Gunfighter's hands were made for caressing the soft curves of a woman, or the smooth wooden oiled butt of a pistol; for moving faster than the eye can follow.
Clenching his fists, he examined the gnarled knuckles, reddened and scarred, from fights and friction. Blunt and broken nails, dirt embedded deep, the quick ripped away.
Relaxing the grip, he studied the palms, blistered with hard outdoor work. No longer the hands of a gunfighter, sometimes when he practised flexing the joints creaked like unoiled hinges.
And when that happened his heart would leap to his throat and he would feel the fear burn him. How could he let his edge go so easily? What would happen if the unthinkable were to happen? The unexpected challenge? The goading into a quick draw? Would the pistol leap from the holster to his waiting supple hand to point eerily accurate at the target, finger bend painlessly, smoothly to a release?
Smooth hands gone, the life of risk and leisure exchanged for this - physical work and a family. Was it a fair trade off?
A small hand covered his own, barely. A small hand almost as worn as his own, but with delicate narrow fingers, where his were long and solid. Two pale hands now resting firmly on his, creating a nest, a haven. He stared at the hands a moment before raising thoughtful eyes to meet Teresa's smile.
Yes,
without a doubt this was a fair trade.
THE END
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