The Green Lace Corset, стр. 55
His back muscles rippled as he dipped a bristle brush in the water bowl, twisted it in a mug, and swirled the lather on his cheeks in a figure-eight pattern up his sideburns and down his neck. Pursing his lips, he slid foam across his upper lip too. The scent of nutmeg, orange, and anise filled the air.
“Morning glory.” He caught her watching him in the mirror.
“Morning.” She sat up with a yawn, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and glanced at her clothes piled on the floor. Oh. She’d taken them off again in the night. She’d really need to cease that bad habit now.
Cliff’s razor seemed sharp as he moved it across the foam; one false move, and it could kill him. She should have had the urge to jump out of bed and give it a try. Instead, she continued to admire his face as it reappeared, smooth and fresh, from under the froth.
“Gonna teach me to shoot today?” she asked.
“You’re not very patient, are you?” He wiped his face with a cloth.
“Not really.” Her ma could vouch for that. Always telling her it was unladylike to be in such a hurry. If only she could see Sally Sue now, bare in a bed, watching a shirtless man shave. She’d certainly say this was unladylike also.
“Please.”
He set a cup and a plate on a tray, poured coffee into the cup and added sugar, and placed a fresh muffin on the plate. He carried the tray over and put it next to her on the bed.
How delightful. She wondered if husbands brought breakfast to their wives like this. She’d never seen her father do it, though.
“Okeydoke, Miss Smoky. Get dressed, and we’ll see what we can do before the storm comes.”
Outside the window, the sky was pristine blue.
She laughed. “Where’re your big blizzard clouds?”
“Like I said, patience isn’t your strong suit.” He cracked a knee for effect, donned his shirt, grabbed the rifle, and trudged to the door. “Come on out when you’re ready.”
She munched down the muffin, gulped the coffee, threw on her men’s clothes, brushed her teeth, ran to the privy, and hurried back to the front of the cabin. Cowboy hat on his head, Cliff circled the round pen, placing empty bottles on fence posts. The bright sun hurt her eyes, so she ran inside and got her bonnet, then joined him in the pen.
He handed her a rifle that was smaller than the one in the cabin. “This one’ll be better for you.”
This gun might not have been as big, but it sure felt heavy.
He picked up another one and demonstrated. “Put your right foot back, point your left toward the target, and extend the rifle straight in front of you and hold tightly. Balance the stock like this: Upturn your palm; use your fingers to create a V with your other hand. Seat the stock of your gun in the other hand, halfway between the barrel and the trigger.”
Could it be any more complicated? She copied his stance and struggled to follow his directions, keeping her expression nonchalant to hide her frustration from him.
He tapped her hand. “Hold closer to the trigger guard so you don’t strain your muscles.”
That was easier.
“Pull into your shoulder pocket, drop your cheek to the rifle, let your head fall gently over the butt, and align your eye here. Breathe normally and fire after exhaling.” With a loud blast, he hit a glass bottle and it broke into smithereens. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.
Her palms flew to her ears; she leaned over and felt as if she might faint. Memories of the other bandit’s bloodcurdling scream, the bank guard dying, and the gun at her chest swirled in her mind.
Cliff knelt down, reached for her hand, and said softly, “Are you okay? I know it’s loud.” His kind eyes shone blue as the sky. “Now you try.”
This couldn’t be the same man as the murderer. He’d changed. Her heart beat wildly. She breathed again, stood erect, selected one of his rum bottles, and peered forward. “I can’t see anything.”
“Try shutting an eye.”
She closed one. “That’s better.” Instead of nodding, she held her neck position. If she lost it, she’d never find it again.
“Inhale, let it out, pause, and pull the trigger.”
She did as he said, the bullet flew into the sky above the bottles, and her arm jerked back. Ouch.
“Try it again.”
She repeated the stance, aiming and shooting, but wasn’t able to hit a target. “Darn it all.”
“Don’t worry—it takes time. Now, you’ve gotta shoot from every possible position.”
“There’s more?”
“Standing is the hardest. You’ve almost got that down. There’s also kneeling, sitting, and lying down.”
He showed her all those stances. She rolled around on the ground until her body got used to moving from position to position. He was right—practicing in a lower position made it much easier to keep her balance.
The sun directly overhead, he said, “Let’s stop for the day.”
“Not until I hit a target.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I’m not giving up until I’ve hit a bottle.”
“I felt the same way on my first day shooting.” He paused, with a far-off look in his eyes. “Now that you have the positions down, don’t think about what you’re doing—feel the inhale, pause, exhale, and shoot.”
She pushed the bonnet back from her eyes, knelt down into position, and followed his suggestion. The first bullet grazed the railing, the second got stuck on a pole right above the mark, but the third shattered the bottle.
“Yahoo! You did it!” Cliff cried, grinning.
Sally Sue had never felt happier in her life.
“I see we didn’t get that storm yet.”
He glanced out the window. “Not yet, but it’s coming. Want to shoot some more today?”
She could barely