Running Blind

by Linda Howard

  “Stop what you’re doing and come out behind the barn. I’ve set up a target for you to do some shooting.” The door shut, telling her he wasn’t waiting for her.

  Shooting! Real shooting? Her pulse rate shot up, and not just for one reason. She’d thought a lot about taking shooting lessons since Zeke had first mentioned it, and still couldn’t make a firm decision about whether or not she wanted to go that far. Arming herself seemed like such a drastic step. On the other hand, Brad was definitely armed, and if by some nightmare she found herself face-to-face with him she never, ever wanted to be empty-handed and defenseless.

  There was her answer right there, reluctantly arrived at or not.

  Add in the fact that it seemed Zeke himself was going to teach her, no wonder her pulse rate was skyrocketing. Part of her, the masochistic part, had hoped Zeke would be the one who gave her lessons, because when she thought about it, learning how to shoot was a lot like learning how to play golf, with the instructor’s arms around the student, demonstrating and guiding. Or maybe not; maybe that was just a movie invention. Never mind reality; she’d still hoped—which meant she was an idiot, but an excited one.

  She grabbed a jacket from the line of coat hooks and pulled it on. The jacket was brown, and smelled like horses and cows. The fumes made her sinuses burn. How could she not have noticed the smell before? Oh, right—because most of Zeke’s dirty clothing, which was in a laundry basket right there, smelled the same. She made a mental note to toss the jacket in the washer when she got back to the house. Smelly or not, the jacket was welcome when she stepped outside, because the air was cold and crisp. She’d have liked to have on a pair of gloves and thought about going back for her own, but wasn’t certain she’d be able to shoot with them on. They weren’t the sleek leather gloves assassins always wore in the movies, but thick fleece ones meant to keep her hands warm, not prevent her from leaving fingerprints behind.

  Carlin rounded the back corner of the barn and skidded to a halt, taken aback by the cluster of men waiting for her arrival.

  Everyone turned to look at her. Yep, they were all here: Walt, Spencer, Eli, Patrick, Micah, Bo, Kenneth, plus Zeke himself. Good Lord, what was going on?

  “What’s up?” she asked uneasily, edging backward. This had to be a sign that learning how to shoot was a bad idea. Humiliating herself in front of a crowd had never been her favorite pastime.

  Somehow when she had envisioned shooting lessons she’d thought of it as a semiprivate endeavor, not a social event, with every hand on the Rocking D gathered to watch her failures. Had her cooking somehow gravely offended them? Was this payback for the initial Never Fail White Cake failure? She’d have expected retribution if she’d made them actually eat it—on the other hand, if she’d made them eat it, they would all still be sitting around the table gnawing on the culinary mystery. And hadn’t she made up for it by cooking approximately two tons of potatoes for them?

  “They all want to help,” Zeke said. An unholy light in his eyes said he was enjoying her discomfiture. That unholy light might actually be a smile, which made her stomach turn flips. He indicated a rough worktable set up behind the barn, on which a variety of weapons were lined up.

  “We thought you might want to learn about more than one kind of gun,” Walt said. He held up a shotgun. “But this double-barrel right here will take care of any kind of human trouble you might run into, and most of the animal kind.”

  Carlin cleared her throat. She’d seen shotguns in movies, and knew the shotgun was a shotgun because it had two barrels; as far as she’d ever heard rifles had just one barrel. Shotguns kicked, didn’t they? “Oh, I get it. All of you want to see me shoot that thing and get knocked on my butt, right?”

  Spencer looked shocked. “We’d never do that to you, Miss Carly!” Then he hesitated, shot a look at the others. “Well, maybe.” That was Spencer, honest to a fault, and completely unable to keep his mouth shut.

  “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t try to give you a weapon you couldn’t handle,” Walt said firmly. “She has a little kick to her, but not bad. My ten-year-old grandson can handle it just fine.”

  “I like a thirty aught-six, myself,” Eli put in, lifting a rifle outfitted with a scope.

  “She isn’t going deer or elk hunting,” Kenneth groused. He lifted a pistol, one that looked as if Wyatt Earp would have been proud to haul it around. “She needs something that’s easy to carry, and easy to handle.”

  That was easy to carry and handle? Good lord, it was a foot long! The mental picture of herself was so ridiculous she burst out laughing as she pointed at the pistol. “If I wore that in a holster, it would reach all the way to my knee! And it sure wouldn’t go in my purse.”

  “Get a bigger purse,” Kenneth advised, which, when she thought about it, was, from a man’s point of view, a completely logical solution—but then, men didn’t carry purses. Neither did she, anymore. If it didn’t go in the pockets of her TEC jacket, or her jeans pockets, then she didn’t carry it, which brought up another issue.

  “Wouldn’t I have to get a permit to carry a pistol?” Anything that required a background check was off the table.

  “Not in Wyoming,” Zeke said. “Concealed carry is legal.”

  Holy cow. That changed everything. She eyed the pistol with renewed interest. On the other hand, if she could shoot the shotgun without getting knocked on her keister, how cool was that? When it came to the fear factor, a shotgun beat a measly little pistol hands down—and hitting a target with a shotgun was way easier than hitting one with a pistol.

  “We’ll let her try everything,” Zeke said, moving to the table and picking up a set of ear protectors. “That way she can tell which one suits her best.”

  Evidently the men had all contributed their own favored weapons for her initial lesson. The gesture gave her a lump in her throat. Despite her sometimes less-than-stellar cooking efforts, they were showing her they cared about her well-being. Tears welled in her eyes, and she got sniffly. “This is so sweet of all of you,” she choked out, and gave them all a beaming if somewhat watery smile.

  There was some scuffling of boots all around, and a chorus of incoherent muttering that she took to mean something along the lines of “aw, it isn’t anything much.” She’d seldom been so touched. A few months ago when she’d arrived in Battle Ridge she’d felt completely alone in the world, prevented by fear from so much as calling anyone in her family. She’d been on the run, seeking a safe burrow to hide in, but always feeling as if any moment might be her last. Since the day she’d walked into The Pie Hole, she’d found friends, she’d found safety, she’d found people who cared. And she’d found Zeke—maddening, sexy, stubborn, capable, sexy … oh, wait, she’d already said that. And she shouldn’t think along these lines, shouldn’t let herself even dream that maybe someday she might be able to think of something she could do about Brad, that when she didn’t have a target on her back she could come back to Battle Ridge and, if Zeke was still single—

  Stop it, she sternly ordered her imagination, or her libido, or both. She couldn’t plan her life around maybes. She had to deal with reality. And for some reason, she had to keep telling herself that.

  Zeke handed her the ear protectors. She started to put them on, then stopped. There was just the one set. “What about everyone else?”

  “Everyone else can stick their fingers in their ears,” he replied, then took a cotton ball out of his pocket, pulled it in two, and stuffed a half into each of his ears. “We’re the only two who won’t be able to do that.”

  She looked at the men. “Don’t all of you have ear protectors?”

  “Fancy ones,” Walt said, grinning. “The kind that kill the sound of gunfire but let you hear a deer tippy-toeing through the leaves. But why get ’em out when we can just stick our fingers in our ears, like the boss said?”

  That made her feel better; she didn’t want to deafen anyone, and maybe sticking their fingers in their ears was more manly than wearing the ea
r protector headsets. It dawned on her that the set she was holding probably belonged to Zeke.

  “Go ahead and put them on,” he instructed. “You’ll be able to hear everything I say just fine.”

  She put on the headset, adjusted it so it fit better. Contrary to what he’d said, the protectors worked so well she was now effectively deaf. Then he lightly cupped her chin to hold her head still, did something to one of the ear cups, and she jumped as sound exploded in her ear. She could hear every shuffle of a boot, every word they were saying, even their breathing, for God’s sake. No—that was Zeke’s breathing, strong and steady, right beside her.

  “Wow,” she said, her eyes wide at all the amplified noise. “Magic earmuffs.”

  “Too loud?” he asked in what was probably a very low tone, and she nodded emphatically. He touched the ear cup again and the noise subsided. There was evidently a switch and volume control on the headset, and thank heaven for that. This must be the fancy kind Walt had been talking about.

  Zeke touched her elbow, turned her toward the worktable. “First, we’re going to show you how each weapon works.”

  As far as fun times went, this wasn’t. Each man had to demonstrate how to load and unload his favorite weapon, then instruct her while she did it. She’d had more fun blow-drying her hair. But she kept at it, until she didn’t feel as if she was all thumbs fumbling with the shells and cartridges, and working the mechanisms on the variety of rifles. There were two pistols, a revolver and an automatic; until they showed her the difference between them, she’d never thought much about it. To her, a pistol was a pistol. She’d been wrong.

  The shotgun was surprisingly easy to load and handle. She’d expected it to be exceptionally heavy, but it didn’t weigh much more than one of the big deer rifles with the scopes. And … wow. She was in awe of the weapon. It might be an ordinary shotgun and the men had been around shotguns all their lives so it wasn’t anything special to them, but to someone who had never before today held any kind of firearm in her hands, this was heady stuff.

  Her stomach felt jittery; she wasn’t just in awe, she was a little afraid, too. Because she was afraid, she said, “I want to shoot this first,” before she had time to chicken out entirely. If the shotgun did knock her on her keister, she’d survive; everyone would have a laugh, she’d get up and dust off her butt, and move on to the next weapon. But, boy, she hoped she could handle that baby because a shotgun would make any bad guy sit up and take notice.

  No one tried to talk her out of shooting the shotgun, to her relief, because she was afraid one word of discouragement would be all she needed to change her mind. The target, a huge piece of cardboard with a big bull’s-eye drawn on it, was already set up and attached to a stack of hay bales. Zeke stepped behind her and the scene in her imagination came to life. His big body cradled hers from behind, his arms surrounded her as he showed her how to fit the stock of the shotgun to her shoulder. The long muscled length of him pressed against her back, his heat burning through their clothes, making her forget about what she was doing and why—

  Then he sniffed, and sniffed again. “What’s that smell?”

  She thudded back to earth. “It’s your jacket,” she replied. “It stinks.”

  “No argument there.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who wallowed in cow manure.”

  He helped her steady the weapon, showed her how to aim it … and then he dropped his arms from around her and stepped back.

  Shocked, feeling both abruptly vulnerable and disappointed because his arms weren’t around her any longer, Carlin hesitated and bit her lip. Okay. She could do this. If she ever needed to shoot a shotgun in a real-life situation, Zeke wouldn’t be standing there with his arms around her.

  Lifting the stock to her shoulder, she settled it the way Zeke had showed her, carefully held it as steady as she could while bringing the sights in alignment … and she pulled the trigger.

  There was very little noise; the magic earmuffs muffled what had to be a deafening boom. The shotgun bucked in her hands, but not nearly as much as she’d expected. There was a kick against her shoulder, but, again, not what she’d thought it would be. Smoke and the acrid but somehow pleasant smell of gunpowder filled the air.

  “I did it! I did it!” she shrieked, jumping up and down in joy.

  Zeke reached out and hastily snagged the shotgun from her hand. He was grinning. “You kind of did it,” he said.

  “No, I did it! I pulled the trigger! And it didn’t knock me on my butt!”

  The men were laughing, but because of the noise suppression the sound was muffled, which was strange because Zeke’s voice was loud and clear, which told her the men were really howling. She stopped her victory dance to glare at them. “What’s so funny?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

  Zeke indicated the target.

  Oh, right. The target. She turned and looked at the big square of cardboard.

  It was untouched.

  “I’m not sure how you missed the whole target with a load of buckshot,” Zeke said. She could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I guess you were aiming at a bird.”

  “Details!” She waved away the question of accuracy. “I shot it! Don’t you see? Everything after this is a cake-walk. I was afraid to shoot the shotgun, so I did it first. If I could shoot it, then I could shoot anything. And I did.”

  There was a brief, unreadable flicker in his expression, then he said, “Want to shoot it again? And maybe this time hit the target?”

  “Yes,” she said exuberantly. “I want to shoot everything. This is fun!”

  They took her at her word, and she shot round after round at the target. The second time around with the shotgun, some of the buckshot actually hit the target, and she kept at it until the cardboard was shredded and was replaced with a new piece. Then they moved on to the variety of rifles. Strange. She was way more accurate with the rifles, but she didn’t like them. They weren’t as much fun, the scopes were kind of awkward for her, and one of the rifles recoiled worse than the shotgun. After shooting it, she jerked it away from her shoulder and scowled. “That hurt! I don’t like this one.”

  “Told you,” Kenneth told Eli.

  But when she picked up the first pistol, she felt something click inside her. As much fun as the shotgun had been, some primitive gene deep inside her sat up and took notice when her hand closed around the butt of the pistol. Oh my God. This was it. This was what suited her best. Kenneth had been exactly right.

  “I like this,” she murmured.

  “If you could see your expression,” Zeke said, his own voice low, but coming in plain through the headset. His eyes were heavy-lidded, intent.

  Mentally she shook herself, took a step away from him, squared herself with the target. “Like this?” she asked, two-handing the pistol as she brought the sights on target.

  “Just like that.” This time he didn’t step up behind her, didn’t show her where to put her hands. They had already been over the loading and unloading, the safety or lack thereof, the trigger and hammer and all sorts of things. This was a revolver, the big one Kenneth had provided for her practice. She lined up the sights and pulled the trigger. The barrel kicked upward, and just as she’d been told she pulled it down, found the sights, pulled the trigger again. She shot until the pistol was empty, then they examined the target.

  The good news was that she’d hit the cardboard with every shot. The bad news was that only three shots had actually been anywhere in the bull’s-eye.

  “You’ll get better,” Spencer said in encouragement, seeing her disappointment.

  “Damn right I will,” she said, her jaw setting. “Let me see that automatic.”

  By the time Zeke called an end to the session, she’d blasted away four targets, and burned through more ammunition than she wanted to think about. Reluctantly she agreed that they had to stop; the men had work to do, and so did she. But she’d found her weapon. As right as the revolver had
felt when she picked it up, the automatic had been even better. It was harder to load, harder to shoot, but she’d been more accurate with it. With some more practice—a lot more practice, probably—she’d be able to hit the target at least half the time.

  And she wouldn’t be helpless the next time Brad caught up with her. She didn’t feel invincible, but neither did she feel so vulnerable and frightened. That could be a good thing, or a bad thing. She wasn’t going to do anything reckless out of a sense of power, but it was nice to know she had some knowledge of how to protect herself.

  Amazing what a gun could do for a girl.

  Chapter Twenty

  THANK GOD SPENCER was out of his sling and could drive the pickup, Carlin thought, though Zeke still had the young hand on light duty. She was deeply grateful, because that meant Spencer had gone into town with her today, and not Zeke. Anything that kept her away from Zeke was all to the good. It was rough on her nerves to be close to him. If he was with her in a small enclosed space like the truck cab for an extended period of time, she’d probably explode.

  She felt as if she were on the edge of an explosion a lot these days.

  They had just left Battle Ridge when it started snowing. “Great,” Spencer muttered. “It wasn’t supposed to snow until tonight.”

  Carlin stared out the window at the mountains, already blurred by the snowfall. The winter weather system had moved in earlier than predicted—hours earlier. She’d hoped to be home with the groceries unloaded and put away before the first flake fell. Remembering how enchanted she’d been by that first snow, she could only mentally roll her eyes at herself. The white stuff had fallen several times since then, but around the ranch and in town where boot after dirty boot stomped through it, it never stayed white for long. Instead it turned gray and mushy and then refroze overnight, coating everything in a sheen of slippery, dangerous ice.

  And it was just November.

  “We can make it back to the ranch, right?” she asked, because already the snow seemed to be getting heavier, and the shoulders of the road were turning white.