Fit To Be Frisked. Carol Finch

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      VANCE RYDER HEARD SIRENS wailing behind him, but he couldn’t see the flashing lights because his old clunker farm truck was caked solid with mud. All Vance had was a peephole on the windshield to see where he was going. It looked as if he’d have to talk his way out of a traffic ticket before he got this bucket of rust into Hoot’s Roost to replace the bald tires and exhaust system that had more holes in it than a slice of Swiss cheese.

      Shouldn’t be too hard to get off with a warning, he mused confidently as he pulled the old truck onto the shoulder of the road. Hoot’s Roost’s police department was accustomed to dealing with farmer/stockmen and their beat-up equipment. For certain, the law officers in the area tended to overlook minor infractions because they’d seen their share of rattletrap trucks, tractors and machinery moving from one field to another.

      In fact, Vance predicted that his old school chum, Turk Barnett, was the officer who’d pulled him over just to chitchat. Turk could talk your leg off if you let him and he got lonely while he cruised the streets during his long shifts.

      Vance killed the engine and bounded from the truck. He stopped dead still when a sharp, female voice said, “Freeze! Stay where you are!”

      Startled, Vance pivoted on his boot heels to see a female officer pull her gun and crouch in shooting position. Was she nuts? Obviously so. He wasn’t a gangster and Hoot’s Roost was not the crime capital of Oklahoma. This was cattle country.

      “Put your hands on top of the truck, sir,” the cop commanded authoritatively.

      Vance did as he was told then squinted into the bright sunlight to survey the shapely silhouette of the woman in blue who approached him as if she expected him to grab a pistol from out of nowhere and shoot her full of lead. Her weapon was trained on his head, but Vance’s gaze was fixed on her well-endowed chest.

      Wow! This lady cop was some kind of built and he had trouble raising his fascinated eyes from her bosom. When he did he found himself staring at a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a pouty mouth that looked all too kissable—but not the least bit friendly. She snatched off her glasses and tucked them in her breast pocket, and he found himself gazing into a pair of cedar-tree-green eyes that were fanned by long curly lashes.

      Whoa, mama, this didn’t look like any cop Vance had ever encountered. He began to wonder if there might be an advantage to being arrested by her on a regular basis.

      “Don’t ever climb from your vehicle until you’ve been asked to do so,” she lectured as she stared at him over the barrel of her police-issued pistol. “Do you understand, sir?”

      Vance nodded stupidly. He studied Officer Gorgeous for a long befuddling moment. Ah, now it was beginning to soak in. This had to be a prank, he decided. Since he’d been dubbed the practical joker of the Ryder family, his ornery cousins had probably decided to have him placed under mock arrest. His birthday was just a week away so he figured Cousin Quint and Cousin Wade probably decided to give him a prank for a gift. After all, Vance always enjoyed a good joke, even if it was played on him.

      As the supposed lady cop with the killer body approached, Vance turned sideways to flash his patented Ryder grin. “Cute, darlin’, you really had me going for a minute. Did Cousin Q and Cousin W send you out here?”

      “Excuse me?”

      The dark-haired bombshell was playing her role to the hilt. “C’mon, I know my cousins sent you. You’re my birthday gag gift, right?”

      She stared at him as if he was off his rocker. “I need to see your license and insurance verification.”

      Still grinning good-naturedly, Vance reached into his hip pocket to extract his license from his wallet. He glanced over the top of her head to stare at the patrol car. “Turk’s in there, isn’t he? Should’ve known he’d be in on this. Yo, Turk! You can sit up now. You’re busted.”

      But Turk Barnett didn’t raise his head and show himself. Vance’s gaze swung back to the cop who was checking his ID. “This isn’t a practical joke?”

      “No, sir,” she said as she stuffed her weapon into its holster. “This is a 705, 734, 736, 743 and an 804 traffic violation.”

      Vance frowned. “What the heck does all that mean?”

      She looked him squarely in the eye. “Basically it means that this vehicle is an unfit pile of junk that doesn’t meet safety regulations and the mud on your windshield and rear window obstructs your vision. You’re dangerous to other motorists,” she admonished. “I want you to remove this truck from the state highway immediately, sir.”

      Vance surveyed the pile of metal and bolts that he and his cousins used to plow through creeks to repair downed fences and to haul mineral and cattle cubes to their livestock. “Okay, so one headlight is missing and it’s a little muddy—”

      “A little?” The cop smirked distastefully as she appraised the jalopy that had more dents than a bumper car. “If this state still required vehicle safety inspections this junk heap would be in a salvage yard. Now, Mr. Ryder,” she said as she returned his license, “I want you to turn this thing around and head back down the graveled road.”

      Vance flashed another charming smile—it was as well received as the first one. “I’m on my way to the service station to mount new tires and replace the muffler,” he explained as nicely as he knew how.

      “Not today you aren’t,” she informed him. She flipped open her ticket pad and grabbed a pen.

      “Aw, c’mon, Officer,” he cajoled. “Don’t give me a ticket. I’ve driven this truck into town plenty of times. This is rural America and traffic jams aren’t a problem out here in the boondocks.” To prove his point he hitched his thumb toward the highway. “No one has even driven past since you pulled me over. There’s no one here

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