West heard the question Shaun embedded in his observation. Although they were within minutes of their destination, he wasn’t sure he could successfully duck it, but he planned to try. “’I guess she’s ‘pretty well’ settled in the sense that I haven’t had cause to pick her up for hitchhiking, trespassing, indecent exposure, or driving without a license in the last few weeks. But ‘settled’ isn’t a label I’d stick on Roxy. She’s got a wild streak a mile wide.”
His boss navigated into the Funderbunk Building parking lot and took a space facing the brick and glass entrance of the DOCJT. “I know she didn’t find her way into town under the best of circumstances, but it looks as if she’s tamed the wild streak quite a bit since. Addy says she shows up to work on time, with a smile for everyone. Always ready to lend a hand whether by helping Mrs. Van Hendler find her car after forgetting where she parked or convincing Frank Swann to try Truvia in his coffee instead of sugar for the sake of his diabetes. She puts on a hell of a show at the pub. Even stingy old Earl admits Jeb made a good call hiring her to perform. I’d say she’s fitting in just fine. In fact”—Shaun turned off the engine and released his seat belt—“I’ll hazard to guess a lot of people hope she stays.”
Yeah. Shaun could add him to that list, West silently admitted as he exited the cruiser, even though he knew better than most the hope was a slim one. The hardline realist inside him replied, “That’s not her plan.”
Shaun started for the entrance. “Maybe she needs a new plan.”
West fell into step. “Come on. Roxy’s got the talent of a star and a heart like a wheel. Can you really see her sticking around Bluelick to wait tables at the diner, sing at Rawley’s, and give guitar lessons to pint-sized wannabees?” He reached the glass doors first and held one open.
“Don’t know,” Shaun replied as he walked into the building, “but I do know a happy woman when I see one, and she looks happy. Could be she just needs the right person to convince her to stay?”
West mulled that over as they checked in and received directions to the room where Cadet Brixton and her classmates were finishing up the second hour of field tactics. Roxy did seem happy, at present, but happy enough to kiss her wanderlust—and dreams of stardom—good-bye to settle in Bluelick for the long-term? Could one slightly world-weary cop in the process of rebuilding his sense of community sway her? At times he thought yes—when her smile went full-watt dazzling simply because he walked into the diner or her hand found its way into his as they sat on the porch swing and watched lightning bugs dance in the dusk or how his insomniac nightingale generally fell asleep right away if he pulled her in close and surrounded her body with his. She’d entrusted painful aspects of her past to him.
But he couldn’t ignore the contrary evidence, either. Sometimes when he caught her unaware, he detected a faraway look in her eyes and a hint of anxiousness in her expression. There were plenty of pieces of her past she kept to herself, including what had motivated her sudden desire to search out the grandmother she’d never met in a small town she’d never visited. And though she’d generously and enthusiastically shared most every part of her body with him, she still wouldn’t kiss him. The pull of temptation grew stronger every time they came together, but still she resisted. Resisted that specific intimacy. Resisted him. Why?
Perhaps because he was back in the training facility, the question took the form of a pop quiz in his mind.
A. She doesn’t want to get too close to you.
B. She doesn’t want you to get too close to her.
C. She doesn’t want to do anything that will make it harder for her to leave.
D. All of the above.
Yeah. Good old D. That led him to the real question.
What could he do about it?
Strategizing the answer would have to wait, because he followed Shaun into the classroom where an instructor and a handful of cadets stood in a semi-circle, observing a training scenario already underway. At the front of the room, Cadet Brixton—Amazonian and undeniably feminine despite the severe ponytail, standard-issue sweatpants, and white crewneck with BRIXTON stenciled across the back—maneuvered a formidable, similarly attired cadet so he faced the whiteboard, his back to the class. SWAIN stretched across the blank canvas of his shirt.
As they watched, she ordered him to place his palms against the wall and step out of his shoes. Then she used her boot to position his feet shoulder-width apart in a classic frisk position. The “suspect” had a good six inches on her and at least two hundred pounds of well-honed muscles, but her low, cool voice betrayed nothing but confidence in her ability to handle the situation.
“This what you had in mind, ma chouchoutte?” Swain drawled in an accent that dripped bayou water and Spanish moss. His unperturbed grin suggested he enjoyed his bad-boy role…or baiting his all-business classmate.
The grin only widened when she knocked his foot a little harder than necessary to get him to widen his stance and replied, “I’m going to pat you down now, sir. Remain as you are unless I instruct you to move. Understand?”
“It’s like my dreams comin’ true, choux.”
Some of the cadets in attendance laughed. Brixton ignored both the innuendo and the classmate reaction and instead got started on the frisk. West knew the drill. One cadet played the role of suspect and concealed a weapon of some sort on his person. The other cadet acted as the detaining officer and conducted the search, ideally thoroughly enough to discover the weapon. Cadet Brixton appeared to be more than up to the task. She approached
