Read Colonel Rutherford's Colt for Free Online

precision of her movements.
    â€œY’all have fun?” he asked.
    She made a sardonic noise with teeth and tongue. “Oh yeah. Brandywines . . . it was just like Mardi Gras.”
    â€œI moved the Beretta,” he said.
    She looked up. “Full price?”
    â€œI gave him a cash discount. Ten percent.”
    â€œHe paid cash? No shit!”
    â€œYeah. He took one of them fancy oak and velvet boxes, too. And I got a nibble on the Colt.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œI borrowed Bob Ochuda’s laptop and sent an email to that professor at Washington State. Guy who bought the Waco rifle. I told him we had Bob Champion’s personal sidearm. He got real excited. Says he’s going to come see us in North Bend.” Jimmy laid the Colt aside. “We oughta look into getting us a laptop. I feel bad borrowing Bob’s all the time.”
    Rita tossed her right boot toward the bed, set the hunting knife she kept in it next to the keys, then went to working on the left boot. “You are one slick white boy, Jimmy. Guess I gotta learn to trust ya.”
    â€œYou always say that,” he said. “And about half the time you wrong.”
    She laughed, the first honest laugh he’d had from her in days. “Damn!” she said. “Here I been drinking to drown my sorrows, and now I’m wishing I had a drink to celebrate.”
    He pointed to the dresser. “Top right-hand drawer.”
    One-booted, she stepped to it, opened the drawer, and plucked out a pint of Jack Black. She went into the bathroom, reappeared a few seconds later with a water glass half full of whiskey. She leaned against the doorframe and sipped. “That was nice, Jimmy. Thinking about me like that.”
    â€œI spend all the time I got to spare thinking about you.”
    She returned to the chair, placed the glass and the bottle on the table, started in again on her boot.
    â€œSo what’d you do at Brandywines?”
    â€œSat with Doug Lindsey and his mama for a while. He’s trying to tell me we oughta carry custom ammo for the antique pieces. I ain’t so sure he’s wrong.”
    â€œWe don’t need the inventory. I mean, hell, we could carry a coupla boxes that fit with some of the pieces. But we doing okay without it.”
    Rita kicked off the boot, sailed it into the bathroom. “Ever see Doug’s mama eat? That scrawny little thing wolfed down two of them half-pounder cheeseburger-and-steak-fry plates. Woman must have the metabolism of a racehorse.” She began undoing the buttons of her shirt. “Ran into that major the Snow woman told us about.”
    â€œYeah, I had a conversation with him over to the show.”
    â€œHe offered five thousand cash for the Colt.”
    Jimmy grinned. “Offered me six.”
    â€œHuh. He probably thought I was desperate for firewater. Anybody smiles as much as that bastard’s got a snake coiled in his belly.” She had another drink. “Maybe we should take the six and skim two grand off the top.”
    â€œC’mon, Rita. You know you just talking.”
    â€œYou didn’t sell the Beretta, I wouldn’t be just talking.” She drained her glass and poured another two fingers. “How’s the story going?”
    â€œAll right, I guess. Wanna hear?”
    â€œSure I do.”
    As he talked she lifted her butt, slid her jeans down past her knees, then her ankles, and sat there in shirt and panties, sipping whiskey. The Painted Desert color of her body flowed into his eyes, adding a dark red wash to the air. He could see the story molding itself to her lean figure, adding vigor and heat. This was the heart of what they were together, the blood of the relationship, the cracked moon that shined them into being. Him telling, her listening and giving advice. The spirit they became in the process. He felt energy bridging between them, arcs of tropical lightning, gun flashes welded