Page 55 of Love’s Silver Bullet

She studied his handsome face, his expression as earnest as she’d ever seen, and suddenly relaxed with a slow bleed of air. “No, no, Clay, this will be nice. As long as we don’t go too far.” She caressed Silver Bullet’s mane with another smile. “I love his name.”

“It’s right over the rise, I promise,” he said, palm to his chest as he delivered a little-boy grin that swirled her stomach. “The perfect place for a picnic.” He mounted, then helped her up behind him, making her most grateful she’d worn her split leather skirt. Leaning to rub the horse’s neck, he flashed a smile. “And the perfect name for the horse who will take us there, since bullets have been our main focus these last few weeks, in the birthplace of silver, no less.”

He was right, of course. it was the perfect place for a picnic, she decided, when they’d galloped a mile or two over the ridge to a small but pretty lake she remembered Uncle Finn taking them to years ago to fish. A copse of aspens shimmered in the breeze along one shore while the mountains rose beyond the other, the perfect setting for a picnic basket atop a Navajo-style blanket Clay had obviously set up ahead of time.

Helping Sheridan down, he tied Silver Bullet to a wispy aspen tree, chuckling when the palomino immediately started nibbling. “Looks like somebody’s hungry,” he said while he unloaded supplies from his saddle bag with a wink, which included a pistol, a rifle, and a number of empty tin cans and some string. “But we have work to do before we eat, Miss Donovan, because this is your final exam.” Tying tin cans to the limbs of an aspen, he paused to angle a brow. “You did bring your derringer, yes?”

“Yes!” Sheridan said with a giddy press of palms, excitement coursing through her veins like adrenaline at the challenge of a final exam, something she’d always mastered in school. She promptly produced the pearl-handle derringer Uncle Finn had given her for Christmas from her pocket, holding it up with a proud smile. “And you’ll be happy to know, Mr. Morgan, that Blaze was most impressed with my ‘natural ability’ at shooting when he was finally able to teach me last week.” She winked. “Says I’m a quick study.”

He chuckled as he walked to where she stood, the sound echoing across the lake. “Well, actually you are, Sheridan. A derringer isn’t easy to shoot, but you handle it well.”

She sighed as she aimed it at the tin cans he’d tied on the tree, both arms extended in a tight hold. “Better than the rifle, at least, which still deals me a fit on recoil.”

“Let’s take a look at that first,” he said as he handed her his rifle, positioning her exactly where he wanted her to stand. “You’re locked and loaded, so let’s see you aim for the highest can.”

Tucking the rifle butt against her shoulder, she took careful aim, cheek resting against the stock. She pulled the trigger, jerking hard at the recoil when she missed the can by a mile. She tried again with the same result. “See what I mean?” She unleashed a heavy sigh. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re still leaning back too far in your stance,” he said as he positioned her once again, reminding her of something he’d told her before. “You’re doing this”—he encircled her from behind, his arms aligned with hers as they took aim together, leaning her back against his chest—“when you should be doing this.”

He straightened and leaned forward the slightest bit, his body flush against hers for several erratic beats of her pulse. “You want to lean forward enough that your body is centered over yours knees and maintain a high grip on the gun like this.” He covered her hands with his own while his finger hugged hers on the trigger, causing a lump in her throat at the intimacy of the action. Sure, Clay had always positioned her before, but never this close. “Then you slowly squeeze …”

Ping!

The shot hit dead on, sending the tin can into a wild spin along with her heart. “See?” he whispered, the sound almost husky in her ear before he stepped away. “Now, you try.”

Fighting a gulp, she worked hard to match his stance, a warm chill skittering her spine when she felt the warmth of his palm pressing her forward. “Remember, Sheridan, you want to place the majority of your weight on the ball of the foot rather than the heel, all right?”

Nodding, she refocused and took careful aim, heart stopping as she slowly eased the trigger back.

Ping!

Euphoria burst in her chest when the can flew in the air, completely dislodged from the tree. “I did it!” she shouted, so excited she threw her free arm around Clay in a one-sided hug, her giggle ringing in the air. “I shot a bulls-eye!”

“Yes, you did, Miss Donovan,” he said with a chuckle, taking the rifle from her hand to embrace her more fully. “In more ways than one,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy as he pressed a kiss to her hair.

Pulse racing, she peered up, heart stopping altogether when he tenderly skimmed her mouth with the pad of his thumb before carefully laying the rifle aside. His shuttered gaze never left hers as he rose to cradle her face in his hands. “A bulls-eye right through my heart, Miss Donovan,” he whispered, his black eyes, if possible, darkening even more as he slowly lowered his head.

Oh my goodness—this is it!

That was all she had time to think before his mouth grazed hers with the barest of touches. Warm tingles skittered through her, suddenly colliding with goosebumps when he deepened the kiss, drawing her close with a soft groan. “Sheridan, I care about you.”

She could smell musk soap, peppermint, and a hint of bay rum, scents that teased along with his mouth as he feathered kisses along the curve of her throat. His words of fondness were soft and intent, warming her skin with a delicious tingle. Wonderful sensations all, except for one thing.

It wasn’t Jake.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“What the devil am I doing, girl?” Jake scrubbed Midnight’s snout in a manner as listless as the malaise that had lingered from the moment Sheridan had kissed him at the beginning of the summer. His gaze numbed into an empty stare as he fondled the horse’s mane. “I don’t want to go to Megan Joy’s for dinner. Tonight or any night, but her mother cornered me at church, so what could I do?”

Midnight nickered and nuzzled his hand, and Jake unleashed a weary sigh, grazing the mare’s neck with a gentle rub. Because the truth of the matter was, it was his own blasted fault for telling Sheridan he was “seeing” Megan Joy in the first place, and all to keep from telling a lie.

When all the time he was living one.

Denying his feelings for Sheridan.

“No, not Sheridan!” he hissed while he stormed to the tack room for his saddle, slamming it over the wooden railing of Midnight’s stall. “Half-Pint.” Jaw tight, he snatched the curry comb from the hook outside Midnight’s stall and proceeded to groom her, removing loose hair from the mare’s sleek body. He didn’t want to see Finn’s niece as anything other than the little girl who’d shadowed him from little on, the sweet little mite he’d do anything for. Nothing more than a near sister.

Yeah. He grunted while he combed Midnight with an intensity that mirrored his frustration. But not ‘near’ enough.