Page 10 of Wannabe in Wyoming
She blushed and looked down at her feet, kicking stones with the toe of one of her new boots she’d picked up the last time she’d stopped at Ducky’s Feed & Supply. If she was going to be a rancher, she figured she might as well look the part. “No need to make fun of me.”
“Oh, honey. I was just teasing you. I didn’t mean any harm.” Keeping the shotgun off to the side, he hugged her with his other arm. “Come on, by time I’m done with you, you’ll be a regular Annie Oakley.”
Nodding but not believing him for a minute, she climbed into the passenger seat when he held the door open for her. After securing the shotgun in the bed of the truck, he got in and didn’t hesitate to drive straight across her field as if it were any other road that could be found on a GPS. As they bounced along, Willow held onto the “oh shit” handle to keep from flying out the window. By the time Jeremiah pulled up to a small incline and stopped the truck, she’d been laughing harder than she had in ages.
When they got out of the truck, she noticed there was a small hill and depression ahead of them. Behind her, Jeremiah lowered the tail gate and began to line the guns up on it. He nodded toward the hill. “This is perfect for target shooting. First rule, always be aware of your surroundings. Bullets travel a long distance, much farther than you probably figure, and it’s important to know where they might end up. In this case, the only place they’ll go is into the dirt.”
“What are the other rules?” she asked as she watched him check each weapon.
“Rule two, always, always assume the gun is loaded, even if you just checked it. Over-caution is the rule of thumb here. Three, never point a gun at someone unless you intend to shoot them. When you’re handling a gun, always have it pointed at the ground or downrange away from anyone near you. Four, never, under any circumstances walk into the line of fire of someone else. Even if they have finished, wait for the other person to unload and secure their weapon before you approach. Accidents can happen in a split-second of carelessness. Five, never shoot up into the air. You hear about this all the time, especially around the holidays. What goes up, must come down. People have been hurt and even killed because some jackass was shooting into the air to celebrate something a half mile away. Gravity always wins.
“Okay.” Her nerves had ratcheted up another few notches as he’d rattled off the rules. It was a lot to remember, but it all seemed like common sense. “Anything else?”
“Treat your weapon with care—clean it, secure it, respect that it’s a dangerous tool, and it will serve you well. Today, we’ll shoot for a while and later I’ll show you how to clean them. It’s important to clean a gun after each use. Firing them releases gunpowder residue that can gum up the action. The last thing you want is to need to fire your weapon for some reason and have it jam on you. Just like you change the oil in your truck and fill it with gas, you have to keep proper maintenance of your guns. Understand?”
“Makes sense.” She jutted her chin to the cache of weapons. “Now tell me more about each one of these.”
Pointing at each gun, he told her the make, model, and caliber of each. “This is yours—it’s a Mossberg pump-action twelve-gauge, takes a three-inch shell, and yes, they come in different sizes. Here’s my pump, same as yours. Next is my double-barrel ten-gauge. This one here is my two-twenty-three, bolt action. I use it for deer hunting. Next are my pistols. I brought both a semi-automatic and a revolver. I’ve got a Smith & Wesson three-fifty-seven and a Glock nine mil.”
“Wow.” Words beyond that failed her. “If I didn’t recognize most of the words that just came out of your mouth, I would’ve sworn you were talking in a different language.
“You’ll be talking like that soon enough,” he responded with a chuckle. “So, where would you like to start?” He rested his hands on his hips and looked at the guns all lined up in a pretty row of death on his tailgate.
“I’ve never fired a gun, of any caliber, in my life. In fact, today was the first time I ever had one in my hand. So, I’ll let you pick.”
“Okay, fair enough. Let’s start with your shotgun. It’s the one that’ll be in your house, and the one you should be the most familiar with anyway.”
“Makes sense. Show me what to do.”
He pointed at the end of her shotgun that rests against the shooter’s shoulder and then at the same spot on his. “This is the stock, see how it’s shorter on yours than it is on mine? Your daddy was only a few inches taller than you, maybe five-ten, which means his arms were shorter than mine. Same as yours. The shorter stock makes it easier to hold the weapon properly against your shoulder. If the stock is too long for the person shooting it, there’s a good chance it’ll shift out of position after the first shot. That happened to one of my nephews—he fired two shots, one right after the other, and on the second one, the kickback had the base of the stock nail him good in the bicep. Nothing broken, of course, but he was badly bruised for a good two weeks.
An hour later, Willow’s shoulder was sore, her right palm was stinging, and the smell of gunpowder was thick in the air around them. She’d shot all the shotgun shells Jeremiah had brought and most of the rounds for the pistols. The three paper targets he’d stapled to pieces of plywood attached to long stakes stuck into the ground a few feet in front of the hill, were in tatters, and over time, her confidence with the weapons had grown.
“You’re a natural. I just can’t believe it,” Jeremiah said as they removed the eye and ear protection he’d brought for both of them. “You’re sure you’re not pulling one over on me? You’re a secret marksman—excuse me—markswoman, aren’t you?”
Laughing with delight and pride in herself, she shook her head. “Nope, I swear. This is my first time. Did you not see my first dozen shots? I missed the targets by a mile.”
“Well, remind me never to piss you off and be on the wrong end of your shotgun, woman. You’re deadly with that damn thing now. Ready to call it a day?”
“Sure, on one condition. You let me make you supper. We’ve spent all afternoon out here, and I’m sure you’re starving.”
“You won’t see me saying no to a home-cooked meal. Bachelorhood does have its downsides, that’s for damn sure.”
His comment gave her pause, and she wanted to ask why he was still single. He was handsome and funny, not to mention sweet and kind. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t been snatched up yet. He wasn’t her type, but surely, there was someone in town for him.
She helped him pack up and secure the guns into his truck, and then he drove them back to her house.
Leading the way into the kitchen, she said, “Let me wash up, and I’ll see what I have that I can throw together quick. There’s beer in the fridge if you’d like one. Help yourself.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” He grabbed a bottle for himself, holding another out to her in question.
“Please.” After he opened the twist top, he handed her the bottle, and she took a long drink of the cold brew, the flavor hitting her just right. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Nothing like a cold beer after a day outside in the fresh air, am I right?”
She switched the radio on and the rumbling voice of Johnny Cash singing about Folsom Prison filled the air as she found some chicken and veggies from the fridge. “Stir-fry okay? It’s quick and easy.”
“You could serve me peanut butter and jelly, and I’d just be happy not to be making it myself.” He sat on the barstool at the island before removing his Stetson and setting it beside him. His dark-red hair gleamed under the light. Not for the first time, she thought how lucky he was to have such gorgeous hair without a salon’s aid.
