“Your 1905 dress is in the closet there, along with a few other things. I bought two pairs of boy’s jeans that should fit you. You might want to slip a pair on before your lessons.”
I narrow my eyes. “What lessons?”
He opens one of the top drawers of the dresser and pulls out a gun. It’s smaller than the one he showed me before and looks more modern—square, a shorter barrel with engraving, and a pearl handle.
“Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “The situation hasn’t changed, so I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“Not unless you’re willing to let me stay by your side all the time. And truthfully, I’d still prefer that you were armed, just in case. But I’m not turning a gun over to you until I’m sure you can use it safely.” He sets it down on the edge of the white crocheted doily in the center of the dresser, which somehow makes the gun look even more sinister, and then taps the bottom drawer with his knuckles. “Jeans are in here.”
“Why do I need to change? I can shoot a gun in a dress.”
“True. But for the other lesson, you’re gonna want the jeans. Trust me.” He closes the door behind him before I can ask any other questions. And while I’m tempted to open the door and follow him, perhaps it’s best to just humor him for now.
The jeans aren’t really cut for a girl, so they’re a little tight in the hips and a little loose in the waist, but they’ll do. The shirt in the closet must be one of Kiernan’s, because I have to roll up the sleeves and the hem falls nearly to my knees.
I open the door and then realize that the gun is still on the dresser. Kiernan probably left it there intentionally, so that I’d be forced to pick it up. A logical first step, given that I’ll have to touch it in order to learn to shoot.
This would have been much easier before Chicago. I’ve never liked guns, but having Holmes fire one at me elevated a simple dislike to something closer to an outright phobia. And somehow the modern look of this gun makes it worse. The one Holmes fired at me was a revolver, but like the gun that I saw in Kiernan’s apartment, it looked more like a prop—like something you’d use with a Halloween costume. This, on the other hand, looks exactly like something you’d use to kill people.
It’s not a snake, Kate. Just pick the damned thing up. It’s probably not even loaded.
I wrap my fingers around the gun and lift it, centering its weight in my palm. Then I raise it higher and take practice aim at a leaf on the tree just outside the window.
“Don’t pull the trigger, okay? Window glass isn’t easy to come by.”
It’s good that my finger isn’t on the trigger, because I jump at the sound of his voice. Suddenly the gun feels a lot heavier. “It’s loaded?”
“Of course. What good is an unloaded gun?”
“I wasn’t going to pull the trigger,” I say, lowering the pistol to hide my shaking hand.
He smiles, but his eyes remain serious. “I’m glad. Because if you’d taken a shot holding it like that, with just one hand, you’d’ve landed square on your bottom and possibly knocked out a tooth to boot.” He holds his hand out. “I can carry it for now, if you want.”
“I’m fine.” I grip the handle a little tighter and follow him outside.
Kiernan has set up a board between two sawhorses, with eight tin cans in a neat little row. A gun similar to mine is tucked into his belt.
“Where’s the other one? The revolver?”
“Gave it back to Jess, just in case. This one’s better anyway.”
“It looks too modern for 1905.”
He holds it up so that I can read the information on the side. Automatic Colt Calibre 32 Rimless Smokeless. Then he flips it over. Browning’s Patent. Apr.20.1897 Dec.22.1903.
“These are both Colt Model 1903. Yours is a little newer than mine. Let me see it.”
He points to an engraved number just above the trigger. “Mine is 1903, and it has a four-digit serial number. If you look here, yours has five digits, which means it’s newer. They look modern because this model’s a classic. Police and military, and quite a few gangsters, will use this model until the 1950s. So you’ve probably seen it in movies. I bought it because it’s easy to conceal and easy to shoot. You remember how Jess’s gun had a hammer at the top, right?”
The only hammer I can picture in my mind is used to pound nails. It must show on my face, because he laughs.
“The little thing you pull back with your thumb? That’s the hammer. This model Colt has the hammer inside, so you don’t have to cock it. The bullets are in a cartridge, making it easier to reload. Eight bullets to a cartridge. Fires a lot faster, too.”
“Okay. A nice upgrade.” I take the gun back and smile at him. “But I can’t believe you bought me a girly gun. A pearl handle?”
“Quite a few gunfighters carried pistols with pearl grips.”
“Who?” I ask. “Belle Starr?”
He shakes his head. “Tell you what, I’ll demonstrate with mine, and then you can fire yours. We’ll see if you still call it a girly gun after you feel its kick.”
He takes a step forward, aiming his pistol at the first can. “Fair warning. I’m not exactly a crack shot. I’ll be lucky if I hit half of them.”
I stick my fingers in my ears the first time, but it’s actually not as loud as I’d expected. Kiernan hits five the first time, and we line the cans back up. He manages six the next time around, and then it’s my turn.
I’m less nervous now. I think part of it is that we’re just aiming at cans, so it seems more like a video game than actually doing anything lethal. But I’m also getting used to the feel of the gun. I hold it out with both hands, like Kiernan did, and start to take aim, but he stops me.
“Okay, this model has less recoil than most guns, but you still have to get used to it. Keep both arms level, and angle your elbows out a bit.”
He steps behind me, and I inhale sharply, because I just know he’s about to do that thing where the guy comes in close and presses his body against the girl to show her how to hold a weapon. But he doesn’t. I exhale, relieved, but now my skin is hyperalert. He repositions my elbows, first the right and then the left, his touch gentle on my bare skin. A shiver runs through me, even though his breath is warm against the side of my face.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Katie? You don’t have to do this.”
I let out a little laugh and shake my head, glad that he’s misread my body language. It’s not the gun that has me nervous right now. Bowing my elbows slightly, I take aim and fire at the first can.
I miss. By a mile. I’m not sure I’d call the gun’s recoil a kick, but the abrupt movement still catches me off guard, and I take a few steps backward, directly into Kiernan.
I may have given him a bit too much credit, because he probably knew that would happen. And while his arms are perfectly positioned to help me maintain my physical balance, they aren’t exactly helping my emotional balance.
I curse under my breath, partly annoyed at missing the target but mostly annoyed at my response to Kiernan. Why does his touch evoke such a strong, instinctive reaction that I have to fight it back each and every time? I remind myself that Trey’s waiting at the townhouse for me to return and make my feet step a few inches away.
“It’s not as easy as it looks, is it?”
“Nowhere near as easy,” I mutter, biting the side of my lip. “That shot was way off. How far do these bullets go?”
“A good distance, which is why we’re firing toward the broad side of the barn. Although you may have missed that too.”
“Oh, ha, ha. You’re a real laugh riot.” I raise the gun again and fire. I miss, but I do hit the board, and all eight cans tumble to the ground as a result.
“I win,” I tell him. “The goal was to knock down the cans, right? I knocked down all eight with one bullet. Can’t beat that.”