Page 16 of Just Imagine
“What?”
“Killing me. How are you going to do it? Do you want me to turn around so you won’t have to look me in the face when you pull the trigger?”
Outrage overcame her distress. “What kind of fool jackass thing is that to say? You think I could ever respect myself again if I shot a man in the back?”
“Sorry, it was just a suggestion.”
“A damn fool one.” A trickle of sweat slid down her neck.
“I was trying to make it easier for you, that’s all.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Yankee. You worry about your own immortal soul.”
“All right, then. Go to it.”
She swallowed. “I intend to.”
She lifted her arm and sighted down the barrel of her revolver. It felt as heavy as a cannon in her hand.
“You ever killed a man, Kit?”
“You be quiet!” The trembling in her knees had grown worse, and her arm was beginning to shake. Cain, on the other hand, looked as relaxed as if he’d just awakened from a nap.
“Hit me right between the eyes,” he said softly.
“Shut up!”
“It’ll be fast and sure that way. The back of my head will blow off, but you can handle the mess, can’t you, Kit?”
Her stomach roiled. “Shut up! Just shut up!”
“Come on, Kit. Get it over with.”
“Shut up!”
The gun exploded. Once, twice, three times, more. And then the click of an empty chamber.
Cain hit the floor with the first shot. As the kitchen once again fell silent, he looked up. On the wall behind where he’d been standing, five holes formed the outline of a man’s head.
Kit stood with her shoulders slumped, her arms at her sides. The revolver dangled uselessly from her hand.
He eased himself up and walked over to the wall that had received the lead balls originally intended for him. As he studied the perfect arc, he slowly shook his head. “I’ll say this for you, kid. You’re one hell of a shot.”
For Kit, the world had come to an end. She’d lost Risen Glory, and she had no one to blame but herself.
“Coward,” she whispered. “I’m a damn, lily-livered coward of a girl.”
3
Cain made Kit sleep in a small, second-story bedroom that night instead of in her pleasant leather- and dust-scented room above the stalls. His orders were precise. Until he decided what to do with her, she couldn’t work with the horses. And if she tried to run away, he’d bar her from Risen Glory forever.
The next morning, she fled back to the stable and huddled miserably in the corner with a book called The Sybaritic Life of Louis XV, which she’d sneaked out of the library several days earlier. After a while, she dozed off and dreamed of thunderstorms, bonnets, and the King of France romping with his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, across the cotton-laced fields of Risen Glory.
When she awoke, she felt groggy and heavy-limbed. She slumped dejectedly outside Apollo’s stall with her elbows resting on the greasy knees of her britches. In all her planning, she’d never anticipated what it would feel like to look an unarmed man square in the eye and pull the trigger.
The stable door opened, letting in the feeble light of an overcast afternoon. Merlin scampered across the floor and flung himself at Kit, nearly knocking her hat off in his exuberance. Magnus followed at a more leisurely pace, his boots stopping near her own.
She refused to lift her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for conversation right now, Magnus.”
