Free Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy by Jodi Linton Page A

and mouse over some chick who’s done you wrong, is it?” I shifted from one boot to the other, narrowing my eyes, and continued on with the rant. “A biker just used me for target practice, damn it, and you didn’t tell me anything like that might happen, even though I’m pretty fucking sure you knew it could.”
    He slapped his precious Stetson against his pants, then plopped it back on his head, tucked the tails of his plaid pearl snap back inside those jeans, and cut me a look that made me regret pushing his buttons. He was pissed off worse than I was.
    “Yep, things are a little more complicated than I first let on,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Kate might’ve gotten herself mixed up with the Perez gang a few years back in Tarpon Pass. And when she fell off the face of the earth, the debts she racked up didn’t exactly disappear with her.”
    “Mind telling me who or what the Perez gang is?”
    Grunting, Colt tilted his head back and stared up at the soft-top roof of the Jeep. “The Perezes use their motorcycle club to hide their illegal activities, such as dope, guns, and girls”—he rubbed his forehead—“and the feds have a pretty good line that they might even have some ties with a few of the human trafficking cases turning up at the border.” He eyed me cautiously and said, “The marshal’s office was able to pinpoint a group of them out in west Texas a few years back. And when Pistol Rock had the ketamine outburst six months ago, I started to dig a little deeper into your hometown and Kate’s whereabouts. But then it all came to a dead end when Pistol Rock hit national news over all the murders.”
    Unfortunately for this cowboy, I had no intentions of rehashing life’s past mistakes. That long, twisted road could be a real bitch.
    I stared at him. “And you thought it would be all right to pull me into this little drama without filling me in on the players?”
    He had the grace to look sheepish, but not repentant.
    “That’s it. I’m done.” I ripped out my cell and dialed my 911. This day was turning into a hair puller. When Elroy told me he’d at least be an hour since he was driving Rip home, I tried Gunner. The call went straight to voicemail. I didn’t even want to think about calling the last person on my list. But I called Luke again anyway.
    “Well?” Colt asked, tipping that damn Stetson forward to shield his eyes. I made a mental note to never give Gunner a Stetson for a Christmas gift.
    “Well what?” I shot back.
    “Is your knight in shining armor not answering your call?”
    Shoving the cell deep into the back pocket of my jeans, I shrugged him off and parked my butt on the gravelly road. “Beats me,” I told him, closing my eyes.
    He slumped down next to me. “Well, ain’t that some shit.” He laughed and pulled his hat down, covering his face from the Texas sun.
    Thirty minutes later, my ass was roasted to a nice burnt crisp when Colt nudged me and pointed at a truck just coming into view down the two-lane highway. We got up and dusted off our jeans.
    “Just curious, but who’d you call?”
    I squinted. “You’ll know soon enough.”
    The Ford F-150 stopped in front of the Jeep, damn near crushing the two of us. The driver-side window gradually rolled down, a ripped, tan arm flopped down the side of the dusty door, a white cowboy hat breached the opening, and a pair of blue eyes landed on me. “Your chariot awaits, princess,” Luke Wagner quipped, all the while keeping a steady glare on Colt.
    “The day I’m a princess is the day you take a girl on a second date,” I fired back, smiling.
    “How’s it going, Laney?” he asked, tossing me one of his snatch-tastic grins.
    “If you can get us out of the heat, I’d be doing a lot better,” I said.
    “Hop in,” he replied and leaned across the front seat to open the passenger door.
    A minute later I was sitting up front with the AC vents aimed at my face and Federal Marshal Colt Larsen riding