Page 11 of The Coppersmith Farmhouse (Jamison Valley 1)
“These old county roads don’t get a lot of traffic. People don’t pay attention to where they’re driving. You could get hit and no one would have a fucking clue where to start looking,” he said.
“Well, thanks for the warning, Sheriff. I’ll be sure to take that under advisement.”
“Don’t have to be snappy about it. Christ, I’m sorry I stopped.”
“Not as sorry as I am. So please, don’t let me keep you. Feel free to leave me here on the road and share that sunny attitude of yours with other citizens in Jamison County. I wouldn’t want you to waste it all on me.”
He clenched his jaw and even though I couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, I knew he was glaring at me.
“Mouthing off to a cop. Not smart,” he said.
“What are you going to do, write me a ticket for speaking? Does Montana not abide by that whole freedom of speech thing?”
“How about I write you a ticket for being on the wrong side of the road? You should be running over here on the right.”
“Fine. Write me a ticket. What’s the fine? Fifty cents? I’ll drop it by the station on my way to work tomorrow. I should be able to find some spare change in my couch cushions.”
“Stay put,” he ordered, pointing to my feet. Then he turned back into the cab of his truck and pulled out a pad of paper.
Was this jackass seriously going to write me a ticket for running on the wrong side of a basically deserted road?
Yes. Yes, he was.
Two minutes later, I had a yellow ticket in my hand with my name scribbled on top. Obviously he’d learned my name sometime in the last day, which made me nervous. Either he he’d been asking about me or someone in town had been talking about me.
Below my name was the fine amount and it wasn’t fifty cents. It was one hundred dollars. Daycare late fees weren’t robbery. This was.
“You’ve got to be effing kidding me.”
“Payment is due in ten days. Appeals must be filed before the ten-day limit.” He was all business now that he’d served me with the ticket.
Before I could dismiss him, he leaned out his truck a little farther. “Oh, and the word is fucking. Not effing.”
“I have a four-year-old. In my world, the word is effing. Am I free to go?”
He didn’t answer. He just leaned back into his truck, brought it back to life and roared down the road.
I didn’t need chanting or positive mental affirmations for the remainder of my run. Fueled by adrenaline and anger, I sprinted the return mile and a half in record time, arriving at Quail Hollow fifteen minutes before closing.
“I need to pay a ticket,” I told a deputy at the sheriff’s station.
“Gigi?”
I turned around to see Milo and Sam walking my way.
I waved. “Hi, Milo. Sam.”
“What are you doing here?” Sam asked.
I took my yellow “running” ticket and held it out for them to read.
Milo just muttered, “Wow,” while Sam started laughing.
“What? What’s funny?”
“Bogus ticket, Gigi. There’s no law stating which side of the road you have to run on. Sheriff is messing with you.”
“You’re kidding.”
