Free Calamity Jayne Heads West by Kathleen Bacus

eyes.
    “You and I are so gonna talk!” I whispered. Then, “Tell my gentlemen caller his ladyship will be with him momentarily,” I yahooed up the stairs and then turned back to Sophie. “Later,” I said. “You, me, and a whole lot of catchin’ up to do.”
    I scurried to finish dressing and put on a face—with a much lighter hand than Sophie—grabbed my back-pack and headed upstairs wondering if there wasn’t more to Cousin Sophie than met the eye.
    Metaphorically speaking, of course.
    “Could we stop here? Can we go there? I’m thirsty. This art stuff is booooring! Can I have ice cream? When can we go see the Grand Canyon? Why do we have to look at stupid jewelry? Why do the Navajo have their own nation? Does that mean they’re not Ameri-cans? I hate shopping. I thought we were gonna sight-see. I want to see Oak Creek Canyon. Can we leave the dopey girls here and come back for them later?”
    We’d been hitting the Sedona shops for the last two hours, oohing and aahing over turquoise jewelry, hand-woven tapestries, and sterling silver belt buckles. Okay, so I was the one making noise over the belt buckles. The workmanship was superlative. And so, unfortunately, were the prices.
    Townsend’s niece, eight-year-old Kelsey, sighed. She and I exchanged knowing looks reserved for thoseyoung girls who suffered with royal pains in the be-hind as brothers.
    “Yes. Please, please leave us here, Uncle Rick,” Kelsey begged. “And take Nick to the top of that stu-pid Coffee Pot Rock and play Blind Man’s Bluff. He’s spoiling everything.”
    Rick smiled, seemingly used to the siblings squab-bling. I, on the other hand, was more than ready to supply said kerchief as a blindfold for yon youngster.
    “We haven’t found a gift yet,” Rick reminded his niece.
    “And your uncle Rick hasn’t taken us to lunch yet,” I chimed in, not-so-subtly reminding Townsend of his offer to buy.
    “The reason we haven’t found a gift yet is because she’s too cheap to spend any money,” Nick said, point-ing a nose-picking finger at yours truly.
    I looked at Townsend.
    “Are you gonna let him talk about me that way?” I asked.
    Rick Townsend shrugged. “If the tight—uh, wad fits . . .” he said with a wave of his hands.
    “Hey, I’m only doing what they tell me to in school,” he-who-wouldn’t-be-recognized-with-his-mouth-closed stated. “I’m taking what I observe, applying it to what I know, and then drawing a conclusion,” he parroted, sounding just like my schoolteacher best friend, Kari. “Our teachers talk about it all the time. They call it making an inference using critical thinking,” he said with a smirk.
    “Oh yeah? You sure that isn’t critical stinking?” I asked with a snort. “ ’Cause you were sure doing enough of that on the plane ride here to get an A-plus,” I said. Kelsey and I high-fived each other. “Yes!”
    The squirt gave me a dirty look. “Uncle Rick?”
    “Yeah, Nick?”
    “Could we go back to that store that had the stuffed rattlesnake doorstop? I think I have enough money to buy it.”
    “I’m not sure Grandpa Joe and Grandma Hannah would have a use for something like that, kid,” Townsend responded.
    Nasty Nick’s eyes narrowed on me. “I know,” he said.
    I gave him a “you want a piece of me?” look. After all, the snake was dead. Taxidermy-style dead, but dead nevertheless. What was so scary about that?
    Still, the runt did have a point. Everything I looked at I thought Joe and Gram might like—okay every-thing that I might like when they passed gently into that good night and we divided their earthly posses-sions, and tell me this hasn’t crossed your mind on oc-casion when gift buying—was way beyond this lowly cowgirl’s bankroll. A turquoise bracelet for my gammy. A big, shiny belt buckle for me, uh, I mean Joe. An oil painting of Red Rock Crossing. A sculpture of an Indian pony. Perfect, but pricey.
    We’d just entered another art shop and I stopped in