The Target

shadows at the back of the gallery, watching, chewing on an unlit cigarillo, a habit he'd developed since he'd stopped smoking the year before. Gunther slowly pulled away, cradling his gun in his big hands. He liked the feel of the cold smooth steel against his warm palm.

    She shook her head, laughing at him. "The way you hold that gun of yours. What is it with you, Gunther? You think that gun is a woman?"

    "No," he said very precisely, "I think this gun is a tool to get my job done." He nodded to her, politely, as always, and turned away from her. He said over his shoulder, pausing just a moment in the gallery doorway, "Mr. Lord appreciates my tool."

    She stared at him an instant, then doubled over, hooting with laughter. "I sure hope not," she said. "I sure hope you're wrong about that."

    His jaw locked. He felt embarrassment flood him, from inside out, as if his guts had turned red before his face. He hated the feeling. A soft voice said, "Yes, Gunther, I do appreciate your tool. Why don't you go clean your gun. You've used it a great deal today and with excellent effect."

    "Yes, sir."

    Mason Lord watched his man leave the gun gallery before turning to his wife. His look was indulgent, his voice amused as he said, "You torment poor Gunther."

    "Yes, but he's really too easy, Mason. Did you bring my Lady Colt?"

    He nodded. "I wish you'd let me teach you how to shoot a real gun, not this ridiculous toy."

    Her voice hardened. It was disconcerting in that she looked like an angel, from that smooth thick pale blond hair of hers to the soft blue eyes, the fragile blue of a summer sky. "If I'm close enough, it'll get the job done. I don't want a tool like poor Gunther's. It's not elegant."

    He had to agree with that. The recoil from the Spanish Star Ten would also knock her on her butt. He handed her the Lady Colt, stood back, and watched her put six bullets straight through the chest of the target.

    She turned, her eyes sparkling, removed her earmuffs, and said in a wicked voice, "And I didn't even have to fondle it."

    "No," he said, drawing her to him, "I'm the only thing you fondle."

    But though he spoke the words, he wasn't responding to her the way he usually did. Usually she would have been on her back by now. She stepped back, laying her Lady Colt on the counter. "I wonder what your daughter is doing?"

    He shook his head. "I called Buzz Carmen in Denver just a little while ago. He said the cops are still acting like idiots, mad at her for saving her own daughter, trying to track her down and this man with her. Buzz and three others have fanned out now, looking for her. Molly's an amateur. Buzz and his people aren't. They'll find her. He admitted he hadn't known she'd left Denver. He said they'd kept their distance because the cops had hassled them."

    "No one's found her except whoever did this. Maybe the bad guys got them, Mason. You have to consider that."

    "Molly's smart. She may be an amateur, but she's smart."

    "I thought she was like your wife."

    He stared at her, then laughed. "Like Alicia? Molly thinks of herself as the ugly duckling compared to my former wife. No, Molly might look like a railroad tie, but she's smart." He frowned a bit. "I suppose she's like me in that. I wish she'd just admit she needs me and get over here. She knows I can protect her and Emma."

    "I'll bet this guy who's with them is calling the shots. Don't you think?"

    "I don't even have an idea yet who he is." He took her arm. "Let's have one of Miles's margaritas."

    It was during that first delicious margarita that Miles said from the doorway, "Sir, Molly's here. Emma too, and a man I don't know."

    "It took her long enough to come," Mason Lord said, rising slowly. He set his glass on the marble tabletop as Miles went back out. Then he heard a child's voice, soft, high, not frightened, but wary?

    "This is a very big house, Mr. Miles."

    "Yes, Emma, it is."

    "It's even bigger than the one we had with Daddy. This ceiling just goes up and up."

    Then the three of them were standing in the open doorway, Miles behind them, his look questioning. "It's all right, Miles. I'll call if I need you."

    Then his daughter turned, her hand on Miles's arm. "Can Emma have a glass of water, Miles?"

    Miles looked down at the little girl, who was standing very close to her mother, her hand now held by the big man on her other side. "How about some lemonade instead?"

    "Oh yes, Mr. Miles, that would be wonderful."

    The three of