Running Wild (12 page)

“First, you stop referring to it as a thing. It’s a gun. It
kills. You have to respect it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. How do I aim the rifle? Your
very pretty and clean-as-a-whistle Winchester ’73, which can kill people and, I
suspect, has once or twice, along with one large, rabid mountain lion.”

“It’s killed a few,” he said. “Fork over the rifle and kneel
down.” He pointed to the ground next to the crate.

Her heart jumped. “A few?”

“Yeah,” he said, getting down on one knee next to where he’d
pointed.

“Men?” she asked. Her breath lightened, coming in fast
little spurts.

He lifted his head to her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah,
rustlers and a couple Indians.”

She’d known it, of course. In her mind, at any rate, in a
sort of disembodied intellectual way, but hearing it from his mouth, so
matter-of-factly, that was different. Her father’s voice echoed in her ears.
These
are not the tame creatures you are accustomed to
. No, Nicholas was not a
tame creature. Although not as coldly brutal as his friend Rick Winchester’s
temperament had proven to be in Texas, Nicholas’s was hardly benign. Under his
composed, wry exterior hid a man as hard and wild as the country around them.
The country from which he’d built a large and prosperous ranch.

And still she wanted him, perhaps even more so. What was the
matter with her that a man who discussed killing so casually enthralled her?

“It’s the West, Miz Montgomery. Wasn’t much in the way of
law ten years ago,” Nicholas said. Her eyes focused on him again. His
expression had gentled, as if to ease her worries.

“I expect not,” she said perusing the gun. Suddenly it
seemed decidedly sinister. True, it had saved her life and had quite probably
saved Nicholas’s several times as well. In that respect, it was a friend. If
she were standing at the other end of it, however, she would scarcely view it
as friendly.

“Are you O.K.?” Nicholas asked. “You’re a mite pale.”

Her immediate reaction was to deny her trepidation; she
despised admitting weakness. Moreover, politeness dictated “I’m fine” as the
only appropriate answer to such an inquiry. But Nicholas’s eyes were so sweetly
concerned, divine blue eyes rimmed with remarkably long lashes. She had yet to
conceal her feelings from him. It made no sense to start now. “I suppose I
didn’t wholly comprehend that this thing—the rifle—that it kills people.”

He contemplated her for a spell before shrugging. “Well I
reckon it seems that way, but the fact is, ma’am, it’s not the rifle that kills
people. It’s whoever’s shootin’ it that does the killin’. Try thinking of it as
a tool. A knife or a pitchfork. Those things can kill people, too, but they
gen’rally have other purposes.”

“But the rifle
doesn’t
have other purposes. Its
purpose is to kill.”

“Not always. Sometimes it’s to scare, sometimes to signal.
Mostly though, it’s for huntin’.”

“Hunting is still killing.”

“You can think of it that way, or you can think of it as
putting food on the table. Every time you eat meat, somebody’s killed it.”

“And yet you’ve spent all this time drilling into me the
fact that the gun can kill people.”

“To make sure you’re cautious, that’s all. I expect you
don’t remember when your parents first taught you to use a knife. Most likely
they drilled into you how dangerous it can be, too.”

Which meant they were back to her original idea—that
Nicholas was dangerous, that in his hands the rifle was very dangerous, at
least to someone who threatened his friends or family. She had no doubt that
he’d protect them, protect her, to the death.

She didn’t need protection, though, other than from her
nightmares. Shooting a rifle could hardly help with that.

And yet for all that, she felt cozily safe as she knelt next
to Nicholas. Slightly shaky, true, for she’d never been friendly with someone
who’d killed a person, other than as a soldier, but safe all the same. “All
right,” she said. “I shall take your word for it. I must confess, I find arguing
with you quite fatiguing.”

He grinned. “That so? I find arguing with you entertainin’.
O.K., now that we’ve squared that away, put your left arm under the barrel,
here.” He guided her hand as her heart fluttered.
Entertaining
. Did he
mean it? But who would ever enjoy arguing? “And your right on the trigger,
while pulling it hard against the nook of your shoulder. Harder. The gun has a
kick and if it’s not tight against your shoulder, it’ll hurt you.”

She
liked arguing, but everyone knew that she had a
perverse nature.

“A kick?” she asked.

“Recoil. When you shoot, it jerks backward a mite.”

She pulled the stock firmly against her shoulder.

“Good enough. Now lean your face against the stock and
position it so that you can see through both sights.”

The wood was smooth and cool against her cheek. “I can see,”
she said.

“Great. Now while looking through the sights, shift the gun
until you can see one of the cans I lined up on the bales.”

She chose one that seemed exceptionally bright. “All right,
I’ve got one.”

“Here’s where you get to shoot. Take a couple of deep
breaths. Steady yourself, steady the rifle, and then squeeze the trigger. Don’t
yank it. Squeeze it in one smooth motion.”

She breathed, and each breath brought with it Nicholas’s
musky scent of leather and pine. It traveled through her lungs, through her
veins and suddenly she had an exceedingly difficult time concentrating. He
knelt so near to her that she could hear him breathing, could see the tiny mist
each of his breaths sent up into the air. When he moved, the leather of his
coat creaked.

“Ma’am? You gonna pull the trigger or not?”

“Which one?” Oh no, she hadn’t meant to
say
it!

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled and pulled the trigger. “Bang,” she
said.

“You didn’t squeeze it.”

She’d rather be squeezing him.

Stop!

She couldn’t help it. Her brain had jumped tracks and was so
swiftly chugging down the new one that it required Herculean efforts to focus
on the weapon again.

“Give it another try,” Nicholas said. “Drop the gun long
enough to cock it. Good. Now aim it, take three breaths and pull the trigger.”

She did.

“That was worse,” he said.

“All right,” she said, drawing in another breath as she
pointed the rifle toward the ground. “Perhaps you ought to demonstrate.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Come ’round to my
right,” he said taking the gun from her. He cocked it. “Nearer, so you can
see.” He pulled the stock against his shoulder, closed one lovely eye, and
sighted it. He took a breath, then let it out. She was so near him, it brushed
against her cheek. His breath smelled sweet and minty. If she kissed him, would
he taste of mint?

Stop it. Concentrate! This is a dangerous weapon
!

And still every nerve in her body wanted to touch him, kiss
him; Nicholas was a dangerous weapon as well.

He drew another breath. On the final exhale, he pulled the
trigger. The hammer snapped home with a click. She started.

Lifting his eyebrows, he pointed the gun to the ground.
“You’re a little skittish.”

“Yes, well, I suspect that when I shoot it for
real
,
I won’t be so skittish.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he handed her the rifle.
“We’ll give it a try.”

She moved back to his left side as he opened his bag and
withdrew a cardboard box. He pulled out six shiny brass bullets and handed them
to her. Hands trembling, she carefully pushed them into the little hole on the
side of the gun. She cocked the rifle and tried not to fix upon the noun
version of the word, which a lady ought not to know, nor use, and certainly not
contemplate while holding a loaded weapon.

Oh, whom was she kidding? she admonished herself as she
aimed the rifle. A lady would never hold a loaded weapon. She’d never been a
lady; she’d never wanted to be one. She merely played the part out of
necessity.

But not with Nicholas, for she had a feeling that deep down
inside he had as little use for ladies as she did, a common belief woven in
colorful cords of silk, binding her heart to—

“Wait,” he interrupted her thoughts. “
Firmly
against
your shoulder.” He leaned forward to tuck the stock into the nook of her shoulder
so that the edges bit through her clothing. “There, that’s how it should feel.”

His hand rested on her back. She turned her mind away from
the soft emotions threatening to overwhelm her and allowed her imagination to
take control. It happily created pictures of his hand drifting from her
shoulder downward—

Not
better!
More
matters she oughtn’t to
contemplate while holding a loaded weapon.

Oh but what she
ought
to do was concede defeat. Lay
the gun aside and surrender to temptation. Kiss him hard and long until he
yielded, then slide her hands from his neck down to the front of his coat and
inside, hoping to coax an involuntary response from him, if nothing else.

“Now, three deep breaths, inhale, slowly exhale, then
squeeze the trigger in one slow, continuous motion.”

For a moment, it sounded like he was giving her directions
in bed. Did men give such directions? Nicholas must, she thought taking the
first breath, when he was with the women in town. Wasn’t that why he paid them?

She took another breath.

To behave—sexually—in whatever manner he might wish.

This was
not
better!

She exhaled, and drew in another breath.

“Too fast. Breathe slowly.”

Her heart fluttered and her fingers trembled. She was having
a difficult time breathing at all.

She tried, though, and then pulled the trigger.

The gun recoiled, her shoulder jerked back, pulling muscles
in her back. A bang reverberated through the valley. A small cloud of smoke
rose from the end of the gun.

“Well,” he said, leaning back on his heels as he tilted his
hat back on his head. “You shot it.”

Her body shaking, she lowered the gun and scanned the bales.
“Did I hit the can?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, his deep voice traced with amusement.

“Oh,” she said turning to him, wrinkling her nose a little.
“Then what
did
I hit?”

“The hill.”

“The hill? Not even the hay bale?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Not even close.”

“But I did everything you said!” she protested.

“You yanked the trigger.”

“Oh I did not!” she argued, scanning the hay bales and cans.
Contrary to what she knew definitely to be true, the row of cans appeared
untouched. “Besides, what difference would it make if I yanked it or squeezed
it? I think you’re lying to me.” The bales also looked remarkably undisturbed.
But they wouldn’t
look
as though she’d shot them, would they?

“When you jerk the trigger, the shot goes wild.”

She goes wild
. Her heart lurched and she sucked in
her breath as a vision jumped in front of her eyes of his hand coasting over
her naked breast, then her belly, toward another kind of trigger.

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”

The shot goes wild
. He hadn’t said “she,” that was
merely what her treacherous ears had heard. He was speaking perfectly clearly
about something as impersonal and mundane as shooting a rifle.

Except that shooting a rifle wasn’t mundane to her. And
Nicholas seemed to eat, drink and breathe danger, which sent her pulses racing
and jerked the breath from her lungs just as surely as she had jerked that
trigger. How could she feel this way, and he remain wholly unmoved?

Then for the first time she marked the tension in his
muscles, the tightness of his face, even through his smile and the amusement
gleaming in his eyes. Something else glittered there—hunger. Carnal hunger,
for
her
. Her skin started tingling in anticipation. As she stared at him, the
heat in his eyes melted the amusement. A muscle in his jaw jumped, as if he
were fighting for self-control. “O.K., let’s give it another try. Cock the gun,
put it against your shoulder, aim, and this time squeeze the trigger.”

She took a deep breath. Focus. Concentrate. She
could
do this.

Oh no, she couldn’t, not when every cell in her body wanted
to touch him, kiss him.

Yes, she could. She was Star Montgomery; she could do
anything she put her mind to. Taking a breath, she nodded and tried again. And
again and again. With a minimum of words exchanged between them, she kept at it
until she’d emptied the gun three times, and still she hadn’t come close to
hitting a can. Not even when they removed their gloves so that she could “feel”
the shot, or opened their coats to correct for any tightness that might get in
the way. Her shoulder ached and her nose burned from the smoke.

By and by, he said, “O.K. Let me see if I can show you
better this way.” He moved behind her and started to wrap his arms around her
waist. He paused. “If you don’t mind?”

She could feel his hips pressed against her bottom.

“No,” she replied shakily.

He wrapped his long arms around her, placing one hand on the
rifle, the other on the trigger. “O.K., now aim it.”

She did.

“Good, take a couple breaths. . . .” He breathed with her,
in her ear, further dissolving her already shaky concentration. With his finger
over hers, they squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked, they moved together with
the recoil, and she heard a different sound than the light smack of a bullet
into the hillside. She heard no smack at all.

“Well, I reckon that was better. . . .” Nicholas said. He
dropped his arms, and her body felt lonely where he no longer touched her.