The targets in this area of the course were about twenty yards distant. Her pistol and Sullivan’s gun were meant for close range shooting, perhaps for taking out an intruder in a confined space. The broad-shouldered, faceless figures, all five of them supported like scarecrows on wooden posts, stood perfectly still, defenseless, just daring her to put a bullet through center mass. She didn’t doubt for a moment that she was up to the challenge.
Ramsey’s safety glasses were resting on her head. She put them on and then took the Glock from behind the small of her back and got familiar with the weight and the grip. She made sure she could hold the pistol without interfering with the slide mechanism. She was careful that her thumb didn’t get in the way. Keeping the pistol pointed toward the target, she checked the chamber, saw that it was empty, and lifted one of the loaded magazines from her pocket. She slipped it into the pistol, felt it click in place, and pulled back on the slide so that one bullet slid into the chamber.
She thought Sullivan would have stepped away by now and move to his target area, but what he did was stay perfectly still a foot or so behind her and observe her going through the motions.
She went on as if she didn’t know he was there. Her instructor had taken up the same position all the while she was learning. She got used to it even if she never liked it.
Ramsey adopted the isosceles stance, legs parted just a little wider than her hips, both arms extended parallel to the ground. She had a good grip on the Glock so that it was fully supported by her hands. Her right index finger was poised low on the trigger to make the pull smooth and diminish the recoil.
She sited the first target and squeezed the trigger. She didn’t hear the bullet hit the target, but she saw the figure shudder. It would have satisfied her if it had been a direct hit, but she knew she had only winged him. That never counted as a good shot. She sited again and pulled. This one caught the target dead on. She wasn’t certain she had corrected the problem with her sighting on the unfamiliar weapon, so she locked her eyes on the third target. It was another center hit, a little to the left of the last one.
More comfortable now, Ramsey dropped her hands to her sides, the Glock in her right. She stood there a few seconds, calming her breathing before she drew her weapon from an imaginary holster, simultaneously adopting the stance and adding the support of her left hand. She fired five times in quick succession; the first three bullets were for the targets she’d already hit, the last two for those she had previously ignored.
All five men trembled in the aftermath.
Smiling, satisfied, she looked over her shoulder at Sullivan. His expression was not encouraging. He did not return her smile, if he even saw it. He was staring at the targets, and Ramsey thought he looked more troubled than impressed. Shrugging, she turned to face the targets again and shot until she emptied the magazine.
When she finished, Sullivan was no longer standing behind her. He had moved off to her right to face his targets and was loading his six-shooter. She wondered if he had tried spinning it around his finger or attempted some other fancy, and probably fictional, Old West move. Had anyone besides Gary Cooper ever had a shootout at high noon? They were well short of that fateful hour now, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if Sullivan Day imagined himself standing alone on a wide dusty street, shopkeepers and pretty young things staring at him from behind windows and lacy curtains. He’d be the sheriff, she thought. Maybe not good to the core, but good enough to know he had to face these outlaws or surrender what remained of his self-respect.
The scenario in her head was spinning out of control, so she was glad when Sullivan pulled the Colt’s trigger. Even adopting a two-handed grip that no one in Deadwood, Tombstone, or Laredo ever used, the Peacemaker’s recoil shuddered through his arms to his shoulders. It made her glad she had the Glock. In the Old West, her weapon of choice would have been a dainty, palm-sized derringer.
She gave a start when he fired the Peacemaker again. This time he knew what to expect, even if she didn’t. He hit the edge of the second outlaw from the left, but she wasn’t sure that was the one he was aiming for. Sullivan lowered the revolver to his side. Ramsey supposed one of the outlaws must have feinted because Sullivan drew the Colt and fired four more times, emptying the chamber. The man remained standing but he was mortally wounded.
Sullivan gestured to Ramsey to lift one side of her ear protection. “Do you want to try? It’s heavier than you’re used to, but when will you get another chance to shoot a Colt like this?”
She nodded, double-checked the Glock to make sure it was empty, and then handed it to Sullivan. He gave her six cartridges and she loaded the Peacemaker. The smooth pearl grip was still warm from Sullivan’s handling. She liked the feel of it once she familiarized herself with the best way to hold it. She was used to a modern, textured grip. At first the revolver felt as slippery as an iPhone. The barrel was four inches long, one of the reasons for its popularity, and while its loaded weight was almost twice that of the Glock, it was manageable—or she thought it was until she fired and felt her bones rattling every bit as hard as they had on the four-wheeler. She refused to look at Sullivan. If he was laughing, she’d want to kill him, and with a weapon in her hand, it was entirely possible that she would.
Ramsey emptied the Peacemaker but only hit one of the targets with her subsequent shots. She was glad to give it over to Sullivan and take up the Glock again.
They took turns shooting for a little over an hour. Sullivan had to return to the shack once for more ammunition. Ramsey used his absence to shake out her arms and roll her shoulders. Knowing that she was going to ache later wasn’t reason enough to cut this opportunity short. She’d been neglectful of her own practice regimen, failing to get out to the local sportsman’s club on the weekly schedule she’d set for herself.
Sullivan worked with the Glock now and again, but Ramsey declined to use the six-shooter. When he had her pistol, she sat cross-legged on the grass and watched him. He alternated between two stances, the Weaver in which he put his weak side leg forward of his strong side leg and fully extended his right arm, keeping his left slightly bent, and the isosceles, the same one she used. He had a clear preference for the latter stance, but she supposed he had his reasons for wanting to be equally at his ease with the other.
Although she kept her jacket on, Sullivan removed his after a few rounds. His short-sleeved tee showed the rather impressive cut of the muscles in his arms every time he drew and fired. He also had a very fine butt, but that was independent of whatever stance he chose. It was very fine on its own, just like the rest of him.
She was a little sorry for teasing him by staring so hard at Ted Constantinides. Sure, Ted was worth every second she had devoted to him, but then so was Sullivan. The difference was that she had admired Ted openly while she mostly stole looks at Sullivan. Even when she faced him, she tried not to notice specific features. She wanted to view him as a landscape without any distinguishing topography. Did he have a bump on the bridge of his nose? She wasn’t sure. And his mouth…was the upper lip quite as full as the lower one? She only thought it might be. She knew very well that his eyes were gray, sometimes flinty, sometimes smoky, sometimes as flat as ash, and always arresting. It was impossible not to know that, but she didn’t know if he had a narrow cleft in his chin or whether it could be a dimple. Maybe he had neither. She had tried very hard not to notice.
Ramsey was still sitting on the ground when Sullivan finished shooting. He extended a hand to help her up, which she didn’t need but appreciated. She was quiet as she helped him pick up the empty magazines and grateful that he didn’t probe. They bent at the same time to reach for his jacket, bumped heads, and apologized simultaneously as they rubbed the top of their skulls.
They did not know each other well enough for the moment to pass with no awkwardness.
“I didn’t think we’d need the helmets out here,” said Sullivan, removing his ear protection as she did the same.
Ramsey smiled, but she was aware the effort was weak and more than a little self-conscious. The jacket lay between them, and they both stared at it.
“I should probably get that,” he said. “And you should probably let me.”
She nodded, although not as fluidly as she might have wished, and she stood without moving even though the toe of her boot was resting on his jacket cuff.
“Ramsey?” From his bent position, Sullivan looked up at her.
“Hmm?”
He gave the jacket a tug. “You’re, umm, standing…”
“Oh!” She put her weight on her heel and lifted her toes just enough for him to take his jacket, and she felt as if she’d been swept off her feet. When he straightened, she said, “You don’t have a dimple in your chin.”
Sullivan’s eyebrows lifted, his expression at once amused and curious. “No. I don’t. Is that a problem?”
