Shooter Galloway supposed that his mouth hung. His brain certainly locked down. Of course he knew Jacque Mefford, everybody did, and her father damned well knew it.
Jacque Mefford was probably the dream woman of every outdoor guy on the planet. Jacque Mefford was Bob Robinson’s daughter? Holy hell!
Bob Robinson was rumbling on, but Shooter’s ears weren’t receiving too well. The conversation ended, and he hung up the phone.
Jacque Mefford—Holy cow! She knew all about him? There were pictures of him in that file. She wanted to meet him? For a solid month in the mountains?
Shooter Galloway was not an idiot. He was not going to be swung by a pretty—scratch that—gorgeous face, a knockout figure, and a personality that lit up a room. He had let Hannah get away, but then he had a mission that sort of controlled his life, but not now. Jacque Mefford? That was foolish imagining—still?
Bob Robinson had played his ace, he had thrown his Sunday punch, but Shooter saw through the ploy; anybody would.
Jacque Mefford! Whew! Galloway wondered if she would be on TV tonight.
He was a thirty-year old combat veteran of two wars who had heard the owl and seen the elephant. He . . . God, he was thinking in clichés.
Shooter opened the Bunker and began surveying the contents.
Emma Showalter paused in passing. “I didn’t know that was there, Gabriel?”
Shooter barely heard her. He could stuff everything into boxes and store it. . . Where? Sonny Brunner had a lot of space. He would take care of it.
He switched on the TV and got the Outdoor Channel, just in case. God, Jacque Mefford had a body like . . .
He wondered if any airline flew directly to Salmon, Idaho. He doubted it, and he had weeks, anyway. He didn’t have to decide right now.
Shooter stepped back and got his senses realigned. Bob Robinson was clever as hell and, man, had he thrown a wicked curve. Shooter sat on his back porch to think a little more.
The truth was, he was just jerking around with all of this analysis. Jacque Mefford was a powerful lure. She would be for any male, but even if he went he could expect no more than a casual friendship there.
If he went? Ah, to hell with it!
WHEN he went—it would be because he would have a great life filled with excitement and adventure in a new job unlike anything he had dreamed possible. Something inside him wanted that, and he had denied that hunger too long.
If Jacque Mefford was the catalyst, so be it. That just proved that Bob Robinson knew how to close a deal.
The famous guns and hunting expert, Elmer Keith had lived in Salmon, Idaho. Maybe there would be folks who had known him that would like to talk about Elmer. It would be settling to get out of here, right now and, if he got to Salmon early, he could check around.
Shooter guessed he would go out right away and get acclimated, get a start on the others. He could even spend a week with Mop. What guns should he bring, and how would he ship them? Ted Barner would know.
Shooter started for the phone then pulled up. Would he seem too anxious? Would Barner and Robinson bust their guts laughing at how including Jacque Mefford had decided him?
Shooter Galloway laughed at himself. Well, they would be right, and what did he care? Adventure loomed and after that, real work with big rewards and, of course, that needed spice of possible danger.
Shooter picked up the phone and punched in
The End
About Roy Chandler
Rocky Chandler is now 86 years of age. He remains active and still rides his Harley-Davidson across the continental United States.
The author divides his time among Nokomis, FL, St Mary’s City, MD, and Perry County, PA,
Author of more than sixty published books Chandler is writing a final novel titled Blackwater Jack.
Yep, that Blackwater. The new tale is a zinger.
Rocky Chandler: Author, Educator, Soldier, Patriot
Shooter Galloway Page 37
