Free Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy by Jodi Linton

he?”
    “The slick son of a bitch who runs Bristol Mills.”
    “And what is Bristol Mills?”
    “A whorehouse he manages to run so that it’s just within the law. We keep waiting for him to slip up, but that isn’t likely to happen.”
    His fist beat the steering wheel as he thought about that. Then he whistled, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Well, honey pie, I guess you can be my tour guide to the bunny ranch tomorrow.”
    While we sat there and talked, the Jeep had taken it into its head to sink one giant wheel into the soft sand at the edge of the roadside ditch. Once again Colt Larsen proved he was no gentleman when he urged me to get out and try to push the damn thing while he steered—at which point I fell into the ditch on account of my door sitting right over the drainage trench, which only made the already high step a long way down.
    By the time we finally had the Jeep back on solid ground, I was a dusty, aching, cursing mess and in no mood for what came next. I’d started to hitch myself back into the Jeep when I heard the throaty, gurgling sound of a motorcycle coming our way. I spun around just in time to see an orange Harley Davidson Switchback zip past. Once it was up the road, the driver U-turned and faced us and the idling Jeep.
    And pulled out an automatic weapon.
    “Get in, damn it! Get in!” Colt hollered at me, ducking and drawing his own semi-automatic.
    I reached for my .9mm. The biker aimed his weapon at me, causing me to dive onto all fours, hitting nothing but gravel and stickers just as he began raining bullets in my direction. It occurred to me then that my life had completely gone down the crapper since Marshal Colt Larsen and his Stetson had decided to trample all over my turf. I crawled behind the Jeep and pushed up onto my hands. I was about to take aim at the biker when he turned the gun at me, once again sending me diving for cover on the gravel road.
    “Stay down, Laney,” Colt yelled, firing another round from behind the driver’s door he was using as a shield. The deafening blast startled me and made me bolt upright. I stared ahead and realized I was directly in the path of the gun. Immediately, I threw myself face down on the side of the road, sucking in gravel and muck.
    I’d made up my mind to take his advice just as the biker made a last attempt at nailing Colt before his clip ran out. He missed, nailing the front tire of the Jeep instead. With his gun emptied and not having anything but a motorcycle to hide behind, he took off down the long, bleak road. At the sight of him attempting to escape, I shot up, weapon in hand, hoping to tag him, but Colt was already locked on the target. He squeezed the trigger, hitting our biker friend smack in the shoulder. Before he could pop off another round, the biker kicked the throttle and fishtailed down the endless highway.
    While I was stomping and muttering words that would’ve had my mother taking a bar of soap to my mouth, Colt called in the shoot-out to dispatch, asked them to check area hospitals for anyone coming in with a GSW to the shoulder, and changed the flat tire. He’d also found that the radiator had taken several bullets, concluding that we’d need a tow back into town. He made a few more calls, arranging for a tow truck to come by and pick up the Jeep. I stood, hands at my side, watching him rummage beneath the backseat, then turn his attention to the glove compartment box and dashboard. The Jeep door slammed closed, and he strutted my way with a shotgun slung over his shoulders, a briefcase strapped across his wide chest, and a laptop tucked under his arm.
    He cocked his head. “What? You didn’t think I’d leave my equipment on the side of the road, did you?” he said, taking a stand next to me.
    When I could finally stop stomping and cursing, I turned my temper on him.
    “What the hell was all that?” I asked. “A biker hit man with an automatic? This isn’t just some game of cat