Annie stood and raised the gun to her shoulder, cocking both hammers.

The loud metallic clicks caused Cliff to back up into the door. "Hey! Hey!" He put his hands to his front in a protective gesture. "Now sweetheart... that's... that's dangerous. That's a hair trigger... you breathe and that's gonna go off... you point that away..."

"Shut up. Where were you tonight?"

He took a deep breath and controlled his voice. "I told you. Cars stuck and stalled, bridge over Hoop's Creek is out, panicky old widows callin' all night..."

"Liar."

"Look... look at these wet clothes... see the mud on my shoes?.. I was helpin' people all night. Now, come on, honey, you just got yourself all worked up."

Annie glanced at his wet cuffs and shoes and wondered if he was telling the truth this time.

Cliff went on in a soothing tone, using every term of endearment he could think of. "Now, sweetheart, darlin', that thing's gonna go off, baby, and I ain't done nothin', sugar..."

Annie saw that he was truly frightened, but oddly, she wasn't enjoying this reversal of roles. In fact, she didn't want him to beg; she just wanted him dead. But she couldn't just kill him in cold blood. The shotgun was getting heavy. She said to him, "Go for your gun, Cliff."

He stopped speaking and stared at her.

"Go on. Do you want people to know you died with your gun in your holster?"

Cliff took a shallow breath, and his tongue flicked across his dry lips. "Annie..."

"Coward! Coward! Coward!"

A clap of thunder exploded close by, startling Cliff Baxter, who jumped, then went for his gun.

Annie fired both barrels, and the recoil knocked her back against the wall.

The deafening blasts died away but still echoed in her ears. Annie dropped the shotgun. The room was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, and plaster dust floated down from the gaping hole in the ceiling above where Cliff lay on the floor.

Cliff Baxter got up slowly, on one knee, knocking chunks of plaster and wood lathing off his head and shoulders. Annie saw that he'd wet his pants.

He checked to see that his pistol was in his holster, then glanced up at the ceiling. Still brushing himself off, he stood and walked toward her. She noticed he was trembling, and she wondered what was going to happen next, but she didn't much care.

He walked right past her, picked up the wall phone, and dialed. "Yeah, Blake, it's me." He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice. "Yeah, had a little accident cleaning a gun. If you get any calls from the neighbors, you explain... Yeah, everything's fine. See ya." He hung up and turned to Annie. "Well, now."

She had no trouble looking him right in the eye, but she noticed he had trouble maintaining eye contact. Also, she thought his order of priorities was interesting: control and contain the situation so as to protect himself, his image, his job. She had no delusions that he was protecting her from the wrath of the law. But that's what he'd say.

As if on cue, he said, "You tried to kill me. I could arrest you."

"Actually, I fired over your head and you know it. But go ahead and take me to jail."

"You bitch. You..." He made a threatening move toward her, and his face reddened, but Annie stood her ground, knowing that ironically it was his badge that kept her from a beating. He knew it, too, and she took a little pleasure in watching him bursting with impotent rage. But one day, she knew, he'd snap. Meanwhile, she hoped he would drop dead with a stroke.

He backed her into a corner, pulled open her robe, then put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed the spot where the shotgun had recoiled.

A blinding pain shot through her body, and her knees buckled, found herself kneeling on the floor, and she could smell the urine on him. She closed her eyes and turned away, but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face toward him. "See what you done? You proud of yourself, bitch? I'll bet you are. Now, we're gonna even the score. We're gonna stay right here like this until you piss your pants, and I don't care if it takes all goddamn day. So, if you got it in you, get it over with. I'm waitin'."

Annie put her hands over her face and shook her head, tears coming to her eyes.

"I'm waitin'."

There was a sharp rap on the back door, and Cliff spun around. Officer Kevin Ward's face peered through the glass. Cliff bellowed, "Get the hell out of here!"

Ward turned quickly and left, but Annie thought he saw that his boss's pants were wet. For sure he saw the plaster dust covering Cliff's face and hair and her behind Cliff, kneeling on the floor. Good.

Cliff turned his attention back to his wife. "You satisfied now, bitch? You satisfied!"

She stood quickly. "Get away from me, or so help me God, I'll call the state police."

"You do, I'll kill you."

"I don't care." She fastened her robe around her. Cliff Baxter stared at her, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. From long experience, she knew it was time to end this confrontation, and she knew how to end it. She said nothing, just stood still, tears running down her face, then she dropped her head and looked at the floor, wondering why she hadn't blown a hole in him.

Cliff let a minute go by, then, satisfied that the pecking order was reestablished to his liking, that all was right with the world again, he put his finger under her chin and raised her head. "Okay, I'm gonna let you off easy, sweetie pie. You clean up this here mess, and you make me a nice breakfast. You got about half an hour."

He turned to leave, then came back, took the shotgun, and left. She heard his footsteps going up the stairs, then a few minutes later, heard the shower running.

She found some aspirin in the cupboard and took two with a full glass of water, then washed her face and hands in the kitchen sink, then went down into the basement.

In his den, she stared at the rifles and shotguns, all unlocked now.

She stood there a full minute, then turned away and went into the workshop. She found a push broom and shovel and went back up to the kitchen.

Annie made coffee, heated the frying pan, added bacon, swept up the plaster and put it out into the trash can, then washed the kitchen counter and floor.

Cliff came down, dressed in a clean uniform, and she noticed that he entered the kitchen carefully, his gun belt and holster slung over his shoulder and his hand casually on the pistol grip. He sat at the table, his gun belt looped over the chair instead of on the wall peg. Before he could react, she grabbed the gun belt and put it on the peg. She said, "No guns at my table."

The moment was not lost on Cliff Baxter, and, after an initial look of panic, he forced a stupid grin.

Annie poured him juice and coffee, then fried his eggs with potatoes and bacon, and put the toast in. She served him his breakfast, and he said, "Sit down."

She sat across from him.

He smiled as he ate and said, "Lose your appetite?"

"I ate."

He spoke as he chewed. "I'm gonna leave the guns and the ammo and everything down there. More coffee."

She stood and poured him more coffee.

He continued, "Because I don't think you got it in you to kill me."

"If I did, I could buy a gun anywhere."

"Yeah, true. But you can keep buyin' guns and stealin' guns and borrowin' guns, and it don't matter. I'm not afraid of you, darlin'."

She knew he was trying to reclaim his manhood after the pants wetting. She let him do what he had to do so he'd just get out of the house.

He continued, "I went for my gun, didn't I? I didn't have a chance in hell, but I went for it."

"Yes." True, she thought, he was more stupid than she'd imagined. An intelligent man knew he had at least a fifty-fifty chance of talking his wife out of shooting him, and less than a million-to-one chance of drawing against a pointed and cocked shotgun. But Cliff Baxter was short on brains and long on ego. One day, she hoped, that would get him killed.