“I guess I figured it was you.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “And who do you figure I am?”
I’m not sure honestly, beyond that he’s told me he isn’t going to hurt me, and I still believe him. Even more so now since he’s had the advantage twice and not chosen to take it.
“Grab your gun and come out back,” he says in a tone that invites no argument before he disappears in the mentioned direction. Once again, and likely still against my better judgment, I climb down the ladder to follow him, but this time I do bring the sack with the gun.
Out behind the stable, he is already busy gathering a few of Elliot’s whiskey bottles that have been abandoned on the ground, silent as he walks some paces away and places them in a line. When they are arranged to his liking, he strolls back to stand beside me, reminding me of the considerable difference in our stature. He tilts his head at the bag in my hand.
“What is that?”
“The gun.”
“Why’s it in a bag?”
I shrug. “That’s where I keep it.”
When he only stares at me, I shift on my feet, steeling myself toreach into the bag, which I finally do with an unsteady hand. I let the sack fall to the side once I have a grip on the cool handle, and he gives me a curt nod. “Shoot.”
“What?” I blink at him, trying to make sense not only of this situation but also the day I’ve had up until this point. Three months exactly the same, and then—
“Shoot,” he repeats. “Those targets.”
I look at him and then at the gun in my hands, trying not to picture the last time I’d seen it before I’d stolen it. “I don’t…I don’t want to waste any bullets.”
“I’ll replace your bullets. Shoot.”
I hesitate, close to breaking out into a cold sweat the longer I hold the weapon. I’d never actually watched my father use it. Not to hunt. Not to defend himself. He hadn’t even had a chance to draw it that day.
“Shoot,” commands the voice to my left, startling me into raising the weapon with a trembling right hand.
“Christ.” He snatches it away from me before I can even move my finger to the trigger. “Just as I thought.”
My temper flares, and I make to grab it back, but he easily holds me off. “That’s mine!”
“You don’t hold it like it is.” He bends his head as he examines the weapon. “Damn thing’s not even loaded. And it’s so dirty that it would have every right to backfire on you even if it was.”
Without another word, he walks back down the barn aisle, and I’m left to storm after him until he sits on the old bench next to the stalls. As I watch, he takes the gun apart to clean it over his knee, and since I can’t say I’d ever seen anyone undertake this task either, I decide to temporarily put my anger aside in favor of studiously overseeing each step he does
“I’m sorry,” I say after a time, not really sure why I am apologizing but positive that I’d rather not have him cross with me.
He looks up, his expression relenting a bit as he sighs. “It’s all right. You…you need to take care of this gun almost as well as you take care of that horse, you hear me? This weapon will help keep you alive.”
He finishes what he’s doing and sets about putting the gun back together before loading it with rounds from his belt, careful now to hold the chamber out so I can see.
“You keep this on you atalltimes. Not in some sack.Onyour body. At your waist where you can reach it quickly. And, when you have time, you practice with them bottles out there.” He hands it back to me. “Now, let me see you hold it.”
I start to lift it, but his hand snaps out quick as a rattlesnake to aim the barrel back toward the dirt.
“First lesson: don’t point it at someone unless you intend to kill them. Yourself included, understand?”
“Sorry,” I mumble again, raising it this time to point toward the open doors at the back. “Better?”
He nods, but then his head turns in the opposite direction toward the front entrance, and he stands, pulling a silver watch from his pocket to check the time. Like his weapon, this item also appears fancier than I would have expected of him, but then again, my father’s had been, too. An heirloom handed down from his father when he was a boy. Now, it would get passed down in someone else’s family.
My gun falls slowly back to my side as my eyes start to water, and I look at the floor, almost glad to hear him say he has to go so that he won’t see. Almost. Brusque as he tends to be, I like having him here. I likesomeonebeing here.
He’s moving fast now, swinging his pack over his shoulder and collecting that hot-headed mustang already saddled and ready in his stall. The black stallion, I notice, is gone already, which means Tess will be on her own tonight as much as I am. Judging by the way she’s currently hanging her head over thedoor, she doesn’t seem enthused by the idea either. I give her a consolatory pat as I join her in watching them leave.