From "Montana Honor"....Jasmine, a reporter, is talking to her editor, George.... "Can Gibson go?" Anston asked. "Hear from him?" The protective editor again. He wants Gibson to follow me into the governor's office? she thought. Geez. "You still carrying?" he asked. So it was protective. The thigh holster with the Beretta Tomcat had been a regular part of her wardrobe lately, though no .32 caliber bullet was racked into the tip-up chamber at the moment, and it was securely on safety. "Yeah," she sighed. The pistol had saved her life, but she hated the dresses that best concealed the pistol and holster from view. "And Powell's following." "I know he doesn't work here officially; but if Gibson isn't gonna be there, can you wait to go to Helena until McVey can go, too?" She looked at Anston with blue eyes now narrowing to a squint. "George," she said. "I've taken every sort of defense class around here. Shit, I'm nearly a female Bruce Lee. I'm packing heat, too. . . ." Her next words came through clenched teeth. "I understand your concern, but I want to talk to that big liar just to hear what he has to say. . . ." Anston sat down at the chair by her desk and pointed his editorial index finger at her. "Listen here, young lady. These people are playing for keeps. Hollister could have you killed—or anyone else who stands in his way—and he's gunning for re-election." She knew he was right, but she was getting angry—anger that happened when anyone treated her like a helpless female. I hate that, she thought. These men never believe what I can do. Wasn't spraying that pickup with bullets enough? "George," she said, her jaw set, "trust me. I'll be okay in Helena." Anston snorted. "Well, Montana is getting' ready to go to California. Timing isn't the best. And Gibson. . . ." "George, I don't need them to hover over me, or you, or anyone else." Jas was becoming angry now. "I'll make it, dammit!"