Whatcha Gonna Do With a Cowboy by Jodi Linton Page B

“Well, what do you want, asshole?” she snarled.
    I smiled over at Colt. “Asshole? It’s like she knows you already.”
    “Just wait. I haven’t even asked her a question yet,” he said, adjusting his hat.
    “Maybe I should do the talking,” I offered.
    “Please do.”
    “Mrs. Sims, we’re here to ask you a few…”
    “So you’re gonna let our little slut of a deputy do all the talking for you?” she interrupted.
    That was the moment that my cup of tolerance shamefully spilled over.
    “If you wanna talk about sluts,” I told Abby, “I can talk about sluts. I can talk about how everyone in town knows that you might be married to Holt, but your children all look like his best friend, Jasper Wilgens. Now why is that?”
    “The doctor says it’s a recessive gene, a coincidence.” Apparently, this was a touchy issue with her.
    “As long as Holt believes you, I guess that’s all that matters,” I fired back.
    She cocked a hip, readjusting her baby. “Fuck you, Deputy Briggs,” she said. “It’s no secret that you chew through men like a pack of Juicy Fruit.”
    I was about to let loose on her, but when I saw Colt’s astonished expression I figured I better act a little more professional. Getting into a pissing match out here wasn’t good for the case.
    “Marshal Larsen and I are looking for information on Missy, and we knew you two were kind of close from your bowling league,” I said.
    “What’s going on with Missy?” she asked.
    “It seems we can’t get a line on her.”
    “You’re serious?”
    “I’m afraid so,” I replied.
    “Holy Jesus.” She looked a little shaky. “Y’all come on inside,” she said, motioning into the trailer house.
    She led us into the kitchen, but since the trailer wasn’t much bigger than a boot box, I stayed in the living room. Colt stepped forward, looking like he was sucking in his breath and holding it so he didn’t have to touch anything or breathe in the nicotine-heavy atmosphere.
    Abby placed her baby in a high chair and shoved a pacifier in its mouth. “Deputy Briggs, who’s the sexy cowboy following your ass around and breathing so heavy?” she asked when Colt let out the breath he was holding and gasped hopefully for clean air.
    “Federal Marshal Colt Larsen, ma’am,” he answered proudly. Or it would have been proudly if he didn’t look like he wanted to get out of there pronto.
    “Feel free to use the couch if you need a rest, Marshal,” she offered.
    “I’m fine,” he said, stepping closer to an open window. I didn’t know why he was doing that, since the air outside the trailer was laced almost as heavily with spent cigarette smoke as the inside air.
    “So what do y’all want from me?” Abby stretched on tiptoe, rooting around the cabinet above the stove for something out of reach. She eventually found the soft pack of menthols she was looking for and began smacking it into her palm. “You know I ain’t gonna go ratting on my friend now, don’t you?” She slapped a coffee percolator on the stove, fired up a cigarette and the burner, then turned back to us while enjoying a long, satisfying drag.
    I sidled over next to the window Colt was trying to catch a clean breath through and said, “We’re just trying to figure out where she might be at this point. The marshal here has been following Missy for some time and believes she might have taken Rip for everything he had.”
    Abby looked at me, and I nodded. “It’s true,” I assured her. “So if there’s anything she might’ve talked to you about at league nights, it’d sure help us.”
    Colt finally gave up trying to keep his lungs clean and sidestepped around me, closer to Abby, and added, “That way, we can talk to her and sort this whole snafu out.”
    Abby leaned her butt against the stove. “Yeah, sure,” she said a little guardedly.
    “We all love Missy,” I said diplomatically, “and we can’t help her if we can’t find her.”
    “I’m sure that’s