Page 9 of Love’s Silver Bullet

All but ignoring her, he matched her stance and positioned his own rifle. “Okay, you place the rifle butt firmly in the pocket of your firing shoulder like this,” he said, tucking it against the V of his arm. “Not the fleshy part of your armpit beneath it, mind you, or on your collarbone, but firmly in the pocket against your shoulder to absorb the recoil.”

“Pocket,” she repeated, trying to follow suit, although not really sure if she did.

Not sparing a glance or a smile, he continued on in that nasty tone that said he’d rather be mucking a stall. “Next, you steady the handgrip with your non-firing hand midway down the tube,” he said with a firm grip of the barrel, “resting the stock in the "V" created by your thumb and forefingers. This will help give you control over the muzzle when aiming, which you want because precision is key.”

“Okay …” She tried to emulate him, watching closely as he brought the rifle to his head and pressed his cheek against the butt of the gun.

“Keep your elbows down and in, relax your neck, and then let your cheek fall naturally to the stock, which will help your eye align to the sight. Your trigger finger should be straight—don’t curl it around the trigger until you're ready to fire, got it?”

No. “Yes, I think so,” she whispered, desperately trying to hold onto the gun along with her temper as she tried to match his grip and his aim. “How’s this?”

His long, noisy sigh made her wince. Stomping over to the wagon, he dropped his rifle into the bed and stalked back to stand behind her, mumbling under his breath before he blasted out another exhale of frustration so loud, it ruffled both her hair and her ire.

She spun around. “Oh, for crying out loud in a bucket, Sullivan. If you don’t want to teach me, just say so.”

“All right, Donovan, I will!” He parked blunt hands on his hips, leaning in to stare her down with eyes as hard as a jagged piece of ice-blue agate. “I flat-out don’t want to teach you, so there! No pretty, dad-burned too delicate little girl has any blasted business learning to shoot a gun. But for some inane reason, I’m the poor idiot that’s been tapped to teach you.”

She blinked. Pretty?

She frowned. Too delicate??

She scowled. Little girl?!

She stepped in and slapped her hands to her hips, her glare matching his to a scowl. “Well, you sure got the ‘idiot’ part right, Jake Sullivan, and while we’re at it, you can add ‘blind’ and ‘bullheaded’ to the list, too, because if you think I’m still a little girl, you need to see Doc Wilson about some specs.”

Her stomach did a funny flip when his gaze flicked to the cleft between her breasts for a split second before jerking back up with a firm clamp of his jaw. The blood gorging his cheeks suddenly went head-to-head with the heat in her own.

She slashed her jaw up, the “idiot” so ridiculously tall, she was getting a pain in the neck to match the one in her posterior. “So, you going to teach me to shoot or not, Sullivan? Or will I have to tell Uncle Finn you flat-out refused because, blue thunder, the man’s hardly done anything for you at all.”

The blue eyes thinned along with his mouth. “I’ll do it, dag-nabit, but I sure in the devil don’t have to like it.”

Wanna bet? Sheridan whirled back around to get into position, making up her mind right then and there that she would take Sophia’s and Lolita’s advice and steal a kiss if she could. Because it was crystal clear from his reaction to her “get-up” and his surly mood that Mr. Sullivan did see her as a woman and was just flat-out afraid of it. Jaw tight, she lifted her gun to aim in the sloppiest manner she could, completely ignoring all the specifics he’d given her earlier. “How’s this?” she asked sweetly, her smile as tight as her grip on the gun.

“Pitiful.” He snatched the rifle from her so fast, she cried out when the trigger nicked the tip of her finger, which she’d purposely curled rather than keeping straight like he’d instructed.

Tears pooled as quickly as the blood on her finger.

The whites of his eyes expanded in shock while he practically hurled the gun down, quickly laying it aside to gently take Sheridan’s hand. “Oh, Sher, please forgive me—I never meant to hurt you like that, sweetheart.”

No, just in a million other ways … She sniffed, somewhat mollified by his second use of “sweetheart.”

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully blotted her finger, peering up with a truly repentant look. “I’m so sorry, Sher, for this and for acting like a complete jackass. Will you forgive me—please? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

She gave a wobbly nod. If you make it up to me.

He assessed the cut, eyes in a squint as he dabbed more blood away. He glanced up. “Does it still hurt?”

More than you will ever know ... She nodded again, the tender look he gave her causing her heart to ache more than her silly finger.

Still holding her hand, he promptly bent to one knee. “Doc Wilson told me once that spit not only can heal a wound, but it can help the pain, too,” he muttered before halting the air in her throat when he gently took her finger into his mouth without a second thought, gently sucking on the wound.

Mouth gaping, her lids were dry sockets of shock, a tossup over which was warmer—his mouth wrapped around her finger, or the swirling effect deep down in her belly. “There you go,” he said, giving it one final caress with his lips that all but weakened the tendons at the back of her knees. “How does it feel now?”

Her breathing shallowed considerably. You don’t want to know, Jake, trust me.

“Better?” he asked again, thick black brows lifted in hope.

She offered a nod as dizzy as the heat whirling in her tummy.