Page 7 of Love’s Silver Bullet

No joke.

“Then, when the devil are they coming?” he snapped in a tone far more like Blaze on a bad day, thinking he had a “surprise” for his best friend, too, if he didn’t get here soon.

Like my fist.

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. Her blatantly bare shoulders. “She didn’t say,” she said with a shy smile that suddenly took on a twinkle all its own, “but I got the distinct impression it might be awhile, so we should probably get started.”

A groan trapped in his throat as he surveyed her shoulderless shirt—if you could even call it a shirt. “What the devil are you wearing?” he rasped, voice still reduced to prepuberty. “That’s hardly proper attire for learning to shoot.”

She glanced down at the fringed skirt and cowhide boots before she looked up with a blink of blue eyes. “It’s what I always wear for outdoor activities.”

“No, that,” he said in a voice dangerously akin to a growl, flinging a hand in the direction of her indecent blouse, wondering if this dad-burned crabby mood Blaze had thrust him into would ever leave. Yeah, in three months or so. He huffed out a cranky sigh, figuring he’d issued more of those in the last month than he’d had in the last ten years. “For Pete’s sake, Sheridan, may as well wear a blasted chemise.”

Color bloomed in her cheeks as she lifted her chin. “My friend Sophia lent it to me—for ease of movement.”

“I’ll bet,” he muttered, striding over to jerk the rifle from the box with a noisy gust of air, pretty sure sweet Sophia Lopez was unduly influenced by her older sister Lolita. One of the prettiest—and flirtiest—women in town, Lolita had quite an effect on the male element of Virginia City.

Jake’s mouth compressed. Not unlike the effect Sheridan’s get-up had on him. “Well, let’s get this over with then,” he said in a near snarl, wondering how one mite of a woman—blast it all, little girl!—could transform a happy-go-lucky, easy-going guy like him into Blaze Donovan. Ignoring her, he marched over to the line he’d marked with a large rock, his back to her while he waited for her to join him.

And waited.

And waited.

“Do you want me to teach you how to shoot or not?” he said, tossing an unhappy look over his shoulder that instantly halted the breath in his lungs.

“If you don’t want to do this, Jake, just say so,” she whispered, that lush lower lip trembling as tears did the same in her eyes.

God help me, I don’t want to do this!

But he couldn’t tell her that, not with his ribs caving in over the pain swimming in the eyes of the woman he loved. No, girl, by thunder! Dropping his head in his hand, he expelled a repentant sigh, slowly turning to extend the rifle. “Sorry, Half-Pint,” he said, side-stepping her comment to avoid telling a lie, “but it’s Blaze I’m cranky with, not you, so forgive me for snapping like I did.”

“O… k-kay.” It was that same quivering, little-girl voice she’d always used as a mite, when Dash, Blaze, and he left her behind, always halting him dead in his tracks till he went back to soothe. Swooping her up, he’d always mount her on his shoulders, battling her brothers into letting her tag along.

Only, sweet mother of pearl, he didn’t want her tagging along now.

“Let’s get started, Annie Oakley, all right?” He schooled his voice toward gentle as he waved her over, making up his mind right then and there to make the best of a bad situation. He steeled his jaw. Because he could always duke it out with Blaze later.

And God knows he would.

Gaze downcast, she slowly moved to where he stood, which gave his eyes the opportunity to swallow her whole. Sweet mother of mercy, but she was a beauty! Every bit of eighteen in that gossamer blouse and then some, her petite five-foot-two height allowing him a bird’s-eye-view into a deep crevice at her neckline that said she was every bit a woman.

A woman he could not have.

Ever.

“Okay, Half-Pint, let’s get you into position,” he said in a taut voice, waving her toward the starting-line rock. Tugging her forward, he worked hard to ignore the fact that the blouse she wore appeared to be sliding down her shoulders. “When it comes to shooting, you can lay down, sit, kneel, or stand, but for our purposes today,” he said, retrieving his rifle from the wagon, “we’re going to stand. If you’re right-handed like you and me, your firing hand will be your right hand, so you want to square your shoulders up with the target and feet like so.”

He demonstrated with his boots a shoulder-width apart and right foot staggered about six inches behind. Tucking the rifle butt against his shoulder, he took aim, cheek resting against the stock before he turned to hand the rifle over. “Okay, your turn, Half-Pint.”

Nibbling at the edge of her smile, she gave him a shy peek as she took it, straddling her legs a bit too far while she brought the gun to her shoulder. “Like this?”

“No, ma’am, like this.” He took the gun back with a patient smile and demonstrated the stance once again before returning her rifle, which—once again—she got wrong. He bit back a groan on her third try because it was pretty clear she’d need hands-on instruction, which wouldn’t be easy for a man determined to remain “hands off.”

Moving behind her, he squatted and pointed to where her right boot should be, about six inches back. When she barely moved, his impatience—or his frustration with Blaze, more likely—took over as he slid her foot in position himself with a silent sigh. And, apparently, a little too much force.

“Whoa, steady there!” He shot up to brace her waist when she wobbled as much as his heart, appearing ready to tip over. “Sorry about that, Sher, but stance is important, sweetheart, so let’s get this right.”

He froze. Sweetheart? Blue blazes—had he really said that??