Fit To Be Frisked: Fit To Be Frisked / Mr. Cool Under Fire. Carol Finch
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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.
Tate chuckled as he picked up a stack of folders and got to work. He knew he was handy with police-issued pistols, but he thought perhaps he also had a knack with Cupid’s weapon of choice—a bow and arrow. If things worked out the way he predicted they would, he just might try moonlighting as a matchmaker.
4
DRESSED IN BLUE JEANS, a T-shirt and her OCPD windbreaker jacket—a gift from her dad and brothers—Miranda reluctantly climbed from her car at seven o’clock sharp. She fully expected Vance to test her mettle, but she hadn’t expected to have his two cousins on hand to witness her inadequacy at handling ranch chores.
“Why are they here?” she asked as Vance approached, wearing leather chaps and a bulky denim jacket that emphasized his rugged good looks and muscular physique. She tried to ignore the tantalizing effect the man had on her—but it wasn’t easy.
“They’re here to ensure we don’t kill each other,” Vance replied as he appraised her choice of clothing. “No boots?”
“I don’t own cowboy boots. Tennis shoes will have to do.”
He grinned wickedly. “Well, good luck getting the fresh manure out of those treads.”
He started to take her arm to escort her downhill to the pipe-and-cable corral then obviously decided against making physical contact. He’d made it perfectly clear that he thought she was a jinx and the curse of his life. Well, those feelings were mutual. That day she met Vance would go down in the annals of history as the worst day in her personal and professional life.
“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to Cousin Quint, formerly the ladies’ man of the family. He has a nearby ranch and he married Steph after Thanksgiving last year. She owns the Palace restaurant and the food’s terrific in case you haven’t tried it yet.”
“Steph, restaurant, Quint,” she repeated. “Copy that.”
Vance, she noted, almost smiled at her determination to remember names and familiarize herself with the citizens of Hoot’s Roost.
“You’ve already met Wade. He claimed to be a woman-hater until he met and married Laura last summer. She teaches math and computer science at the high school,” he informed her.
Miranda systematically filed the background information. “Got it.”
He halted her in front of his cousins. “Miranda Jackson, HRPD, this is Quint Ryder,” Vance introduced. “And I’m sure you remember Wade.”
Wade tipped his hat politely. “Nice to see you again, Officer Jackson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Quint added, flashing her a smile.
She studied the three similarly dressed cowboy cousins who towered over six feet and made her five feet six inches seem small in comparison. Obviously well muscled physiques, striking good looks and devastating smiles ran in the Ryder family. “Please call me Miranda,” she insisted as she offered them a cordial smile.
“And this is Frank,” Vance said, gesturing to the blue heeler that was wagging his stub of a tail. “Wade’s cow dog is the only one around here who has the good manners to shake hands.”
On cue, Frank lifted a paw and waited for Miranda to hunker down for the formal introduction.
“Best cow dog this side of the Red River,” Wade boasted proudly. “Or at least he was until my wife tried to turn him into a house dog. Frank’s been suffering an identity crisis since Laura showed up to pamper him.”
Miranda noticed how the big cowboy’s voice softened when he mentioned his wife. Clearly the man was deeply in love. She couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be in love. She’d never been remotely close to experiencing those emotions.
Her gaze drifted to Quint. “What about your wife, the restaurateur? Steph, right? Married three months?”
Quint’s whiskey-colored eyes widened in surprise. “You know Steph?”
“Not yet, but Vance mentioned her fabulous restaurant so I’ll want to try it out.”
“Enough chitchat. We have cattle to separate and haul to Cousin Gage’s ranch.” Vance glanced down at Miranda. “You do ride, don’t you?”
Miranda shifted uneasily. “Um…no.”