ache in her chest. But since the Rev had reminded her that the Bible said all things worked together for good for God’s people, He must have planned for her to be tall, plain and gawky so she’d make a good deputy.
Before leaving home this morning, Grace had made up her mind to enjoy his company for as long as she could before he found himself a wife. So as she rode into the barnyard, she summoned up a happy disposition more like her sister Maisie’s than her own.
“Mornin’, Rev.” She pasted on a big smile as she dismounted from Mack, her black gelding, and ambled over to him. The Rev wore his black Stetson, looking more appropriate for today’s task than he would in that ridiculous bowler.
“Good morning, Grace. It’s a great day for shooting.” The Rev held a small burlap sack that clattered like it was full of tin cans. “Let’s see how many of these we can knock off the fence.” He nodded toward the corral.
“Good idea.” Grace helped him line up the cans on the top rail. “You know, Rev, these cans won’t be shooting back. Are you sure you can face a man who’s trying to gun you down?”
He grunted. “Not at all sure. As you well know, it would be a real test of mettle.” His eyes lit up with a look she took for admiration, just not the kind she’d begun to wish for. “A test you passed quite admirably three years ago, young lady.”
A silly streak of gladness jolted through her at his calling her a lady, especially considering her earlier thoughts. She stared down at her boots and kicked at a rock. “Didn’t exactly have a choice back then, did I? It was them or us.” And they’d nearly killed Beryl, a tragedy Grace had never been able to shake off, even after Beryl recovered and went on with her life.
“Yes, it was. And we all need to be ready to protect one another just as you did the first time Hardison and Smith came to town, especially since they might be bringing their gang with them.”
“Then let’s get to it. The wind will be kicking up pretty soon.” Grace had a feeling these lessons weren’t really necessary, but at least it gave her more time with the Rev. She would take all she could of that.
* * *
Micah wished he could convince Grace that nobody faulted her for the shoot-out at the bank. She’d saved lives that day, not to mention every depositor’s bank account. But like Rand, when the memories came back, she let them get to her. As her pastor and friend, he would continue to seek the Lord’s guidance in encouraging her. So often she shrugged off his compliments.
What would it take to give her more confidence? Was there any way he could help, or should he leave that up to their female friends? Once he was married, he wouldn’t have to worry about such things; all the more reason to marry soon. If Joel’s sister turned out to be the Lord’s choice for him, Micah would soon be able to set aside such concerns when counseling young ladies. His wife would always be nearby to ensure propriety.
“First of all,” Grace interrupted his thoughts, “you need to lower your gun belt.” She demonstrated by adjusting her own to a comfortable drawing level.
Micah did as she said and then tucked his frock coat behind his holster. “Like that?”
“Yep. Now show me how you draw.”
Suddenly self-conscious, Micah had an unexpected memory flash before his eyes. His older brother had always dared him to do this or that and then taunted him for not performing perfectly the first time. He dismissed the memory. Grace might tease him, but she wouldn’t criticize. He gripped the handle of his gun and quickly slid it from the holster, then fanned the hammer with his left hand, firing off three rapid shots. Each time his hand hit the weapon, it threw off his aim, and not one shot struck an empty tin.
“Uh-huh.” Grace’s tone held no condemnation. “Mind if I ask where you learned that?”
He cleared his throat, and his face warmed. “Last July Fourth at the fastest draw contest.”
“Uh-huh,” she repeated. “Sometimes cowboys like to show off with that style because they think it looks fancy. But if you ask ’em, they’ll admit it’s a little hard on the gun’s action. Plus their six-shooters need fixin’ real often. Anyway, it’s not even the fastest draw.”
“Ah.” Micah returned his Colt Peacemaker to its holster. “And I fell for it. All right, you show me the right way.”
She gave him a brief nod and stepped away several paces from him. “Thumbing is the best way. You grip the handle and at the same time place the tip of your thumb on the hammer.” She demonstrated as she spoke. “As you begin to draw, let your thumb roll off the inside of the hammer. At the same time you’re drawing, get a full grip on the handle, aim and squeeze the trigger.” Her Colt .45 fired three times before Micah could blink, and three tin cans flew off of the fence.
He whistled in admiration. “I see what you mean.” He slowly went through the smooth motions, returned his gun to his holster and then drew quickly but without firing. The roll of his thumb seemed the key because it had to bring the hammer back and yet not hold it there. The pull of his trigger finger felt instinctive. On his third draw, he fired, knocking a can from its perch.
“Good job, Rev.” Grace seemed about to slap his shoulder, but turned the gesture into a strange little wave. “Most folks can get the hang of it with one lesson. You have the advantage of being real good with your rifle. I didn’t have to remind you to keep your eye on the target.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Warmth spread through his chest. Her approval meant a great deal to him. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if he confided in her about his plans for courting. After a few more fast draws, a reload and a few more cans scattered across the corral, he holstered his gun. “I think we’re done here, but I’ll keep practicing. May I buy you some ice cream as a thank-you?”
An odd, almost vulnerable look crossed her pretty face. “I’d rather have some of Miss Pam’s pie.”
“If we’re going there, we’ll just have dinner. What do you say?”
She shrugged in her endearing “aw-shucks” way. “Sounds good.”
While Micah retrieved the battered cans from the corral, he spotted fresh hoofprints in the smattering of snow. “Say, Grace, I didn’t think anyone was living here.”
She strode over to him and eyed the ground and then knelt down to trace the wider-than-normal horseshoe print with a slight indention on one side. “Hmm. Could be our man Hardison. Could be a drifter taking shelter last night.”
She stood and walked toward the half-open barn door. Micah followed her inside, and they both looked around. The unusual hoofprint wasn’t repeated, and nothing caught their attention as being disturbed.
Outside again, Grace tilted her head toward the run-down cabin and spoke a little louder than necessary. “Well, let’s get back to town.” She drew her gun and walked toward the wood frame abode.
“Good idea.” Micah also spoke loudly, while the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Had they been watched the whole time they were shooting?
Grace again tilted her head, this time toward the side of the cabin. Micah nodded and ambled around the corner to peer in through a shattered window. The room held broken-down furniture, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
From the other
