by Jo Goodman
“The grip is ivory.”
“That’s right. Some are pearl.” He set the grip in her palm and closed her fingers around it. “You’ll need your thumb for the hammer and your index finger for the trigger.” Easing around her, he stood at her back and supported her arm as she lifted and extended it. “Go ahead. Try pulling the trigger.”
She did. “It doesn’t work.” She tried several more times and the trigger always caught before it was fully depressed.
“That’s because you need to cock the hammer first.”
“Seems as if it might be too much to remember when you need it.”
“In the beginning it does, but practice makes it second nature. The hammer rotates the cylinder so the next cartridge lines up with the barrel. The trigger guard is there for your safety.” He brushed her thumb aside, replaced it with his own, then demonstrated how to pull the hammer back. “Every once in a while a man that thinks he needs an advantage will saw off the trigger guard. The trouble with that is he usually shoots off a body part just holstering his weapon.” He removed his thumb and nudged hers back on the hammer. “Go on.”
Rachel did and found the motion of cocking the hammer required more effort than she’d anticipated. She did it half a dozen times before Wyatt was satisfied.
“I’ll show you how to load the weapon.” He left her to get the cartridges from the saddlebag.
Rachel continued to examine the gun, turning it over, testing the weight, wondering if she’d ever truly feel it was an extension of her own hand. She doubted it. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
He glanced up from looking over the cartridges. “You know.”
“It’s part of your protection plan, is that right?”
“That’s right.” He took the Colt from her hand, pushed open the cylinder, and set the hammer at the half-cock position, then loaded the cartridges. “I don’t think there’s a woman in Reidsville who doesn’t know how to load, aim, and fire a weapon. Some are better than others at hitting things, but everyone learns sooner or later how to scare someone off.”
“Is that what you’re hoping I’ll be able to do? Scare Foster Maddox off?”
“I’m hoping you’ll be able to hit him if it comes to that.” He emptied the cylinder, then handed the revolver and the cartridges to her. “You load it now.”
Rachel’s first effort was clumsy, but she got it done. “Neither one of us can be certain that Foster will follow me here.”
“Are you willing to say that he won’t?” asked Wyatt. “I’m not. It’s not unreasonable to expect him to send someone in his place. You’re the last house on a street that doesn’t have many families living on it. You’d only be more isolated if you lived up the mountain.” He stepped a little to the side and back of her. “Of course, you could always let me move in with you. That would go a ways to easing my mind.”
“I’m sure it would,” she said dryly. “Oddly enough, it would give me more incentive to learn to hit my target.”
Wyatt grinned. “That’s why I’m standing back here.” He slipped his hand under her right elbow and encouraged her to raise her arm. “What do you want to try to hit?”
“The coffee tin.” It had the advantage of being bigger, although Rachel thought her best chance for hitting something depended on whether Wyatt had the proverbial broad side of a barn in his saddlebag. She levered her arm where she thought it should go.
“You’re going to send the slug into that big rock. The one that looks like Ned Beaumont’s head.”
She had to admit that it did look a little like Ned Beaumont’s head. The rock had unusual protrusions on either side that resembled Ned’s jug ears. “Well, I don’t want to hit Ned.” She lowered her arm a fraction.
“Use the sight.”
“I will when you tell me what it is.”
“The raised bit near the end of the barrel. Line it up with your target.”
“Oh, I see. Well, yes, that’s better.”
He lowered her am a little more. “This weapon has a kick. They all do. It’s going to make your arm jerk when you fire. You need to aim lower than where you want to hit. If you want to hit a man in the chest—and usually you do—then you need to aim at his privates.”
“And if I want to hit him in his privates?”
“You’re a whole bucket of sass, aren’t you?” He leaned around her shoulder and got a good look at her face. There was enough heat in her cheeks to warm his hands. He just shook his head. “All right. How’s your arm holding up?”
“It’s fine.”
He dropped his hand and stood back. “When you think you’re ready, cock the hammer and squeeze the trigger.”
Afraid she would lose her position, Rachel didn’t dare nod. She caught the hammer with her thumb and cocked it. Her finger twitched on the trigger. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled.
Ned Beaumont’s rocky replica lost an earlobe, and Rachel lost her balance. Wyatt used one hand at the small of her back to catch her and the other to grab her wrist and keep her from dropping the gun.
“You closed your eyes.”
Since he couldn’t have possibly seen, Rachel realized he had expected it. “Poor Ned. You might have warned me.”
“It generally doesn’t do any good. You have to experience it. Now that you know, you’ll do better. Did you feel the kick?”
“All the way to my shoulder.”
He nodded, gave her shoulder a light squeeze, and indicated she should try again. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Rachel finished off the cartridges in the cylinder without ever hitting the tin. Five more shots. Five more misses. Disappointed, she handed the Colt back to Wyatt. “Show me. I need to be reminded that it can be done.”
“All right, but you load it for me.”
She did, deftly handling the revolver this time. “Six rounds.”
He took the gun and holstered it carefully. “What’s my target? You choose.”
“The tin’s fine.”
“Which letter? There’re six of them.”
She frowned. “What are you—” Then she realized he was referring to the bold black letters on the side of the green tin. COFFEE. “Are you trying to impress me?”
“Can I?”
Rachel hated to admit it to herself, let alone to him, but the answer was most definitely yes. “The F,” she said. “The second F.”
“You’re a hard woman.”
Smiling as if she’d been complimented, Rachel watched Wyatt eye his target. The very air around him seemed to still, and she realized she was the one holding her breath while he was slowly exhaling. She actually flinched when he drew and fired.
Rachel barely shifted her attention from Wyatt to the target in time to see the coffee tin jump, wobble, and then disappear behind the rock it had been perched on. It was no good pretending that she wasn’t awed by what he’d done, not when she knew it was plainly etched in her features.
“Wait right here,” she told him, then hurried off to find and examine the tin.
Wyatt lowered his weapon and waited for Rachel’s return. He had a renewed appreciation for the fit of her trousers as she bent over the anvil-sized rock to make her retrieval. He carefully composed himself before she turned around, although there were adjustments he would have liked to make to the fit of his own trousers.
Rachel poked the tip of her finger through the hole made squarely in the medial crossbar of the second F. Even with the evidence before her eyes, she couldn’t quite accept it. “That’s impossible.”
“Actually, it is,” Wyatt told her. “That was just plain luck. I’m not that accurate.”
She set the tin back on its perch and turned on him. “Now, why would you tell me that? Don’t you want me to be impressed?”
“Are you saying that telling the truth doesn’t do the trick?”
“You’re right,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “That’s impressive.” She pointed to the tin. “Do it again.”
“Thi
nk you can stand there without jumping out of your skin this time?” He didn’t wait for her answer. He raised and fired his weapon in a single fluid motion. The coffee tin spun; then so did the other cans, one right after the other.
Rachel managed to hold her ground, but now she found herself staring slightly openmouthed in the direction of Wyatt’s shots and unable to hold back her admiration. “I want to do that,” she said, laying out her palm for the gun. “Did you bring a lot of cartridges?”
“Enough.”
As it turned out, he brought half again as many as she could use. After emptying the Colt four times, Rachel discovered she could barely lift it. Loading it for the fifth round of shots was difficult, as her fingers had begun to tremble with the exertion of her previous efforts.
Watching her, Wyatt could see discouragement warring with determination. She’d come close to hitting the coffee tin a few times, but there was no satisfaction for her in that. He pushed away from the trunk he’d been leaning against and stepped out from under the broad pine canopy.
“Will you let me help you?”
Until he asked the question, Rachel hadn’t realized how much she wanted to do this on her own, and still, she was able to recognize the conceit of taking that position. Coming here hadn’t even been her idea, and in fact, she couldn’t have conceived of it. Refusing his offer was both impolite and arrogant.
“Please,” she said. “I’d like that.”
His fingers brushed hers as he took the Colt from her open palms. “Your hands are like ice.”
“Mmm.”
Wyatt holstered the gun and pocketed the cartridges. “Here, give them to me.”
She decided it was the cold that made her so slow to respond because for a long moment she simply regarded him blankly. It was only when he reached for her that she understood what he wanted. She didn’t so much give him her hands as not withdraw them. He pressed them together in an attitude of prayer and clapped his much larger hands around them. Watching her closely, he began to rub briskly. Rachel felt her knees sag a little as the first wave of warmth surged through her. She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, reveling in the heat he pressed into her.
“Good?” he asked.
“Mmm.” She forced herself to open her eyes and saw he wasn’t looking at her hands at all. His cool blue predator eyes were studying her face, and the hint of a smile curling his lips might have been amusement…or something else. “That’s fine,” she said, and as soon as she began to ease her hands out of his grasp, he let her go.
Wyatt nodded. “Put your hands in your pockets while I load the gun.” What he did, though, was take the gun out of the holster and empty the chamber of all but one of the cartridges.
“Why did you take them out?” she asked as he slipped them in his pocket with the others.
“Because you’re only going to need one.”
He said it so confidently that Rachel didn’t challenge him. Moreover, it struck her that she wanted to believe him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Exactly what I tell you.” He stepped behind her and edged his body right up to hers; then he reached around with his gun hand and encouraged her to take it. While she was doing that, he used his free arm to set her shoulders and hips. He nudged her feet a few more inches apart, broadening her stance. “All right. Position the gun.”
It already felt too heavy in her hand, but when she began to raise it, Wyatt’s arm supported her just as he had in the beginning of her instruction. She felt his warm breath near her ear as he adjusted his own height and stance to duplicate her view.
“The coffee tin, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He pulled her arm down a fraction of an inch; his hand cupped hers. “Put your thumb on the hammer.” When she did, his thumb moved to rest lightly on top of hers. “Pull it back.” He let her do the work. “Good. Is your finger on the trigger?”
She answered in a whisper. “Yes.”
“Don’t close your eyes,” he said, his voice not much louder than hers. “Don’t hold your breath.” When he felt her begin to exhale, he gave his final instruction. “Squeeze.”
Rachel didn’t know the precise sequence of events. It seemed the tin jumped before she heard the Colt’s report. She barely felt the weapon’s kick. Wyatt absorbed the recoil and cushioned her tremor. She knew she gave up a cry that was all joy and excitement, but she hardly heard it. Twisting in Wyatt’s embrace, she threw her arms around his neck and made a mad little leap that forced him to take a step backward to regain his balance.
Laughing, full of the thrill of her accomplishment, Rachel held on and turned her head. Her lips lightly grazed his cheek.
It might have ended there, except that Wyatt also turned his head and it was then that their mouths met. The kick made her shudder. Her hat fell to the ground as Wyatt’s palm lifted to cradle the back of her head. His mouth moved over hers, slanting first one way, then the other, pressing the advantage she had given him with the first tentative caress of her lips.
She held on tightly because it seemed that nothing else was possible. Her mouth opened under his, a mere fraction at first, then wider as the tip of his tongue traced her upper lip. She wanted this, but that admission, as fleeting and private as it was, also had the power to alarm her.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he whispered.
Rachel looked at him. He was so close that she imagined it was her own reflection in his darkening eyes. This was Wyatt. Wyatt. And she had put herself in his arms. Her eyes opened wider.
Watching her, he smiled a little crookedly. He nudged her nose with his. “Don’t hold your breath.”
The light brush of his mouth against hers tickled. She leaned into the kiss.
One of his hands solidly cupped her bottom, and her legs were wrapped around his thighs, but in spite of both those things she began to slip. Rachel responded to the instruction as he whispered it.
“Squeeze.”
She breathed in the scent of pine and leather and man and did exactly what he said. Tightening her knees brought her flush against his groin. The whimper at the back of her throat gave sound to her need, and the soft feline growl that followed was the voice of her own predator instincts.
She matched his kiss, openmouthed and wanting. She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, the line of his jaw. One of his hands remained at the back of her head, fingers sifting her hair to loosen the simple plait that confined it. The sensation of his fingertips against her scalp caused a spark to skip all the way down her spine and ignite a charge that she didn’t know was buried there. Heat simply exploded. She felt it deeply at first as her womb contracted; then it rippled through her, rising to the surface of her skin, making her toes curl and her heart stammer.
Wyatt drew back slightly. His fingers closed more tightly over her braid of hair, and he positioned her face so it was tilted toward him. Her lips were swollen and wet and cherry red. When they parted, her breath mingled with his. The centers of her eyes were black and wide, yet she did not have the vague look of a sleepy lover. She was alert and just a little guarded. It seemed to Wyatt that she was waiting for him.
He turned her head and found the sensitive hollow just below her ear. His mouth moved to her neck, where he sipped on her skin. Feasting on her mouth, he covered ground quickly, stopping when he could press her against the wide tree trunk of a ponderosa pine. The back of his hand scraped the broad, scaly bark, but protected her head. Supported by the trunk, she eased her tight hold around his neck and shoulders. He could still feel the gun at his back.
“You want to holster that Colt?” he asked, nudging her lips with his.
Nodding, she eased her gun hand away.
“Wrong hand. The holster’s on my right.”
“Too much to remember,” she whispered.
“You’re doing fine.” He could feel her transferring the revolver to her other hand and lowering it toward his holster. There was some awkwardness as
she tried to find it. The fact that she was still clinging to him like ivy meant she had to reach beneath her own hip to locate it. She didn’t ask to be released, though, and Wyatt had already decided he’d let her drop the empty gun before he’d let her go.
Rachel slipped the Colt into Wyatt’s holster. “You’re going to have to put me down sometime.”
“Probably.” He nibbled on her upper lip. “Not now.”
It struck her as extraordinary that she could smile. “No,” she said. “Not now.”
His tongue darted into her mouth. She pressed hers against it, circled, suckled. She swallowed his soft groan; his hips drove into her. Her hands were finally free, and they fisted in his hair. His hat fell to the ground, and the shadow that had been cast across his features disappeared.
Rachel saw him clearly, saw the taut line of his jaw, the features that were slightly drawn as he held himself carefully away from her. She cupped his face, brushed her thumb across his lower lip. He sucked in a breath and the tip of her thumb. He bit down gently.
She began to slip away in that moment. Her legs slowly unwound until she was standing, though not without help from him. Her hands remained on his face, her heels dug into a bed of pine straw between his feet. She felt his fingers twisting the buttons on her coat; then his hands were inside, trapped between the lamb’s wool and the linen of her shirt, warming themselves, but warming her, too.
She hardly dared breathe. He seemed to know it because he bent his head and touched his lips to hers, a kiss so light that it was hardly more than a puff of air. She took it greedily, gratefully.
He tugged at the tails of her shirt, pulling it free; then his fingers slipped beneath the linen. Swearing softly, he laid his forehead against hers.
Rachel knew what had frustrated him. She reached under her shirt and caught each of his wrists in her hands. When she tugged, he let her pull him away. Her slightly ragged breathing matched his own.
