by Kelly, Diane
Two Diet Coke cans sat on the chief’s desk. He took a sip from one, returned it to the desktop, and retrieved the other, spitting a gooey blob of chewing tobacco into it. Puh-ting.
I fought a disgusted grimace. Yick.
“I’m reassigning you,” the chief said without fanfare.
“What?” Panic rose in me and instinctively I stood from my seat. “What do you mean?”
“Good God A’mighty, Officer Luz.” He frowned and motioned for me to sit back down. “Relax.”
Easy for him to say. He knew what was coming. I didn’t.
Was he planning on taking Brigit from me? He wouldn’t do that, would he? I hadn’t wanted a K-9 partner at first, but now I couldn’t imagine working without her. She was smart and brave, with skills that gave me an edge over criminals. She was my special tool. Taking her from me would be like taking X-ray vision from Superman, the hammer from Thor, or the lasso from Wonder Woman. I would also lose my best friend. It would be like Betty losing Wilma, Thelma losing Louise, or Lucy losing Ethel.
“You and the dog,” the chief said, wagging a finger in Brigit’s direction. “I’m sending you over to work the rodeo.”
I felt a momentary flood of relief, followed by irritation. The Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, which went on for three weeks, was always crowded, loud, and rowdy. The hordes of people would make Brigit nervous, and I wasn’t sure I had the patience to deal with a bunch of drunken rednecks. Still, arguing with the chief wouldn’t score me any points. But even if I couldn’t argue with him, I could still ask for an explanation, right?
I leaned forward in my seat. “May I ask why?”
“You two are famous,” he said. “It’ll be good PR for the department.”
“PR?” What did the chief think we were, some type of police mascots expected to offer the rodeo attendees a cheerful smile, an autograph, and a photo op?
“Exactly. I need you two to make the department look good. The media’s been slinging shit at us over that domestic violence issue.”
The “domestic violence issue” the chief had referenced involved an officer who’d recently shot his wife in the shoulder with his service revolver. The woman had survived, but only because the officer had been drunk at the time and fallen backward down a flight of stairs before he could get off another shot. Obviously, the screening process for police officers couldn’t weed out every violence-prone wacko, but that wouldn’t keep the newscasters from placing blame on the department for arming the man.
The chief took another sip of his drink before continuing. “The mayor’s been up my ass about the stock show, too. It’s a big event, brings lots of money into the city. It needs to go off without a hitch. That’s more likely to happen if we have a solid police presence.”
I sighed inwardly. The last thing I wanted to do was work the rodeo. But I wanted to make detective in a few years and I’d only get there by doing my job to the best of my ability and keeping my complaints to a minimum. I tried to look on the bright side. At least I’d get a three-week break from the Big Dick, who also worked the W1 Division and was a constant thorn in my ass. “Yes, sir. When do we start?”
“No time like the present.” He gestured to his door. “Git.”
* * *
Brigit and I drove south on University, the shiny metal dome roof of the Casa Mañana theater looming ahead like an oversized Jiffy Pop pan. We turned right before reaching the theater, pulling into the parking lot of the Will Rogers Center and circling around until locating the parking area reserved for law enforcement vehicles. I pulled my black-and-white cruiser into a spot next to a brown-and-tan pickup bearing the Tarrant County Sheriff’s Department logo. Hitched to the pickup was a horse trailer painted to match the truck. I supposed I should count my blessings. Brigit’s long hair required constant brushing, but at least I didn’t have to pick hooves or muck a stall.
As we climbed out of the car, Old Man Winter blasted us with a cold, blustery wind that carried dust into our eyes and ruffled my bangs and Brigit’s fur. Brrr. I would’ve liked to give Old Man Winter a kick in the balls.
Before we could set off on patrol, three yellow school buses pulled into the bus parking area nearby, the air brakes giving off a squeak and a hiss as the drivers brought them to a stop. The doors swung open and a flood of teachers, parent chaperones, and squealing schoolchildren poured from the vehicles.
Brigit glanced over at the kids and looked back at me with an expression of irritation. Though the dog tolerated children, she didn’t appreciate them stepping on her paws, tugging on her tail, or shrieking in her ears.
Quickly, I pulled on my jacket, a knit cap, and gloves. “Come on, girl!” I called, my warm breath creating a cloud of steam in the cold air. I took off at a trot, hoping to clear the lot before the inevitable—
“Look!” a little boy cried in a high-pitched voice as he pointed at Brigit. “A police dog!”
Before we could escape, a swarm of students surrounded us like a street gang of gap-toothed dwarfs.
“She’s so furry!” hollered a tiny, adorable girl in a puffy pink coat. She grabbed Brigit around the neck in a bear hug. “I love you, doggie!”
“She’s soft!” cried another who pulled off her mitten to run her hand down Brigit’s back.
A boy who had yet to grow into either his faded hand-me-down coat or his new front teeth tugged on my sleeve. “Does she poop?”
“Yes,” I told him. “And I think she’s about to do it so you better step back.”
“Ewwww!” The kids squealed and screamed and gave my partner a slightly wider berth.
I bent down, fed Brigit two liver treats, and gave her a pat on the head. “Good girl.”
One of the teachers stepped over. “Is that the dog who caught the Tunabomber?”
Technically, I’d been the one to take down the bomber, knocking him out with a strategic hurl of my baton. But Brigit had been right by my side. It was splitting furs, wasn’t it? “Yes, she is.”
The teacher held her phone aloft. “Can we get a photo of her with the class?”
I supposed I couldn’t refuse. After all, the chief had sent Brigit and me to the rodeo for goodwill purposes. We’d been appointed as the department’s ambassadors, and so would we be. “Sure.”
Brigit and I took several photos with the class and, at the teacher’s request, gave them a short primer on K-9s and their special uses in law enforcement. “Dogs can sniff out somebody who’s hiding in a building. They can also follow a trail if a suspect has run away. My dog can smell for drugs and catch bad guys in her teeth, too.”
A blond girl with light brown freckles crinkled her nose. “Does she eat the bad guys?”
“Only the ones who taste good.” I crinkled my nose back at her and gave her a wink.
We begged off then and the children scattered to line up with their assigned chaperones.
Brigit and I spent a half hour circumnavigating the perimeter of the stock show grounds, familiarizing ourselves with the layout. Public parking lots sat to the south and west of the site, flanking the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. A row of large swine, sheep, and cattle barns stood on the southern end, along with the equestrian building. The expansive exhibit halls took up the center, with the food vendors and the rides and games of the midway to the north. The stop for the shuttle buses that brought folks from Ridgmar Mall and the historic north side area sat just west of the midway.
Loudspeakers situated here and there played country-western music. Classics from Kenny Rogers, George Straight, the Judds, and Hank Williams, Jr. Contemporary offerings from Miranda Lambert, Tim McGraw, Rascal Flatts, and country’s newest and hottest star, bad-boy Brazos Rivers. I found myself getting swept up in the festivities, performing an impromptu polka as I rounded one of the halls.
When the outside temperature grew too chilly to bear, I led my partner into one of the livestock barns. The animals shown at the rodeo ranged from goats to pigs, rabbits to sheep, cows to pigeons. If
you could eat it or breed it, its kind was represented here. Brigit glanced into the enclosures, stopping in front of a stall containing a trio of pink pigs. She looked up at me as if to ask, Can I eat them now or do I have to wait until they’re bacon? The pigs wagged their cute little curly tails and came over to the fence, emitting soft snorts as they stuck their snouts through the slats to check us out.
I gave each of the pigs a scratch on the back. “Just so you know,” I told them, “I do not like green eggs and ham.” Jon Hamm, though? I wouldn’t mind taking a big bite out of him.
When the pigs wandered back to their water trough, my partner and I proceeded on.
A line of schoolchildren waited at the last pen on the row, their laughter carrying up the hall. I made my way down, stopping to see what held them so rapt.
Inside the pen, a chicken played a game of tic-tac-toe against the little girl who’d hugged Brigit earlier. The Xs and Os were imprinted along with a blank space on rotating tiles housed in a wooden frame. The bird put his head down and pecked at the three-sided rotating tile in the middle of the box—peck-peck-peck—turning it to X.
“My turn!” The little girl reached out to turn the upper right tile to O.
The two continued until the chicken had bested the girl with three Xs in a row running diagonally from the upper left to the bottom right. The little girl broke into peals of laughter. No sore losers here.
When Brigit and I had warmed up sufficiently to venture out again into the open air, we headed to the food booths. I chose the healthiest option available, a corn cob on a stick, and bought sliced brisket for Brigit. “No barbecue sauce, please.” The dog would only make a mess of it.
We took seats at a picnic table to eat our lunch. As usual, Brigit wolfed down her meal in seconds flat.
“You could stand to learn some manners,” I told her.
She gave me her standard kiss-my-fluffy-ass look of indifference.
As I ate my corn, the unmistakable clop-clop-clop of horse hooves sounded behind me, growing louder as the horse approached.
“Whoa,” came a deep voice from off to my right. The clopping stopped.
My head turned to find a shiny black horse with dark brown eyes stopped a few feet away. The horse was tall and lanky though muscular, built for both work and speed. I had no idea how many hands high the horse stood, but one thing was certain hands down—the sheriff’s deputy sitting on his back was the most attractive mounted officer I’d ever seen. Like his horse, the guy was tall and long-limbed, with black hair, brown eyes, and lots of lean muscle. He, too, appeared built for both work and speed.
Part of me supposed I shouldn’t be ogling the guy given that Seth and I had just recently reconciled. Another part of me pointed out that the terms of our reconciliation excluded any form of commitment, leaving me free to ogle to my heart’s content. The latter part won out and I ogled.
Ogle.
Ogle.
Oooh-gle.
The deputy tipped his cowboy hat at me. “Howdy, ma’am.”
Only a guy like him could make those words sound sexy instead of hokey.
“H-hi,” I gushed back.
He lifted his chin to indicate Brigit. “That’s a beautiful dog you’ve got there.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “Your horse is nice-looking, too, and—”
“Well hung?” His lips curved in a roguish grin.
“I was g-going to say tall.” I leaned to the side to check out the horse’s nards. “But ‘well hung’ seems to apply, as well.”
“Like horse, like rider.” He cocked his head, waiting for me to respond.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
He stared intently at me. “What makes you think it was a pickup line?”
A hot blush rushed to my cheeks. How presumptuous of me. I’d made a fool of myself, hadn’t I?
The deputy slid off the side of his horse and led him over. “No need to blush,” he said, quirking his brows. “It was a pickup line.”
My cheeks cooled, though only slightly. The proximity of this sexy deputy had set my heart galloping in my chest. Up close, I could see his features more clearly. His face was on the long and narrow side, with thick dark brows and lashes that were equally thick and dark. Why had God wasted those lush eyelashes on a man? Despite the fact that it was January, his skin still bore the remnants of a tan. I supposed a mounted deputy spent most of his work hours outside in the sunshine. He had a nice smile, too. The only thing he didn’t have was a chin dimple. Instead, he had a shiny silver belt buckle proclaiming him the 2014 Oklahoma Buck-Off Champion.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
“Suit yourself,” I said. It would suit me just fine.
He tied the horse’s lead rope to a nearby tree. “I’m going to grab some grub. Keep an eye on my horse till I get back?”
“No problem,” I said, though honestly I had no idea how to handle a horse if it misbehaved. What was I supposed to do, put the beast in time-out or threaten to take away his toys? Fortunately, luck was with me. The horse simply bent his head to the ground and grazed peacefully on the dried grass underneath the tree while the deputy stepped over to the barbecue stand to order his food.
A minute later, the deputy returned with a chopped-beef sandwich and a side of fries in his hands, two coffees tucked between his forearm and chest. He placed the food on the table and set one of the coffees down in front of me. “You look cold. Maybe this will warm you up.”
“Thanks.”
I circled the cup with my hands, basking in the heat on my palms. Much better.
“My name’s Clint McCutcheon.” He lifted his chin to indicate his horse. “The glue-factory reject is Jack. Short for Jackass. Damn thing’s stubborn as a mule.”
“He can’t be more stubborn than my dog.”
As if she knew I was talking smack about her, Brigit cut her eyes my way and gave me another kiss-my-fluffy-ass look.
I extended a hand across the table to the deputy. “I’m Megan Luz.”
Clint shook my hand with a warm, firm grip.
Not to be left out, Brigit barked from her seat next to me. Woof!
I hiked a thumb at my partner. “This loudmouth is Brigit.”
Clint extended his hand toward Brigit and she instinctively held out her paw for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Brigit.”
He took a bite of his sandwich and I nibbled at my corn, hoping none was stuck in my teeth. Just in case, I took a big swig of coffee and, as surreptitiously as I could, swished it around in my mouth to clear any kernels.
Clint swallowed his bite and narrowed his eyes at me. “You that cop who caught the bomber?”
“Yeah.” I made a fist, blew on it, and pretended to rub it to a shine on the chest of my jacket. “That’s me.” Of course I hadn’t done it for the accolades or notoriety. I’d done it because the bomber had risked the lives and safety of the people on my beat, those I’d sworn to serve and protect. Also because he’d put a screw in my glute and a nail in Brigit’s hip. Nothing motivates a woman like some sharp metal in her ass.
“Mighty impressive,” Clint said, “taking him down with a baton like you did.”
“I’m quite adept at handling a stick.” Obvious flirtation with a strong dose of sexual innuendo. What’s gotten into me? I blamed the caffeine.
He offered a soft chuckle. “Are ya now?”
“Watch this.” I stood, pulled my baton from my belt, and extended it with a flick of my wrist Snap! As Clint watched, I warmed up with a basic flat spin, then used a thumb toss to send the baton twirling ten feet above us. I caught it easily on its way back down.
He dipped his head. “Not bad.”
I gave him a coy smile. “Keep your eyes open, Deputy. I’m just getting started.” I threw the baton higher this time, at least a dozen feet over our heads, and spun around twice before catching it behind my back.
Another grin tugged at his lips. “Now you’re just showin
g off.”
“If I wanted to show off, I’d break out my flaming batons.”
Clint sent me a look that nearly made my knees buckle. “A girl who’s not afraid to play with fire. I’m intrigued.”
I pushed my baton shut, returned it to my belt, and sat down again lest Clint’s smoldering looks send me collapsing to the ground. I took a long swig of my coffee, the heat warming a trail down my esophagus. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stay outside, but I wasn’t yet ready to leave Clint. He was a fire I’d like to play with a little more. Then again, if you play with fire, you risk getting burned, right? Still, I wouldn’t mind toasting a marshmallow or two over him, maybe making some s’mores.
“Have you always ridden horses?” I asked, attempting to shift the conversation back to a safer, more casual topic.
“Since before I could walk,” he said. “I grew up on a ranch in Azle. My parents used to tie me to the saddle so I wouldn’t fall off.”
“Seriously?” My mouth dropped open. “That sounds dangerous.”
He shrugged. “Only if the horse decided to roll.”
“Did that ever happen?”
“I wouldn’t be sitting here if it had.” He crumpled his cup and tossed it into the trash can nearby. “Spent my teen years breaking and training horses.”
Breaking horses? Whoa. That sounded almost as dangerous as Seth dismantling bombs in Afghanistan. “That sounds risky and frightening.”
“Risky? Sure. But frightening? Hell, no. Fun is what it was.” He sent me a look that was ten times hotter than my coffee. “There’s just nothing like having something wild between your legs and trying to tame it.”
Gulp. So much for trying to steer the conversation to safe topics.
The radio at Clint’s waist crackled to life. A male voice came through the speaker. “Deputy McCutcheon report to cattle barn three.”
Clint grunted in annoyance. “Damn. Just when I was making some time with you.” He pulled the radio from his belt, let the dispatcher know he was on his way, and sent a soft smile my way. “See ya ’round, Officer Luz. Maybe next time I’ll take you for a ride.”
