Cowgirl, Unexpectedly

by Vicki Tharp

  I didn’t really like what I found.

  A change of subject was in order. “I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Jenna seems very important to you.” I didn’t want to come out and say I thought he’d sleep with her. I’d noticed the way he watched her when he didn’t think anyone was looking. How protective he was of her when he’d met us on the road. I don’t know what I was hoping or expecting to hear. A denial of involvement or a true confession about his love for her, maybe.

  At least, then there would be no question he was off the market. No reason for me to be thinking of him as anything except a roommate and a coworker.

  There was a long pause before he responded. “Parish?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You should get some sleep.”

  Chapter 4

  I guess I’d decided to stay because I was still in my bed when Hank tapped the bedpost by my head with the tip of his boot. So much for the privacy curtain. I fought the urge to reach for the rifle, not because I needed it, but because it grounded me. Gave me a safe place to start my day.

  “Get up,” he said. “Target practice in fifteen.”

  “Damn!” I jumped up and bumped into Hank. He held the coffee mug away from his body to keep it from sloshing all over his brown flannel shirt. “Why didn’t you wake me?” My voice rose a couple octaves as I scurried around pulling my jeans on, tugging on my long sleeve shirt, and stomping my feet into my boots.

  I couldn’t believe I’d slept so late. I had chores to do. I’d have to skip breakfast, but I’d survive. I wasn’t a slacker and I didn’t want anyone thinking I was on my second day.

  Hank snagged my arm as I rushed by and brought me up short like a dog hitting the end of its leash. “Take a breath.”

  I sucked in a quick lungful of oxygen and let it out.

  “Again,” he ordered.

  I tried tugging my arm away, but his grip was firm and unless I was up for breaking his thumb first thing in the morning, I was stuck. I closed my eyes and expanded my lungs. In through my nose and out through my mouth. Isn’t that how the meditation people say to do it?

  “Sit.”

  He didn’t give me the option of complying; he simply pushed the curtain aside and deposited me on the chair and placed his mug on the table in front of me.

  “Drink,” he said, releasing my arm. He grabbed a paper wrapped bundle from the table and tossed it to me. “Eat. I covered your chores this morning.”

  I wanted to say how I carried my own weight, how I didn’t want to be treated differently because I was a woman, but the aroma coming from the package made me salivate and I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I tore the paper off and ripped two large bites out of the homemade egg and bacon sandwich Lottie had made. Butter dripped down my wrist and I licked it up before taking another bite. I glanced up to see him staring at me as if I were a starved wolf diving nose first into a fresh kill.

  I slowed my chewing and choked down the large bite of food. I tucked a smaller bite of the sandwich into the corner of my mouth and said, “I don’t need you to cover for me.”

  “Fair enough,” he said with a nod of his head. His tone was even, but the muscle in his jaw was working overtime. “Most people would have just said, ‘thank you.’”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  He stared at me as if he could figure me out if he concentrated hard enough. Then he straddled the other chair and faced me over the table. He reached across, stole the half-eaten sandwich from my hand, and took a hefty bite. I snagged it back, barely suppressing a growl. I was hungry.

  He shook his head as if he was shaking off the mad and when he looked back up at me, his teeth flashed behind his grin. “Does that really work? All that toughness. The growling and gnashing of teeth. Does it usually scare the men away?”

  It had. Until this morning. I didn’t like that he’d called me on it. “I’ve got targets to hit,” I said, laying the remainder of my breakfast down. I grabbed my jacket off the peg, picked up my rifle and cartridges, and headed out the door.

  The sound of his chuckle irked me, but the sound of the paper crinkling as he ate the last of my breakfast sandwich stung more than if he’d rubbed gunpowder into my fresh wound.

  I was still ravenous.

  Hank caught up with me by the time I’d made it to the barn and steered me toward the shooting range. He and I were the last two to arrive at the makeshift range Dale had put together behind the tractors and other heavy equipment. There was a plateau about three hundred yards out, its vertical face acting as a natural barrier for bullets that missed their mark into the targets attached to old bales of hay. All the livestock had been cleared from the field and placed in another pasture for safety.

  Jenna and Quinn, the young hand with the ever-present toothpick, stood near a folding table that held a mountain of ammunition and were already taking shots. Dale sat on top of a large round bale of hay with a pair of binoculars, monitoring the targets down range. They were about fifty yards out, which wasn’t very far for a rifle, and Quinn was missing high more times than not.

  Jenna was doing a better job, but not by much. Next up were Santos and the other new hand, Alby. Of the four, Santos had the best form and more shots on target than the others combined. I stifled a groan. If these were the guys who’d have my back in a dangerous situation or, Lord help me, a gunfight, we were in trouble. Up Shit Creek—no paddle, no canoe, no hip waders—with a big fat hairy turd heading our way kind of trouble.

  “What was that?” Hank asked, leaning into me to be heard over the rifle fire and earplugs.

  Ok, so maybe my groan wasn’t so silent. “We’re doomed.”

  I was accustomed to shooting with men and women who’d a least gone through basic training. Then there were my sniper friends who would make these people seem like five-year-olds with a Daisy pellet gun.

  A smirk tipped up the corner of his mouth and he said, “You think you can do better?”

  “In my sleep, with one hand tied behind my back and facing away from the target.”

  Hank chuckled, and for the first time, a full smile creased his face. He was quite striking when he smiled, in a rugged and sincere cowboy sort of way. His teeth were white, but a tad off perfect alignment, adding to his allure. A couple of days of stubble didn’t hurt either. I glanced away to wipe the goofy grin off my face. I’d worked with many men who were fit and attractive. You couldn’t be in the military and not be surrounded by strong, alpha males. Somehow, they hadn’t affected me the way Hank and his smile did.

  I didn’t like it.

  I wasn’t here for a relationship or a fling or a one-night stand or hanky-panky. I was here to do a job to the best of my ability. I was here for the money. I wasn’t opposed to a friendship, but I’d learned the hard way that work and relationships don’t mix. In my case, the mistake had been deadly. That wasn’t a lesson I was bound to forget in this lifetime or possibly even the next.

  When Alby and Santos finished, Hank and I walked up to the table. Dale’s expression was grim. I wondered if he was as concerned as I was about the ranch being able to protect itself. Though even after what had happened to the dog, I found it hard to believe there was any real danger. Which was probably the reason I was still here.

  “Care to put your money where your mouth is?” Hank asked as we both loaded cartridges into our rifles.

  His was a bolt action Remington .30-06 with a black composite stock. It was a good rifle, with the added benefit of being able to mount a scope since the cartridge ejection was to the side. I preferred the Winchester .30-30 with the lever action I’d chosen. Besides the lighter recoil that I hoped would be easier on my healing body, I liked how the lever action allowed my trigger hand to remain in contact with the gun. The sniper guys could be crazy fast with their
bolt actions, but personally, I had always been conscious of that momentary slip of time as I repositioned my finger over the trigger.

  Even though I hadn’t fired a weapon since leaving the service, the fact that my hands didn’t shake made me proud, and a little cocky. “Sure, Cowboy. What do you wanna bet?”

  “Best of ten rounds wins. Loser makes coffee and lunches for a week.”

  Seven days was a long time for me to stay in one place, but I wasn’t one to back down from a bet. Besides, I didn’t plan on losing. “You’re on. Challenger shoots first.”

  We shook on the deal. His hand was callused and warm and held on to mine a heartbeat longer than necessary. What was that about? Then his attention turned downrange.

  We waited while Jenna and Quinn replaced the paper targets with fresh ones. The targets had five sets of concentric rings. White on the outside then black, blue, red, and finally yellow in the center.

  “Take them out to a hundred yards,” I called out to Jenna.

  Hank arched a brow at me.

  “To make it more interesting.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Link leaned against the round bale where Dale sat perched. When Quinn and Jenna returned, they, along with Santos and Alby, formed a small semicircle behind us and made side bets for chump change.

  By the time Hank was prepared to shoot, he had Alby and Quinn on his side and I had Jenna and Santos on mine. Like Switzerland, Link and Dale remained neutral, but Dale winked at me from above so I figured I had a covert ally.

  No wink from Link, and by his sour expression, I shouldn’t hold my head under water waiting for one. I’m not sure what he had against me, besides the fact I couldn’t ride. Maybe Dale hiring me against his wishes had bruised his ego.

  As Hank fired his first shot, I pushed the thought out of my mind and concentrated on the bet. I wasn’t one who lost sleep at night if someone didn’t like me.

  Hank finished his ten-shot round and laid down his rifle, he had one shot in the blue, five scattered just on the red side of the center, and four in the yellow.

  “Not bad,” I admitted, knowing that with that kind of spread if we’d taken the distance to two hundred yards it would look like he’d been using buckshot.

  Hank tried to come off nonchalant, but he stood straighter, shoulders back, and I could imagine him as an old-time gunslinger blowing the smoke off the end of his pistol. “Your turn, hotshot.”

  “You’ve got this, Mac.” Santos clapped encouragement behind me.

  Jenna whistled sharply. “Take the old man down.”

  Hank shot them a quick glare, but there was no heat behind it. “Old man my ass,” he grumbled as he stepped back from the table to join them.

  Hank called out to Dale and held up one hand. “Toss me those binoculars.” Hank sighted in the target. “Ready when you are.”

  I stepped up to the table, taking my time nestling the stock to my shoulder as I sniffed the sweet mixture of hay and gunpowder hanging in the air. I found the combination comforting somehow. Much in the same way I knew the scent of hot sand would forever put me on edge.

  The sun was out, warming my back, and there was little breeze to account for. I levered a round into the barrel and aimed. I fired.

  “Black. High and left,” Hank reported efficiently, but there was a faint smile on his face. He thought he’d win.

  The old gun didn’t shoot straight, but I knew it wasn’t off by that much. Most of that miss had been me. I inhaled long lung-filling gulps of air and willed my heart rate down. I widened my stance and leaned forward a touch more. The muscles in my bad shoulder burned with the strain of holding the barrel, but I pushed the sensation from my mind.

  I exhaled carbon dioxide and waited for that slice of a second between heartbeats that would still the barrel even more. I rarely caught the timing right, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I fired again.

  “Blue. Left,” Hank reported.

  And again.

  “Red. Left.”

  I was narrowing in on the center. I levered another round and the empty shell sprang free.

  “Yellow. Left of center.”

  I made a hair’s width correction.

  “Bingo,” Hank confirmed.

  I glanced back at Hank as I reloaded five more rounds. He winked at me and my insides squished around as if someone was kneading them like Play-Doh.

  Shaking my head, I cleared my mind. I had five more shots to go and unlike Hank, who had shot well, but was all over the map with his corrections, my grouping grew tighter and tighter. I could still win this.

  My next two shots were tight in the yellow at the center. As I aimed again, Hank moved up behind me. I heard him breathing. My heart sped up and my next shot nicked the line between red and yellow.

  “So close,” Hank said. “Don’t choke now, Army.”

  Army. The acronym the Marines use for Ain’t Ready to be a Marine Yet. Yet it rolled off his tongue like a term of endearment. My heartbeat spiked as I fired.

  “Red, right.”

  Stupid distractions. That was the sort of thing that got you killed. One shot remained and it had to count. I wouldn’t miss again. I blocked out the shouts of Jenna and Santos cheering me on and the friendly jeers from Quinn and Alby. Clearing my mind, I focused on the sights and on my body and found that sweet spot between heartbeats. I fired.

  “Hot damn,” Hank said. I only heard him because he was so close. I’d hit my mark.

  “Dead center,” he announced to the crowd.

  I put the rifle down. Jenna whooped, and she and Santos high-fived each other.

  “Atta girl,” Dale said from the top of the round bale. When I turned around, he was climbing down. Link had already left and Quinn and Alby were grumbling and paying up. If Hank was upset about losing, it didn’t show in the least.

  “Congratulations,” Dale said as he reached me. Before I could thank him, he added, “You’re now our official rifle instructor.”

  “Ehr…Excuse me?” I didn’t quite know how I felt about that. He was not asking me if I wanted to do it. He was informing me that I was doing it.

  “Someone has to teach these yahoos how to shoot. Every other morning besides Sundays. Right here, after morning chores.”

  “Yes, sir.” My response was automatic and the only proper one. He was the boss after all.

  Link, Santos, and Alby were already at the barn. “You two saddle up and get your assignments from Link,” Dale said to Hank and me. Then to Jenna and Quinn, he added, “You kids police that brass and take them up to the house then head to the barn. We’ll make reloads for target practice later.”

  Jenna’s face scrunched and she opened her mouth as if she was about to protest, but one stern glower from Hank and she closed it again. Heat rose to her face, but she turned and followed Quinn.

  “You still wantin’ me to give Mac that riding lesson?” Hank asked Dale.

  Ugh. I could work around the barn. I didn’t have to ride out. Surely, I could do plenty from the ground. My raw thighs had improved since yesterday, but I was a ride away from returning to a world of hurt and the abrasion on my side had oozed during the night and stuck to the bandages.

  Since I’d woken up late, I hadn’t had the time to change it. Now, when I made a sudden move, the bandage tore at my healing flesh and the pain made sweat pop on my upper lip.

  “Yeah, forgot about that. Throw her in the round pen and get her cantering. I can’t have her falling off and getting herself killed.” Dale was smiling and I hoped he was teasing about the part that included me dying.

  “My pleasure,” Hank said, with a shit-eating grin, and a tone that promised that for me, it wouldn’t be the least bit pleasurable.

  * * * *

  After saddling Sierra, I waited for Hank at what they called the round pen. Which is basically wh
at it sounds like—a fenced in area about fifty to sixty feet in diameter. The fence, welded out of old drilling pipe, stood about six feet high with a good base of sand on the interior. Maybe this was better for the horses somehow or better for the rider in case they came flying off. Though the way everyone around here rode, I didn’t think any of them hit the ground too often.

  Jenna, Quinn, Santos, and Alby had all headed out. Hank was at the barn getting our work assignment from Link. When they finished, Link turned his horse and trotted out the gate after the others. I fiddled with my cinch the way Jenna had showed me, making sure it was good and tight before I climbed on. After yesterday’s fall, I preferred not to come off again if I could help it.

  Instead of walking around to the gate on the other side of the pen, Hank tied his horse to one of the bars, climbed up the rails, and jumped down beside Sierra and me.

  “Okay,” he said. “Gather your reins in your left hand, and place it on the horse’s neck and grab a handful of mane. Put your right hand on the back of the saddle.”

  I hesitated.

  “Don’t look at me like I asked you to kick the dog, Army. Grabbing the mane doesn’t hurt her.”

  I followed orders. He then reached down for my left leg. “What’re you doing?”

  “Giving you a leg up. Bend your left leg at the knee.” He grabbed hold—right hand around my ankle and left hand beneath my bent knee. “You’re going to bounce three times to get your momentum. On the third time, I’m going to help lift you up, and then you throw your right leg over the saddle.”

  Okay. Sounded easy enough. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite get enough momentum, and my left shoulder and side were not quite cooperating, so I ended up lying over the saddle, staring at the ground. Hank slapped a hand on my ass and shoved me up.

  Yeah, call me Grace.

  My face flushed. I reached down and patted Sierra for standing like a statue, and I pretended I couldn’t still feel the imprint of his hand on my left butt cheek.

  Hank had a private smile on his face, but cleared his throat after a second and shook it off, ready to get down to business. He started me at the walk and went into more detail about the proper way to steer with two hands, which he called plow reins, and then one-handed, which he called neck reining. Then he had me bump Sierra up into a slow trot that he wanted me to sit.