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

to be employed by HRPD until Uncle Tate gave her the nod to take a position in Oklahoma City.

      Miranda had her life planned out. Had a promising career ahead of her. She intended to follow in her dad’s and her two brothers’ footsteps. A family of cops serving in the same jurisdiction. It was all she’d ever wanted, all she’d dreamed about.

      For sure, she wasn’t going to get sidetracked by a down-on-his luck rancher who drove a beat-up truck and probably had the ambition of a slug.

      On that determined thought Miranda slid beneath the steering wheel then cruised off to ensure the speed demons around Hoot’s Roost observed traffic codes.

      VANCE INWARDLY GRIMACED when he put on the brakes and saw his cousins leaning leisurely against the fender of Quint’s red pickup. Those two rascals were lying in wait, ready to tease the hell out of him for getting stopped two days in a row by the same lady cop. He didn’t want them niggling him for information because, as much as he didn’t approve of Randi Jackson and her gung ho attitude, shaking hands with her and staring too long at that gorgeous bod of hers set off disturbing explosions of sexual attraction. It was insane. Plus, he’d gotten aroused just watching her walk toward him.

      Jeez, if ever there was a more unlikely pair, he and Randi were it. He smiled easily and often. She didn’t. He looked for amusement in everything he did. She took everything megaseriously and stood behind her badge like a protective shield. But, man was she hot. The way she filled out her blue uniform should’ve been a full-fledged crime.

      “So, cuz,” Wade said playfully, “how’s your ongoing battle with law working out?”

      When Quint snickered, Vance glared at the demonic duo. “Don’t wanna talk about it. We’ve got work to do.”

      “So, are you busted or not?” Quint asked, ignoring Vance’s thunderous scowl. “Or is the officer in question the only one busted?”

      “Knock it off,” Vance growled. “She’s an officer of the law and her bustline is not open for discussion.”

      Again, his wicked cousins snickered. Vance seriously considered punching the grins off their faces.

      “Surely you realize we aren’t going to lift a finger to help you hook up the spray rigs to the tractors until you tell us what happened yesterday when you marched yourself down to the police station and explain why you got stopped today.”

      “Do you have to pay the hefty fine or not?” Wade quizzed.

      “I don’t know yet,” Vance mumbled, resigned to giving his report before any work got done. “But since I discovered the lady cop is Tate Jackson’s darling niece, I expect to pay through the nose. Tate is reserving judgment in the matter until the end of the week.”

      “His niece?” Wade and Quint parroted in unison. “You are kidding.”

      “No, for once, I’m not.” Vance grabbed the five-gallon jugs of pesticide from the back of the clunker truck.

      Wade retrieved the garden hose, crammed one end into the top of the spray tank, and then switched on the water. “Tate’s a bachelor, right? Never had kids?”

      “Not that I know of,” Quint said as he checked for clogs in the spigots on the spray rig. “I guess that means his niece is pretty special to him.”

      “That’d be my guess.” Vance climbed onto the supporting beam of the rig to pour the concentrated chemicals into the tank. “Most likely, I’ll have to pay the fine and apologize for yelling at Randi during our three-way conference.”

      Wade’s gaze leaped to Vance. “You yelled at her in front of the chief of police? Are you nuts?”

      “Must be,” Quint diagnosed. “You might as well have pinned a note on your chest that said—Fine Me—Big-Time. I’m An Idiot.”

      “Well, she yelled at me first,” he said defensively then frowned. “I think. We were both yelling at each other. I don’t remember who started it, but Tate put a stop to it.”

      Wade glanced at Quint. Both men snickered again. Damn them. It was going to be a long afternoon, Vance decided.

      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