic zeal or gossip-mongering, the line between the two being fuzzy at best. “What do you know that I don’t?”
    I hated to admit it, but the little twit’s chances of success as a reporter were far better than mine had ever been. You see, even though I can’t seem to avoid it in Texas, I hate having drama in my own life, and I surely don’t want to experience it vicariously through anyone else’s. Kimmy, on the other hand, lives for such things, making her inherently nosey and therefore naturally hard-wired to succeed at the job.
    “I don’t know anything particular,” I said, not envying her “gift” one bit. “But the fact that Gilbert was here at all is worth considering. So, what do you know about him?”
    Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard a lot of juicy stories. I think most of them are even true.”
    I sighed. “Would any of them be something besides gossip that might be remotely pertinent to what’s going on now?”
    She sighed too. “Probably not.”
    “Okay, more specifically, do you know anything about the work he does?”
    “Well, yeah, it’s mostly oil field stuff. He works for Uncle Fletch sometimes, and I heard something about a deal with Barnett Shale out of Dallas, whoever that is.”
    I made good mental notes of that revelation, just in case. “Would that be for oil well drilling?”
    “Why do you ask that?” Kimmy glared at me again, my question snapping her antennas back up. “You’re working on a story and trying to pump me for information, aren’t you?”
    “A byline is the last thing on my mind, Kimmy. I’m just trying to find out anything that will help my mother.” I motioned toward the building. “Let’s go stand in the shade for a few minutes. I have some things I want to talk to you about.”
    Kimmy reluctantly followed me and as I leaned up against the red brick wall, I waved to my mother inside, who had popped her head up like a prairie dog to see what I was doing.
    “So, we’ve got a ‘Save the Horny Toads’ rally gone bad at the courthouse yesterday, a feed store bombing to free baby chicks today, and a bunch of out-of-state activists on the scene at both. All supposedly because somebody’s putting an RV park in the middle of nowhere at the edge of Kickapoo, Texas. And