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Of course he knew how to fight. It was just that he preferred nonviolent solutions, favored turning away anger with a joke and a smile, sidestepping the bullies with some dazzling comment that sailed over their heads.
    But in this situation, he had no choice. The dormant warrior in him came charging to the forefront. Chivalry, the thing that had gotten him into trouble time and time again, roared to life. He met the cowboy’s assault, punch for punch, his blows landing solid and strong.
    “Don’t pick on defenseless women.”
    “Ha! She was soliciting. I was taking her up on the offer when she got cold feet.”
    “I very much doubt that.” Brady belted the man hard in the face. Anger—that volatile fire starter—pushed hot against his fist, surprising him, but he hated hearing ugly things said about Annie.
    The man swore, swung at Brady.
    He ducked. The punch sailed over his head, and Brady hit him again for good measure.
    Then he heard a sound that chilled his blood, the hard slinking noise of cold steel. Saw the flash of silver in the light from the parking lot lamps.
    A switchblade. The son of a bitch had a switchblade.
    Fear pooled in his belly, liquid, quicksilver. His gut was saying, Get the hell out of here, champ. Live to fight another day.
    “C’mon,” taunted the drunken cowboy, swinging the knife through the air. “Let’s see what the white knight is really made of.”
    Brady raised his palms. “Now, now, no need for bloodshed.”
    “Oh, I think there’s plenty of need. Guys like you think you’re so tough and strong, but you’re nothing but a pretty boy who likes to play hero. Try spending ten years in Huntsville. That’ll make a real man of you.”
    Huntsville was the biggest prison in Texas. It housed the worst offenders and it was where the state carried out the death penalty.
    “Put the knife down, mister, get in your truck, and drive away. That’ll be the end of this.”
    “You think I’m going to let a pretty boy like you tell me what to do?” the man sneered. “I’ll say when it’s over.” He lunged, knife outthrust.
    Brady jumped clear. “Annie,” he commanded. He couldn’t see her. She was behind him somewhere, but he could hear her breath coming in hard, startled gasps. He thought about the Yorkie in the satchel, hoped Lady Astor was okay. “Go back into the truck stop. Get help.”
    “Oh no, you don’t,” the knife-wielding ex-con snarled and moved to grab for Annie.
    “Sorry, scumbag,” Brady said. “I can’t let you do that.” He brought his leg up and kicked the man in the kneecap.
    The ex-con yelped like a cowardly coyote and let loose with a string of vile cusswords.
    Annie got away and was running across the parking lot, headed for the entrance to the restaurant, the satchel looped over her head, clutched it tightly against her. Relief rolled over him. At least she and Lady Astor were out of immediate harm’s way.
    Brady, however, was not.
    Grunting, the ex-con raised the knife and brought it down.
    Brady dodged just in the nick of time.
    No, not quite.
    He felt the stinging burn as the tip of the knife blade grazed the right side of his face cutting him from his ear to his jaw. He grunted, manacled the man’s hand. They tussled. The stench of whiskey and cigarette smoke blew over him.
    As the fight roiled on in the slog of rain, a pain-in-the-ass voice at the back of his brain kept up a running commentary.
    Great. Just great. Here you go and get your face all sliced up over a girl you don’t even know. Yes, you had to defend her. Of course you had to defend her. You had no choice on that score. You’re not about to let a helpless woman get dragged off by some Neanderthal ex-con rapist. That’s not what’s at issue here. The issue is you stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong. You had to play hero. You just had to break your own rules. Pick up a hitchhiker. Go for the damsel in distress. It’s not like you haven’t been warned. For godsakes how