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