follow their trail.”
“Oh? What do the Indian agents have to say?” she asked.
“As far as they know, all the Comanche war chiefs and their warriors are on the reservation, and have been.”
“Hmm. No matter who might come, Shamrock’s men are spoiling for a fight. But after what Farrah Varga told me...” Helena hesitated, pressing her lips together. Then she huffed out a breath, as if surrendering to an inevitable fate. “Okay. I admit it. I’m terrified, Bren. Those men are killers. I don’t want anyone at Shamrock to get hurt. Especially not defending me.”
He very nearly asked if that included him, but instead said, “You’ve a right to be afraid. No matter your feelings about the men, if you hear shooting, you need to duck and run for cover. Hide as best as you can,” he added, then waited for her to explode all over him for telling her what to do.
The explosion never happened. Instead, her eyes grew sad, her posture resigned. “That isn’t going to keep me safe and you know it. It’s as if the success of those early raids has emboldened the raiders. They killed every woman on Belleza. Do you think they didn’t hide? Farrah and her mother were blessed to be in town.”
“Blessed,” Brendan agreed, remembering well what had been done to those poor beggars.
“Alex Reynolds taught Patience to shoot as soon as they arrived, because the raids were worsening. He doesn’t think size will protect either of our places for much longer. Neither does Lucien Avery. He thinks I should move into town. I won’t do that, so I need to learn about guns, the way Patience did.”
Brendan pressed his lips together for a moment. The idea of Helena in the middle of gunplay turned his breakfast to stone. Carefully guarding his words, he said, “That they’ve picked on increasingly larger targets is true. You have a good point. You need to be taught to shoot and you have to be ready to kill whoever you aim at. You should have Mallory teach you.”
“Mallory already tried.” She shrugged. “I can’t hit the broad side of the barn, Bren. If they do come here—”
“Then I guess I’d better get to teachin’ you,” he interrupted gruffly, flustered by her unconscious use of his nickname as much as by the terror in her voice. “Got any empty cans or mason jars you can do without?”
She nodded. “I’ll buy new. This is important.”
Brendan bit back the insolent remark that nearly leaped off his tongue. Of course she could just go to town and buy new. She could probably buy out the company that made cans and jars, if she’d a mind. Instead of feeding the fires of discontent the way he seemed driven to do around her, he pointed to a fence off to the left. “Over yonder. Set them up on the top rail.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung himself back into the saddle. “I’ll go warn Mallory before we take ten years off the man’s life when we start shootin’. Don’t know why he never managed to teach you.”
She blushed adorably. “Um, Bren, Mallory really did try. I’d hate to hurt his feelings.”
Brendan forced a smile, trying not to react to her, and cursing himself for being so affected by her sweet blush. Damn the woman. And damn him for his weakness around her. “I’ll only say we’ll be doin’ a bit of target practice. That way you won’t be embarrassin’ me if the fault is with you and not the teacher.”
“If you mention me and shooting, you’ll have to ignore his laughter.”
Mallory didn’t laugh, though he did shake his head, consternation written on his sun-baked face. “Great waste of powder, if you ask me. I doubt it’s going to do her a bit of good.”
Brendan allowed that it wouldn’t hurt to try. Then, after handing Harry over to Jimmy, he walked to where Helena had set up the jars and cans, his Winchester balanced on his shoulder. He walked a bit beyond where she stood, to lean the rifle against the porch post.
“Let’s try this from the top. Mallory must have forgotten a step. Shootin’ a gun is easy if you know what you’re about. First hold up your thumb.”
She turned and frowned. “My thumb? I need to shoot, not paint.”
Brendan sighed, turned to the fence, pulled his Colt out of his holster and fired, sending the middle can spinning into the dusty corral as blue smoke expanded all around them. It dissipated in the breeze as he turned to her.
She stared at the now holstered gun. “How did you learn to do that?”
“I’ve good reflexes and I listened to the one teachin’ me. That and practice.”
Without a word she turned and held up her thumb.
His point made, Brendan said, “With both eyes open, cover that first can on the left with your thumb. With your left eye closed, is the can covered?”
She nodded.
“Now do the same with the right eye. Did your thumb seem to move?”
Again she nodded.
“Then when you choose what you’re aimin’ at, close your right eye and sight with your left.”
“Mallory just told me to point and pull the trigger. Thus the shotgun. With buckshot flying, I’d have a better chance of hitting something.”
Brendan shook his head. “At least we’re gettin’ to where you’ll have more than two shots, and you’ve not even picked up the gun. I’d prefer you hit what you aim at. Mind, if you do pick up a gun to defend yourself, you have to be ready to pull the trigger.”
“So you said. And I said that I am. I’d have to think of it as him or me, right?”
He gave a sharp nod. “There’s no room for guilt with these raiders. They’ve started this war.”
She nodded in turn. “I’d fire. I still have too much to do in this life.”
He wanted to ask what, but he’d given up any right to even wonder. And if he was honest with himself, he hated that he had. Wished he was the kind of man who’d be comfortable being kept. But Michael Kane hadn’t raised his sons to live off their women. And even if Brendan could get past that, there was the knowledge of where her wealth had come from to torture him. He’d been taught not to hate, too...but his father would have to be disappointed in his son, because Brendan did hate Harlan Wheaton, Franklin Gowery and, though he’d never met him, Harry Conwell by association.
He cleared his throat. “So about the actual shootin’. It’s important not to tense up.” He showed her how to load and unload his Colt in its half-cocked position. “This is a single action. Meanin’ you pull the hammer all the way back, through all four clicks, each time you want to fire.” He eased the hammer back and the clicks sounded in the silent clearing. “Now it’s ready to fire. You have six shots,” he went on, and handed the weapon to her. “Hold it with both hands and sight down the barrel.”
She turned to the targets.
“Now squeeze the trigger,” he ordered.
She did, but only the good Lord knew where the shot went.
“No. No. Don’t jerk it. That sends the barrel up or down. You don’t
