A Healing Love for the Broken Cowboy: A Historical Western Romance Book

by Cassidy Hanton

  “Let’s not forget that my land is the only way they can get a look at yours without being seen,” Harvey added. “The big river on your eastern edge keeps ‘em from comin’ in that way.”

  “Yeah,” Mark ran a hand through his hair. “And we’d see ‘em on the road from the house.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You should take stock of your liabilities and weaknesses,” Chenoa said. “Figure out what the most vulnerable points are and do something to harden them.”

  “You mean hiring some gun hands,” Mark said.

  “At least until this flap with Alford blows over, it might not be a bad idea,” Harvey said.

  Mark sat silent for a moment then nodded slowly. “Suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he said. “I’ll go into town and talk to Sheriff Waits tomorrow. See if he knows anybody looking for work.”

  “Can you shoot?”

  It took Isabelle a moment to realize that Chenoa was speaking to her. She shook her head and gave her an awkward grin.

  “I never learned. But I got pretty good with my hickory stick when I was back in Grimepass,” she said. “A woman alone needs to be able to defend herself.”

  They all laughed at that, making Isabelle feel silly. She looked away, staring down at the eyes of the child in her arms instead.

  “Afraid that stick ain’t gonna do you much good in a gunfight,” Mark said. “Maybe it’s time you learn to shoot.”

  The mere thought of holding a gun in her hand − let alone firing it at a human being − twisted the knots in her belly painfully. But she could not deny that there was also a slight quiver of excitement as well. Though they scared her, she had long been fascinated by guns. Or at least, she had been interested in the gunslingers who carried them.

  Isabelle loved reading stories about outlaws and gunfighters. It was a fascination she kept secret − as her daydream about carrying a gun on her hip herself. When she had been younger, she had entertained fantasies about being a lady gunslinger − the deadliest gunhand in a petticoat the west had ever seen.

  She fought to keep her expression even as her secret thrills and fantasies swam up inside of her.

  “I think that would be a good idea,” she said. “I should be able to help defend our home.”

  “All right, it’s settled,” Harvey said. “I’ll teach her to shoot.”

  Mark looked at him, an inscrutable expression on his face. Chenoa nodded, as if she approved of it all.

  “She’s my sister. I should be the one to teach her,” Mark said.

  Harvey flashed him a grin. “If we want her to be able to hit what she’s shootin’ at, I should probably be the one doin’ the teachin’.”

  At that, they all burst into laughter and the dark specter that had hovered over them earlier lifted, the mood lighter than before. Isabelle was glad for it but was still troubled by all of the disparate pieces and her inability to form a complete picture in her mind. She could not shake the feeling that she was missing something − some crucial piece that would bring the whole picture into focus − and that if she could not figure it out soon, something bad was going to happen.

  Whether she could shoot straight or not.

  Chapter Twenty

  “All right now let’s see you draw,” he said. “Like a gunslinger. Pull and fire.”

  “I think that sounds a little too advanced for me.” Isabelle laughed nervously but it sent a secret thrill through her.

  Harvey grinned at her. “Nonsense. I just wanna see what I’m workin’ with here.”

  She looked down at the gun belt around her waist, trying to get used to the weight of it. It was a lot heavier than she thought it would be. But she could not deny the rush she got from wearing a pair of pistols on her hips. It was just like those silly daydreams she had of being a gunslinger when she was younger.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  She looked over at Harvey, the cold hand of uncertainty gripping her. She stood as he’d instructed her, shoulders square, hands close to the butts of her pistols. She stared at the bales of hay Harvey had set up about fifty feet away. With black paint, he had drawn the crude outline of a man, complete with a smiley face that somehow looked sinister to Isabelle.

  Isabelle swallowed hard and nodded. “I - I believe so.”

  “All right then − steady,” he called. “Ready −”

  Isabelle’s body tightened up and she felt a surge of strange, frenetic energy running through her veins. Despite her nerves, a smile touched her lips as she stared the “bad guy” down.

  “And draw,” Harvey shouted.

  A giggle bursting from her throat, Isabelle grabbed at the pistol like Harvey had showed her. But as she brought it up, it flew out of her hand and sailed almost halfway to the hay bales, hitting the ground with a heavy thump on the hard packed dirt.

  Isabelle stared at her empty hand with wide eyes then turned and looked at the pistol laying harmlessly on the dirt. She turned to Harvey who was staring back at her, doing his best to hide his amusement − and failed miserably as he erupted into loud guffaws of laughter. Isabelle felt her cheeks burning and a feeling of absolute mortification settling down over her.

  “I’m sorry Isabelle, I shouldn’t laugh,” Harvey wheezed between fits of even more laughter.

  The heat in Isabelle’s face grew warmer and she could not meet his eyes. She turned away, feeling her own eyes welling with tears of shame and embarrassment. Harvey’s laughter stopped and she felt him standing behind her. He just radiated a presence that she could not deny. She wiped away the tears that wet her cheeks, slowly turned around and looked up at him. He looked back at her, his face etched with contrition.

  “I apologize, Isabelle,” he said softly. “That was mighty insensitive of me to laugh. It just struck me funny. Ain’t never seen anything quite like that before.”

  “I was just unaccustomed to the weight,” she replied. “And my hand was slippery…”

  “Those grips are slick,” he said as her voice trailed off. “I shoulda warned you about ‘em.”

  She looked down at the ground and thought about how silly she was being. From his perspective, it probably was pretty funny. It probably was not every day when you saw a gunslinger throw their gun halfway to their target. To an experienced gunhand like Harvey, she imagined it looked ridiculous. Hilarious.

  Isabelle let out a long breath and realized she was probably being too sensitive about his reaction to it. He was not laughing to insult her. He was laughing at the sight of something funny and there was nothing more meant by it.

  She tried to see it from his perspective and when she did, she had to admit to seeing the humor in it. As the heat of her embarrassment drained from her face, she replayed it over in her mind and a small laugh bubbled up and out of her throat. Heat blossomed in her face again but she couldn’t stop the laughter once it started. And once her laughter rang out between them, Harvey began laughing all over again.

  They stood together laughing for several long minutes until tears were flowing down their faces. Able to laugh at herself, Isabelle felt much better about the situation by the time their laughter trailed off.

  “Honestly, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Isabelle.”

  She nodded. “I know. I was just being overly sensitive.”

  Their gazes locked for a moment and Isabelle felt a churning in her stomach. The air between them was suddenly charged and filled with a sense of anticipation. Expectation. She looked away, breaking the moment between them but that roiling inside of her took a few more moments to fully dissipate.

  Harvey cleared his throat. “So, what do you say we teach you how to shoot?”

  Isabelle’s smile was soft and shy. “I would like that.”

  “All right then, let’s do it.”

  She watched as he hauled a few more bales of hay over, stacking them one on top of the other. He set a box full of bullets down on top of one then looked over at Isabelle and cringed.

  “I’m afraid y
ou may get your skirts dirty,” he said.

  She shrugged. “No need to worry. I do the washing.”

  He nodded and grinned. “All right then,” he said. “Now, just come on over here and kneel down beside me.”

  Isabelle did as she thought he said, kneeling down as if to pray, but he corrected her so she was just down on one knee. She watched him as he propped his elbow on his thigh and cupped his hand beneath the barrel. He laid his cheek against the stock and stared down along the barrel of the rifle.

  “All right, so you want to use the sight at the end of the barrel to line up your target,” he said, not looking up or breaking his concentration. “And you want to gently squeeze the trigger − not pull it.”

  Isabelle watched everything he did, focusing on the small details and doing her best to commit them to memory. If it came down to a fight, she wanted to be useful. She did not want to be the one Harvey or her brother had to worry about when the bullets started to fly. She was smart enough to know that if their attention was divided, the likelihood they would get hurt increased substantially.

  Plus, this was her home. She planned to be here for a long time and she was going to fight for it. She might not be the biggest or most physically imposing person − and she probably wouldn’t be able to stand up to somebody in a fistfight − but she could still contribute to defending her home.

  Harvey passed the rifle over to her and gave her a gentle smile. “All right, your turn.”

  Isabelle cleared her throat and took the rifle he offered. She emulated the position Harvey had taken up, laying her cheek against the stock and stared down the barrel like he had. Closing one eye, she used the sight to target the bad guy painted on the hay.

  “All right take a deep breath and let it out slowly,” Harvey instructed.

  Isabelle did as he said and then accidentally gave the trigger a hard jerk. The kick of the rifle knocked her to her backside, sitting her down with a hard thump. She scrambled to her knees and looked at the hay bales, her face flushed and when she saw she didn’t hit the target, she growled in frustration with herself.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” Harvey said. “It takes a minute to get the feel for it. You’re doing fine.”

  Isabelle gritted her teeth and got into position again. Harvey sidled up behind her and set her shoulders and arms in the correct position. She flushed as he touched her, his breath warm on the back of her neck. And when he put his hand over hers, guiding it to the trigger, Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat.

  His hand was rough and calloused. It was a man’s hand − a man well accustomed to hard work. Isabelle didn’t know why she found that so pleasing but she did. Having Harvey so close to her, being able to feel the heat coming off his body, made her heart race and her insides churn. It made her feel things she’d never felt before and it left her head swimming.

  With Harvey’s hard, taut body pressed to hers, Isabelle was having a hard time focusing. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as an unfamiliar warmth formed in the center of her and spread through her body.

  “All right now take in a breath and let it out slowly.”

  Isabelle followed Harvey’s instructions and drew in a breath then let it out. His large hand engulfed hers and she allowed him to guide her finger to the trigger. Her heart thundered in her chest and she suddenly worried he could hear − or feel − it.

  “Now, gently squeeze the trigger − don’t pull it. Squeeze it,” he whispered in her ear.

  His voice was low and it rumbled along her skin, sending a fresh flash of warmth shooting through her. But she tried to focus on his words rather than how it made her feel, and squeezed the trigger.

  The shot rang out, the sharp crack of it reverberating through the air. And as she watched, she saw the bullet impact the bale of hay − just outside of the lines of the man Harvey had painted on − sending small strands of hay flying.

  “Hey, you hit the hay bale,” Harvey crowed. “Great job, Isabelle.”

  “But I missed the target,” she frowned.

  “It’s progress, Isabelle. Take the small victories and build on them,” he said. “The next shot will be inside the target, just you watch.”

  Isabelle stared at the bale of hay she had just shot and felt a strange sense of pride suddenly blossom within her. She thought Harvey was right that she may not have hit the target, but hitting the hay bale was progress − a small step thought it may have been.

  As if he only just realized how close they were together, Harvey gave her an awkward smile and got to his feet. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

  “All right now try again,” Harvey said gently. “Take up your position.”

  Isabelle tried to push away the fluttering inside of her and focus on the task at hand. She positioned herself as Harvey had instructed her, drew in a breath and let it out slowly. As a sense of calm settled down over her, she squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out and she watched the bale of hay jump as the bullet impacted it. A wide smile crossed her face and that small blossom of pride burst into a much larger one.

  She got to her feet, eyes still locked on the target. It wouldn’t have been a fatal shot − the bullet took the target in the thigh − but it was another step forward in her progress. Harvey smiled and applauded.

  “Great job, Isabelle,” he beamed. “That was a great shot. Well done.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle replied. “You are a good teacher.”

  “Well, a teacher is only as good as his students.”

  Isabelle blushed and smiled, looking away. “I could use more practice,” she said. “I was aiming higher.”

  He waved her off. “With some repetition and practice, you’ll be hitting the mark every single time. Mark my words.”

  “I hope so.”

  Harvey held her gaze, his expression serious. “I know so.”

  They stood in a strained silence for a moment, each of them smiling at the other awkwardly. Harvey broke the tension by motioning to the rifle.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and take a few more shots,” he suggested.

  Isabelle nodded and took up her firing position again. He worked with her for the better part of the afternoon, making small corrections to her form and technique. And slowly, shot by shot, Isabelle saw improvement. While she was certainly not the crack shot Harvey was, she could say that she was well on her way to becoming competent with a rifle. Maybe somewhat better than competent. At least, with some practice.

  When they were done for the day, Isabelle helped Harvey clean up the spent shells and other debris. They continued to make small talk and Isabelle found herself stealing glances at him, feeling her heart swelling more and more. She felt close to him. Maybe closer to him than any other man she had ever known − outside of Mark, of course.

  With the clean up done, she stood before Harvey, a small smile on her face. And as his eyes bore into hers, Isabelle felt that charge in the air between them growing stronger, making her pulse begin to race. She got the idea that he was going to kiss her. And what was making her head swim was that she knew she would not stop him. More than that, she wanted him to. Perhaps more than anything she wanted in her life.

  But then Harvey cleared his throat and broke the eye contact. Again. When he looked at her again, his expression was neutral and his eyes were guarded. If he had been thinking about kissing her, he had shut it down.

  “Well, I should get in,” he said. “I should see to my son.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Well, thank you for today. I appreciate the lessons.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Anytime, Isabelle −”

  “Izzy,” she interrupted. “Call me Izzy. Please. All of my friends do.”

  His smile was small but sincere. “Izzy it is then,” he said. “And just keep practicing with the rifle. I reckon you’ll be shootin’ better than your brother and me in no time.”

  Isabelle laughed. “I doubt that. But thank you,” she told him. “And I will de
finitely keep practicing.”

  “Good girl.”

  Isabelle looked deeply into his eyes, searching for something, some sign of his feeling for her behind his opaque gaze. Harvey however, was a master at masking his thoughts and feelings, his gaze giving nothing away.

  “Well − goodnight.” she said.

  “Goodnight, Izzy.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Isabelle stared in awe at the cans and pieces of glass bottle that littered the ground in the makeshift shooting gallery that Mark had built for her in a vacant field behind the house. It was in a secluded grove of trees that couldn’t be seen from the house which gave her plenty of privacy to work.