Fit To Be Frisked: Fit To Be Frisked / Mr. Cool Under Fire

3

MIRANDA SWITCHED ON the sirens and lights when she saw the dark blue extended cab pickup whizzing toward town. The driver was doing eight miles over the speed limit and she intended to call him on it.

When the truck pulled over, Miranda swerved off the road and climbed from the squad car. She opened her mouth to ask what the big rush was all about then snapped her jaw shut when she glanced through the open window to see the spic-and-span version of the dusty cowboy she’d encountered for the fifth time in three days.

“Great,” she muttered sourly. He was like a curse that wouldn’t go away.

Vance rolled his eyes, sighed audibly and lifted his hand, palm upward. “Just gimme the blasted ticket. I was speeding. I’m late for a date. I’m guilty,” he said, staring straight through the windshield—anywhere but at her.

Miranda frowned pensively. Vance definitely deserved a fine for speeding, but if she gave it to him she predicted her uncle would think she was out to get this cowboy. Damn, she prided herself in going by the book—until the morning she clashed with Vance and allowed her fierce reaction to interfere with her job.

Although it went against the grain she decided not to ticket Vance, for fear he’d twist this incident against her during the conference with the chief. “Just slow this thing down, speed demon,” she ordered brusquely.

He nodded then cast her a quick sidelong glance. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

Well, at least he was showing some respect. No corny jokes, no teasing grins. No flirtation or appraising stares. So why did she feel a little disappointed that he wouldn’t even look at her? He was going out on a date. Why did she care? She didn’t. It didn’t bother her in the least. Right?

When Vance put the truck in gear and cruised off Miranda stood by the roadside, watching the taillights disappear over the hill.

Wasn’t there some law of nature stating that five chance meetings in the course of three days defied probability? She’d been in Hoot’s Roost for almost two months, encountering a variety of citizens while on patrol. And then wham! She couldn’t turn around without bumping into Vance Ryder.

“Well, surely that’s the last I’ll see of him before Saturday’s meeting,” she muttered as she hiked back to her car.

She had only two hours left on her split shift. Then she could return to the garage apartment she’d rented, treat herself to a warm, relaxing bath, watch a movie on TV then bed down for the night. Tomorrow she’d psyche herself up for her final confrontation with Vance Ryder. Life would return to normal and she’d focus on moving forward with her career.

That wasn’t asking too much, was it? Of course not…so why did the prospect of Vance turning all his country charm on his date cause this unfamiliar twinge in the pit of her belly? There was nothing—absolutely nothing—between them, she told herself as she flicked on her headlights and cruised off.

VANCE TWIRLED MAGGIE Davidson around the dance floor at Hoot’s Tavern, telling himself that he was having a good time. Maggie was personable and attractive. She was good company. They’d grown up together and they shared similar backgrounds and interests. So why were visions of Randi Jackson—naked—buzzing around his head? Sheesh, what was the matter with him? And why hadn’t she given him the ticket he deserved?

He thought about that for a minute and decided it wasn’t because she’d decided to go easy on him. But rather, because she didn’t want him to have the slightest leverage to use against her when they met with Tate.

“You okay?” Maggie asked as she led the way back to their table, after the fast-tempoed song ended.

“Great.” Vance flashed a wide smile. “Couldn’t be better.”

“You seem kinda distracted,” Maggie observed.

“Well, maybe a little.” Half-truth. He was distracted—a lot. “I have to meet with the chief and the lady cop in the morning to find out how much lighter I’ll be in the wallet.”

Maggie chuckled. “I heard about that. Or rather, I heard the yelling coming from the chief’s office. Miranda is a do-gooder. She’s nice and all that.”

Nice wasn’t the word Vance would’ve used to describe her, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I think she’s trying to overachieve, to prove herself to the rest of the men on the force. Her dad and older brothers work for OCPD,” she informed him. “Tate is giving her the chance to gain her footing before she’s promoted to the big city. You know, learn the ropes out here in the boonies where the crime rate isn’t horrific.”

“I suppose Miranda is Tate’s pride and joy,” Vance said glumly.

“Of course. He adores his niece and nephews. He’s bragged on them for years. Plus, Miranda graduated with flying colors from the academy. Good at self-defense and a real sharpshooter, so Tate says.”

Wonderful. The woman was a bombshell and a walking lethal weapon. “What about her mom?” Vance asked curiously.

“She bailed out early on,” Maggie imparted before she sipped her drink. “Couldn’t handle the stress, according to Tate. The chief thinks Miranda is out to prove that she can not only handle the pressure but excel at it.”

Vance swallowed a sip of beer. “Not me. The only problem I care to resolve is which gate to open to which pasture so my cattle will have plenty to eat.”

“Yeah, right. Like I don’t know how hard you work and how well you did on the rodeo circuit.” Maggie smirked at him. “Of course, leave it to you to shrug off the pressure of making a go of your ranch when the agricultural economy is tight.”

“Still, you don’t see me haring off to battle the criminal elements of society.”

The words barely passed his lips when shouts broke out at the bar. Vance swiveled in his chair to see two hired hands from a neighboring ranch throwing punches at each other. Customers were scattering like quail to avoid flying fists. Vance, who’d participated in his share of bar room brouhahas during his rodeo heydays, reflexively bounded to his feet to separate the brawlers before they destroyed the place.

“Hey, cool your jets,” he ordered the two men who held each other in hammerlocks. They ignored him and wrestled each other to the floor to deliver one power-packed blow after another. As they rolled sideways a table crashed to the floor, along with four glasses of beer.

Vance cursed when beer catapulted onto his chest. “Jake, knock it off!” He grabbed one of the men and gave him a hard upward yank. “Now you and Fred kiss and make up. The way you’re going at it you’ll have everyone in here thinking you don’t love each other.”

Well, so much for teasing both drunkards back into good humor. They weren’t paying attention. When another table teetered off balance Vance reached over to snatch up the full pitcher of beer before it hit the floor.

“Damn it!” he yelped when the brawlers banged into the back of his knees. He staggered to catch his balance, but more beer slopped down his shirt and dribbled on the crotch of his jeans. Before he could set aside the pitcher a flying elbow gouged him in the kidney. His legs buckled and he hit his knees. Scowling, he twisted around—and accidentally caught a fist in the eye.

“That does it!” Vance roared as he set aside the pitcher. No more Mister Nice Guy. He’d tried to cajole these yahoos into ceasing and desisting, but they wouldn’t cooperate. He was left with no choice but to knock some sense into them.

Vance reared back and punched out Fred’s lights. The drunkard wilted on the floor in a tangled heap. Vance cocked his arm to throw a punch at Jake, but when he heard that tormentingly familiar female voice yell Freeze! he froze.

But Jake didn’t. He busted Vance right in the chops.

His head was still spinning while he watched Miranda—lady cop to the rescue—storm toward him. When Jake threw another punch she tried to whack him over the head with her nightstick. Unfortunately Jake teetered sideways and the blow caught Vance upside the head.

Groaning, he collapsed on the floor and watched stars explode behind his eyelids. Next time somebody started a brawl Vance definitely was not going to step in to intervene. He was getting too old for this stuff.

Miranda grabbed Jake by the back of his shirt and gave him a good shaking. “Get on your feet,” she barked at him.

Miranda felt as if she was on display as she dragged Jake to his knees then squatted down to check on the third brawler who lay unconscious on the floor. Her credibility was at stake here, she realized. She was a woman and the newest addition to the police force. She had to take command of this situation so the townsfolk would gain confidence in her abilities to quell disturbances.

As for Vance Ryder, Miranda had no choice but to presume the man was a habitual troublemaker—in addition to being a speed demon, a defiant practical joker and incorrigible flirt. The man didn’t seem capable of making wise choices in life.

But oh, how she wished she hadn’t been the officer closest to the tavern when the bartender called for police assistance.

Grimly Miranda slapped the cuffs on all three men. Vance braced himself on his elbows, glared at her and said, “Wait just a damn minute!”

“You have the right to remain silent,” she muttered at him. “And I prefer that you do. Just clam up, Vance.”

The glower he directed at her as he rolled to his feet indicated he’d like to give her a punch in the nose—just like he’d obviously done to the other cowboys. Damnation, this man just kept making her life difficult, kept tormenting her emotions, challenging her authority.

The crowd parted like drapes as Miranda marched her prisoners out the door. “I’ll send another officer to take statements so don’t anyone leave,” she called over her shoulder.

Once outside, Miranda shoved the men into the caged back seat. Vance ended up in the middle. He hurled visual daggers at her via the rearview mirror.

“I didn’t do a blasted thing wrong back there,” he growled.

“What? Assault and battery don’t count in your book? Sorry, but they count in mine,” she replied.

“I was trying to break up the fight,” he insisted.

“Really? When I walked in you clocked the man on your right.”

“Would you please tell the cop that I wasn’t involved?” Vance demanded of the men who book-ended him.

Miranda glanced at the other two brawlers who simply glared at Vance.

“Well, damn,” Vance muttered. “Framed. This is a fine how-do-you-do.”

Vance said not another word—thank goodness—when she pulled up to headquarters. He didn’t resist when she herded him and the other men into the holding tank.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Miranda propped herself against the counter and glanced at the dispatcher working the night shift. “Better call the chief,” she said grimly.

While the dispatcher made the call Miranda pivoted toward the front door. She still had a half hour left on patrol and she didn’t want to be within shouting distance when Uncle Tate showed up to handle the alleged brawlers. Why did she have to be the one who locked Vance in the slammer? She could almost hear Vance tattling to Tate that this latest fiasco proved she was out to get him.

VANCE PACED THE HALL, waiting for Wade to show up. His cousin had been less than pleased when the call came to bail him out. Apparently Wade had more pleasurable pursuits planned for the evening and didn’t take kindly to being roused out of bed by his irate cousin. Maggie Davidson had arrived fifteen minutes earlier to inform the chief that Vance had only tried to stop the fracas before property was destroyed and that all he got for his efforts was a drenching in beer, a black eye, bruised jaw and a knot on his head.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Maggie had said when Vance exited the grungy cell.

Vance had carefully inspected his swollen eye and muttered a few curses to that lady cop’s name. “Why don’t you drive my truck to your place and I’ll pick it up when Wade gets here. No need for you to hang around.”

Patting him sympathetically, Maggie pushed up on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek that hadn’t suffered a jarring blow. Offering him a consoling smile, she’d left headquarters.

Ten minutes later Wade arrived. “You don’t look so good, cuz,” he said candidly.

“Thanks.” Teeth gritted, Vance stalked toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Where to next? Are we stopping by to shoot the policewoman on our way home?”

Vance flashed his grinning cousin a black scowl. “Don’t tempt me. We’re stopping by Maggie’s place to get my truck. Then you can head home. Thanks for coming. If I’d known I’d be in and out so quickly I wouldn’t have disturbed you at all.”

“Is the meeting still on for tomorrow?” Wade asked as he cranked the engine of his pickup.

“Oh, yeah, and you can bet I’ll have something to say about Randi the Robo Cop’s complete mishandling of the situation at Hoot’s Tavern. I was cuffed, stuffed and subjected to police brutality.”

“Mind filling me on the details of what happened?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Vance snapped.

He didn’t break the silence when Wade pulled into Maggie’s driveway, just slammed the door and got in his truck. Vance felt like putting his foot through the floorboard during the drive home. But the way his luck had been running he figured he’d get pulled over again and this time he’d go for that woman’s throat!

One thing was for double damn sure, he mused as he begrudgingly observed the traffic laws—to the letter—on his way home. This insane fascination for Randi Jackson was over. Done. Kaput. As soon as he walked out of that morning meeting with the chief he never wanted to see her again—ever. She was the curse of his life. No woman, no matter how attractive and challenging she was, was worth this kind of torment. After tomorrow, Vance vowed he’d run—screaming—the other way when he saw her coming.

MIRANDA ENTERED THE CHIEF’S office with a deep sense of foreboding. Tate was ensconced behind his desk, looking as sober as a judge who was prepared to hand down a sentence of execution. Vance, she noted, didn’t spare her the slightest glance, just sat there steaming and brooding.

He looked awful, she noticed. His eye and jaw had turned black and blue and there was a sizable knot on his forehead—compliments of her nightstick.

She’d read the statements taken at the tavern and discovered that Vance had tried to break up the fight. Needless to say she felt like an idiot for thinking the worst about him. She’d been intent on clearing the area and, from what she’d been able to determine during the altercation, Vance had been part of the problem, not the solution.

Another difficult lesson learned, she mused as she sank into her chair. Maybe she wasn’t good cop material if she kept jumping to ill-founded conclusions. Maybe she didn’t have her dad, uncle and brothers’ instincts for keeping law and order. She was a failure at her first major assignment and she’d never wanted to be anything but a top-rate cop.

Miranda knew she was as good as gone from the force, even if her uncle was in charge here. Furthermore, she didn’t want to be an embarrassment to a man with his upstanding reputation in town.

“Well,” Tate said for starters, “we certainly had an eventful evening, didn’t we?”

Vance shot Miranda a murderous look. With his bumps and bruises he looked menacing and unapproachable, but she tried not to flinch. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. I—”

Tate’s meaty hand shot up to silence her. “I’ve given the previous situation serious consideration, asked for Wade’s take on the incident and I’ve taken into account the fiasco from last night as well.”

Miranda slouched in her chair when her uncle pinned her with a stony stare. She’d goofed up. She knew it. He knew it. Vance knew it. She’d be lucky indeed to get a security job position at a bank in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere.

“You two seem to have gotten off to a bad start,” Tate remarked. “In my experience on the force I’ve discovered there’s always at least two sides to every story.” He stared at Vance, then at Miranda as he drummed his sausage-link fingers on the desk. “Rehashing last night’s altercation at the tavern will only make both of you defensive and I’m in no mood to listen to another shouting match. In my opinion, and mine is the only one that counts here,” he added emphatically, “you both did the right thing.”

Miranda’s jaw dropped open. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected Uncle Tate to defend her conduct. But it didn’t seem to sit well with Vance because he sent her another disdainful glare.

“Witnesses verified that Vance tried to stop the fight before the tavern was trashed,” Tate continued. “Miranda tried to follow standard procedure by clearing the area and letting backup take the statements. Any ill feelings between you two are outside the letter of the law. This will have to be worked out on a personal basis because this appears to be a personality conflict between you.”

Tate leaned on his forearms on the desk and stared Miranda and Vance down. Miranda hadn’t the slightest idea where her uncle was going with this.

“I plan to view this conflict between you as an internal affair because Vance is an old friend and Miranda is my niece and a member of my staff. I’m going to resolve it and this is how it’s going to go down.” Tate focused his attention on the battered cowboy. “Now then, Vance, you need to understand that it isn’t easy being a rookie, as well as the first and only policewoman on this force. My niece is trying to gain the respect of her co-workers and the citizens of the community she’s sworn to serve.”

“Right,” Vance said, and snorted. “She’s trying to ruin my life. I have to wonder how many other lives she plans to destroy to meet her monthly quota.”

The look Vance hurled at Miranda indicated she’d never have his respect. Not that she blamed him. From his standpoint he’d been the abused victim and he wanted to see her pay for her role in last night’s foofaraw.

Tate heaved himself from his chair and strode around the desk to loom over Miranda and Vance. He crossed his thick arms over his bulky chest—a gesture that implied that he wasn’t going to be swayed by forthcoming comments and objections. Miranda wisely kept her trap shut. Vance did likewise.

“Since Miranda needs to gain a feel and understanding for life in this rural community, a community unlike the city where she grew up, I propose you familiarize her with life on the ranch and introduce her to the folks in town.”

Vance nearly came unglued. “No way in Hades!” he crowed.

“In other words,” Tate went on, ignoring the loud objection, “your sentence will be public service for one week and you will not pay the fine.” While Vance sputtered, Tate’s gaze riveted on Miranda. “To ensure that Vance understands what it’s like for a woman on the force, he will accompany you on the evening shifts while you’re on patrol. You’ll be taking shorter shifts, which will mean a smaller salary for the week.”

Miranda gaped at her uncle. “You want us to spend our days and evenings together for a week?” she choked out. “The man hates my guts. This won’t work.”

“I hate you?” Vance spouted. “I suffered unprovoked police brutality, in addition to being stopped three times on the highway. You think so little of me that you’re out to get me. You even ruined my date—on purpose.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she erupted. “I couldn’t care less how many women you go out with!”

“Quiet—” Tate cut in, but he wasted his breath.

“I can’t work with Ms. Gung Ho, Chief,” Vance muttered in frustration. “It’ll be a race to see who murders whom first. I’ll pay the fine. Gladly. Someone else can play nursemaid to Randi the Robo Cop. She might be your precious niece, but she’s my worst nightmare.”

“As if you haven’t made my life miserable in the course of four days,” Miranda said heatedly. “My job is on the line and all you can think about is how horrible it would be to spend a week in my company. It would be horrible for me, too, you know!”

“Children, simmer down,” Tate broke in loudly. “I’m not finished yet. Just sit back in your chairs and take a deep breath. Your sentences are not negotiable. There will be no appeals. I’m judge and jury here, so pipe down.”

A week with Randi underfoot? The thought was inconceivable. Vance wanted his normal life and his easygoing disposition back. He wouldn’t get it with this witchy woman breathing down his neck. No telling what she’d screw up at his ranch. Plus, she’d likely get him killed while he was riding shotgun in the squad car. After all, she had a knack of pissing people off. He knew that from firsthand experience.

“I’d rather serve jail time,” Vance declared.

“And I don’t want to join Peter Pan in Neverland,” she said huffily. “He’s never grown up to take life seriously—”

“Peter Pan?” he crowed indignantly. “I’ll have you know that I’m taking this seriously.”

Tate surged upward, his muscled arms slashing through the air like machetes. “That’s it! Silence!”

Vance frowned curiously. If he didn’t know better he’d swear the chief was biting back a snicker.

“In addition,” Tate went on eventually, “you two have graciously volunteered to co-chair the HRPD’s annual town-wide garage sale that benefits our new youth center. If the event is a flop then you’ll both receive equal blame. Any questions?”

“Yes,” Vance said. “I’m feeling suicidal. Can I borrow your gun?”

“Here,” Miranda offered generously. “Use mine.”

Vance sneered at her and she sneered back.

“I’m giving you another few days to cool off before I throw you together for this assignment,” Tate announced. “Come Tuesday morning, Miranda will report for ranch duties at seven sharp.”

“Oh, goody gumdrops,” Vance muttered sourly. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend my birthday with.”

Tate didn’t look the least bit sympathetic. “You can grab a bite of supper and begin patrolling at seven in the evening. Now skedaddle from my office. I have work to do.”

Disgruntled, Vance exited posthaste. He didn’t do Miranda the courtesy of holding open the door, either. He only had a few days of freedom before he faced a solid week with that dark-haired albatross clamped around his neck.

Vance wondered how long it would take for the chief to run him to ground if he decided to skip town. He definitely needed more than a few days to gird himself up for a week of having that lunatic woman following him around like his own shadow.

Tate certainly knew how to dole out the worst conceivable brand of punishment, Vance thought sourly. A scalding dip in the bubbling fires of hell wouldn’t hurt as bad as a week in the company of Randi Jackson.

INSIDE THE OFFICE, Chief Tate Jackson was having himself a good laugh. He’d never seen two individuals so determined not to like each other and yet so obviously attracted to each other. It had taken tremendous effort to keep his serious “cop face” from slipping off during Vance and Miranda’s animated protests. If his instincts were on the mark, the week of togetherness was exactly what Vance and Miranda needed to come to grips with their explosive reactions to one another.