She wedged her hands into her back pockets. If he was trying to get rid of her, he had another thing coming. Where she came from, what he’d just described would have sounded like heaven—not that she planned to let on. Her past was her business and she kept it to herself.
“Helping get the operation up and running was part of the job I accepted,” she said. “And since I don’t usually have access to indoor plumbing when I’m fighting fires, I can make do.”
“Suit yourself.” His eyes lit with good-natured humor. “Let’s go take a look, shall we?”
*
The pretty, blue-eyedgirl with the short, spiky blond hair and long, jagged bangs looked about as much like a firefighter as Dan did a beautician.
Not only a firefighter, but a smokejumper—one of their elite. And not only a smokejumper, but a highly recommended base manager, meaning she’d been at it a long time. He wanted to ask, “Did they hire you when you were ten?” Because she didn’t look old enough to get into Lou’s Pub, let alone smokejumper training.
But saying so might sound sexist.
She did, however, look like a Jazz. The leather pants covered mile-long, muscled legs and the short-sleeved T-shirt revealed tanned, well-toned arms. She was lean, physically fit, yet at the same time, there was a delicate freshness to her face that was decidedly female and very appealing.
And that smooth, husky voice… He could picture her with a mike on a stage in a dark, smoke-filled lounge, crooning to an appreciative crowd of drunken businessmen kicking back at the tail end of a conference.
He could imagine her equally well as a high school basketball star. She had the wholesome look down pat, too. The juxtaposition was intriguing.
What he couldn’t imagine was her managing a crew of smokejumpers. Those guys ate testosterone for breakfast.
But again, saying so might sound sexist.
He dug in his jeans pocket for the keys to his SUV as he followed her into the sunshine. The only unfamiliar vehicle in the yard was a sweet little Harley-Davidson lowrider, all polished chrome and gleaming, racing-green metal. A bulky pack and full saddlebags were strapped to it. A helmet and leather jacket hung from the handlebars.
The skin on his back and upper arms shrank, as if he’d brushed up against something cold. Disquiet rippled his spine. He knew the signs of an adrenaline junkie better than most and Jazz O’Reilly was ticking the boxes. The bike might be sweet, but a lot could happen in the seven hours it took to drive from Missoula to Grand. He’d been called to three motorcycle accidents in his relatively short career as a sheriff and none had been pretty. Statistically speaking, in fatal accidents involving motorcycles and cars, cars came out the clear winners.
He had no doubt she was a competent rider. The problem was that there were a lot of other drivers on the road, andcompetentwasn’t the word he’d use to describe all of them. Besides, it was hard to argue who was the better driver when you were hung up in the undercarriage of an eighteen-wheeler long haul.
It was all he could do not to deliver a lecture, as if she were some schoolkid, or one of his nieces or nephews, and not a free-thinking, legally licensed adult.
He assumed she was licensed.
“Is the bike yours?” he asked, which had to be the dumbest question he’d asked so far this week. Who else could it belong to?
“It is.” Her smooth, pretty cheeks dimpled. Innocent blue eyes, unaware of his internal struggle, laughed up at him. “Is that SUV yours?”
She was quick. He’d give her that.
“Yes. Well,” he amended, “technically, it belongs to the county. I’m the sheriff.”
“Really?” Long, dark blond lashes fluttered. “Between construction work and ranching, when do you find thetime?”
Now she was just plain making fun of him.
He grinned. “I never said I was good at it.” He tossed the keys in his hand. “Do you want to leave the bike here and ride out with me? We can load your packs in my SUV.”
The breeze ruffled that cute blond fringe of hair doing its best to hide her eyes. And failing. “How far is it to the airfield?”
“Ten miles. The road that cuts through the Endeavour from this side is dirt and not all that great.”
The fun in her eyes changed to surprise. “How big is this ranch, anyway?”
It still embarrassed him to say. They’d all been so busy trying to get paperwork in order, and projects up and running, that it was hard to think of themselves as the Endeavour’s owners. Most days, Dan felt more like its indentured servant.
“About 180 square miles.”
Her long lashes flickered again as she processed the information. “Then I’d better take my bike to the airfield. It saves me making a second trip.”