AINTRIGHT: AN IDIOT WITH A GUN by DL Greenlee

Part One: A Bullet For The Brit?
     
     
     
    An angry woman with an English accent barked
another impatient demand, “In one mile turn left on Ranch Road
1437!” She didn’t say it but he knew what she was thinking, “If you
miss this turn I will set this motorhome on fire with you in
it!”
    Three months earlier when they left on their
around the country adventure she had been polite, even flirty. He
loved the sound of her voice. Now her only emotion was anger and
all he wanted from her was silence. Her voice grated against his
ears, “In one half mile turn left you Moron. For once listen to
me.”
    Clinching his jaw he stared out the
windshield at the dust blowing across the road in the sunlight, and
made his decision. A single speck of lead traveling faster than her
words would shut her up forever.
    His left hand on the steering wheel, he
reached for the Ruger, .380 semi-automatic pistol, holstered inside
the waistband of his jeans. Wrapping his fingers around the rubber
grips he paused, inhaled slowly then puffed up his cheeks and spit
out a burst of warm air. “Think,” he told himself. “Think about
what you’re fixin' to do.”
    Leaving the .380 in its holster he reached
out and muted the mad little British woman that was rampaging
inside the GPS. He knew if he looked over he would see her banging
against the glass with her fists and screeching out directions. He
grinned; all he heard was the hum of tires on pavement.
     
    “Why’d you do that?” his wife asked, looking
up from her Kindle.
    “It was either quiet her down or use my .380
to 'recalculate' that ornery little British gal that’s been yelling
at me since Boise. A company called American Coach should have a
little bitty American woman giving directions.”
    “So, you’d be okay with an American woman
yelling at you and telling you where to go?”
    “Well, after 33 years it would be somethin’
I’m used to. Crap here's the turn already.”
     
    He stomped down the brake pedal, the tires
slightly skipping across the road's surface. The cloud of smoke
rising from the bottom of the motorhome carried the smell of burnt
rubber. Passing the wheel from right hand to left he turned the 42’
motor-home onto Texas 1437 from U.S. 180, promptly accelerating
down the two-lane road.
     
    “Why don't you ever pay attention to where
you're going?” his wife said crossly, her seatbelt choking her from
being thrown forward and back.
    “Umm, it's just because your gorgeousosity
is so distracting.”
    “That's not even a word.” Pressing her back
against the seat she tugged on the shoulder strap in an effort to
loosen it.
    “You're right babe it's a beauty to
indescribable for words...your beauty.” His foot still mashing the
gas pedal against the floorboard, he stole a peek at her then
looked back to the road.
    “You are so full of it.
Finally,” she said when the strap released. “Now
s top driving like you’re in a police car?
You’re retired you know.”
    “We’re just about there, only 13 miles to
Aintright.”
    “Slow down you’re making me carsick, and
what kind of name is Aintright?”
    “Probably ‘cause all the folks in town just
ain’t right.”
    “Why do you say such stupid things?” she
asked with a sigh.
    “Probably ‘cause I ain’t right,” he said,
throwing both hands in the air.
    “Could you please steer?” she asked, leaning
over to retrieve her Kindle from the floor.
     
    Grabbing the wheel with one hand he turned
to look at his wife. His free hand flourished in a parody of a tour
guide describing an inviting locale.
     
    “Actually the Aintrights were one of the
founding families of this remote, but quaint, west Texas village
that’s tucked away in a valley of hidden waters and nestling the
Guadalupe Mountains in north Hudspeth County. A fun fact about
Hudspeth county, it's approximately the same size as
Connecticut.”
    “You need something to read besides travel
brochures,” she said searching the floor,