The naked edge

5

Driving across the pasture, Cavanaugh smiled at the half-dozen horses grazing near a stream. A mare galloped toward him. She was a five-year-old quarter horse named after her color, Chestnut. As she ran parallel to the moving car, Cavanaugh lowered his window.

"Guess what I have?" He nodded toward a paper bag next to him.

The horse kept thundering next to him.

Cavanaugh pulled out a big red apple. "Want it now or later?"

Chestnut snapped at it.

"Hey, where are your manners?" Cavanaugh tossed the apple over Chestnut's head and watched her veer toward where it landed in the grass.

The five other horses, one of them a colt, realized what was happening and galloped in Cavanaugh's direction.

"I suppose I need to be fair." He dumped the bag of apples onto the grass and drove on.

Beyond the pasture was a three-story lodge. Made of logs, it had a wide, welcoming porch. Ten years earlier, while working in the area (his client: a political columnist threatened by a stalker), Cavanaugh had heard about a dude ranch for sale. Investigating while off-duty, he was so impressed by the peaceful feel of the canyon that he did one of the few impulsive things in his life and bought it.

It was expensive. For the down payment, he needed to hand over every dollar he'd saved as a protective agent and to accept two high-paying, extremely dangerous assignments. Thereafter, most of his income went toward the mortgage. But he never regretted his decision. Between jobs, sometimes convalescing from injuries, he came back to his magical hundred acres, which had the equally magical name of "home."

As Cavanaugh drove toward the lodge, he saw Jamie standing on the porch, attaching a walkie-talkie to her belt. Smiling, she stepped out into the sun, which glinted off her brunette ponytail. She was five feet ten, her jeans emphasizing her figure, her cowboy boots lifting her heels, making her legs seem to stretch up forever toward her hips. Her face had the narrow chin and high cheekbones of classical beauty. But her green eyes, a mixture of amusement and intelligence, were what most captivated him.

He parked in front of the lodge and got out of the car.

"That Pizza Hut thing made me hungry. I don't suppose you actually did bring a pizza," Jamie said.

"Nope."

"Bummer."

"Something better."

"A Philadelphia steak sandwich?" she asked.

"How can you be so thin and think so much about food?"

"Because that's all I do is think about it. You feed the horses, but you never feed me. Come on, 'fess up, you brought Kentucky Fried Chicken, right?"

"Sorry."

"Double bummer."

"Even better than KFC." Cavanaugh leaned into the car and picked up a small case indented with the words HECKLER amp; KOCH.

"Awww," Jamie said, "you're right. It is better than KFC. You really know the way to a woman's heart. I just love it when you bring me a gun."

"But not just any gun."

"Don't keep me in suspense. What makes this one so special?"

"It's called the P-2000."

"My, yes, that certainly sounds special."

Their boot steps echoing, they crossed the porch and entered the lodge. A spacious "communal room," as the real-estate brochure described it, had a wide staircase, a huge stone fireplace, a battered upright piano, a long table where lodgers had eaten during the dude-ranch days, and several ceiling light fixtures in the shape of wagon wheels.

"Do you remember the first rule of choosing a handgun?" Cavanaugh asked.

"The gun has to fit the hand."

"Right. If the grip's too large, your finger can't reach the trigger without stretching. The gun twists to the side and ruins your aim."

Reaching the kitchen, Cavanaugh looked at a row of monitors under a cupboard. Linked to security cameras, the screens showed various areas of the property. Satisfied that everything appeared normal, he turned toward where Mrs. Patterson rolled a pie crust. A sixty-year-old widow whose children and grandchildren lived in Jackson, she had worked for the dude ranch and agreed to stay.

"What kind of pie are you making?" Jamie asked.

"Pumpkin."

"Maybe I'll skip dinner tonight and just eat the pie."

Cavanaugh shook his head in amazement at Jamie's appetite. He opened a cupboard, took out a box of nine-millimeter ammunition and an equipment bag, then headed toward the back door. "It's going to be loud for a while, Mrs. Patterson."

The gray-haired woman set down her rolling pin, pulled a Kleenex from her apron, tore it in two, and wadded the halves into her ears.

The screen door banged shut as Cavanaugh and Jamie walked toward a shooting area next to a barn. Feeling the intense sunlight, they stopped at a weathered wooden table and faced metal targets twenty-five yards away, a mound behind them. Each target had the outline of a human head and torso.

Cavanaugh opened the case, took out the pistol, and showed Jamie that there wasn't a magazine in it. Then he locked back the slide to reveal that there wasn't a round in the firing chamber.

"Cold gun?"

"Cold gun," she agreed.

He set the pistol and the gear bag on the table. Then he opened the box of ammunition. With practiced efficiency, he and Jamie loaded ten rounds into three magazines.

"It always amazes me that you don't break your fingernails," Cavanaugh said.

"That's how little attention you pay. Hanging around with you, I'd don't have any fingernails. So tell me about the P-2000."

"Even Goldilocks would like it." Cavanaugh showed Jamie three polymer strips labeled S, L, or XL. A strip on the back of the weapon's grip was labeled M.

"You're telling me you can size the grip…?"

"To fit the hand. Try it."

Although the pistol was still "cold," Cavanaugh approved of the way Jamie pointed it down range, as if it were loaded.

"Not quite comfortable," she said. "Slightly too big for my hand."

"Then we'll reduce the grip." Cavanaugh pulled a hammer and a punch from the equipment bag. With a few taps, he removed a pin from the strip. He took it off and attached the one marked S. "Now try it."

"Perfect," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh was fascinated by the problem of hands fitting grips because his own hand was small in comparison to his six-foot frame. Prior to his Delta Force training, he'd been obligated to use the Army's standard sidearm, Beretta's fifteen-round nine millimeter. For a magazine to hold that many rounds, it needed to have two columns of ammunition. The result was a grip too large for him. He'd managed to compensate and control his aim, but like someone forced to wear tight shoes for a long time, he was now obsessed with proper size and comfort.

"Put some rounds through it," he suggested.

"Ladies first? Gosh." Jamie shoved a magazine into the grip and pressed a lever on the side. A similar lever was on the opposite side, making the weapon ambidextrous, another rarity. The slide, which had been locked back, rammed home, chambering a round.

"I need my fashion accessories," she told him.

They put on their protective glasses and ear guards, then approached the targets, stopping ten yards away, a standard shooting distance. Most gunfights occurred within half that space.

Jamie raised the pistol, both arms straight out, both hands solidly on the grip, both thumbs pointed along the side as a further way of aligning the barrel with the target.

Cavanaugh considered the freedom with which she lifted her arms. No evident discomfort, no stiffness to indicate her bullet wound five months earlier.

She pulled the trigger.