Page 1 of In Her Sights

Chicago, IL

November 1, 1893

Every legacy started from a single act of courage. Holding tight to what little bravery he possessed, Josiah Hartman strode through the trampled fairgrounds of Buffalo Bill's western extravaganza the morning after the show's closing night, determined that his daughter's legacy would start today.

The air hung heavy with the aroma of manure, so he kept a close eye on where he stepped as he wound his way through throngs of horses, wagons, and a handful of buffalo, not wanting to carry an odoriferous souvenir home on the bottom of his shoe. Men of all sizes and sorts shouted orders and organized the packing of tents and trunks. Mexicans, Arabs, Germans, Frenchmen. Men from the Sioux tribe with long black braids and feathers worked alongside cowboys with boots and Stetsons. Different languages and accents blended in an odd harmony, but Josiah didn't pause to appreciate the phenomenon. Tucking the small mahogany box a little tighter under his arm, he carved a path through the chaos to the area reserved for the sharpshooters.

A dog's bark echoed to Josiah's left, followed quickly by a woman's call for the animal to come. Josiah turned, the knot in his stomach loosening just a tad. Thank the Lord. He'd found her.

Careful not to startle the small woman, he approached slowly. He halted several yards away, removed his hat, and waved it in greeting. "Mrs. Butler?"

Her head came around, though she didn't rise. Staying in her crouch, she rubbed the ears of the dog who'd obediently returned to his mistress.

His chest tightened, and his throat threatened to close in on itself as he beheld the most famous markswoman in the world. He had no right to be here, no right to presume upon her time, yet he couldn't turn back without trying. For Pauline's sake.

"Mrs. Butler, might I have a word? Please?"

A man tossed back the flap of the nearest tent and sauntered out, his focus zeroing in as if Josiah wore a bullseye around his neck. "Can I help you, sir?"

"My name's Josiah Hartman. I'm a gunmaker from here in Chicago." He dropped his hat back onto his head and pulled the mahogany case out from under his arm. "I'd like to offer a gift—"

"No, thanks." Frank Butler, Annie's husband and manager, took one look at the gun case and shook his head. "My wife's got all the guns she needs. You'll have to seek someone else to endorse your craftsmanship." He brushed Josiah off with a wave of his hand.

"Please. I'm not seeking an endorsement or any financial recompense. I want only to offer a gift to Mrs. Butler in appreciation for the work she does with women. Teaching them how to shoot, not only to defend themselves but to empower them to believe in their own capabilities."

Frank's gaze sharpened. "That's a new spin," he muttered. He turned to his wife. "What do you think, Annie? You willin' to give him a listen?"

Annie Oakley gave her dog a last pat, then pushed to her feet. She looked Josiah over, pondered a moment, then rendered her verdict. "I'll hear him out."

"Thank you, ma'am." Josiah's heart pounded with new life. "I promise not to take up too much of your time."

"Come on in and have a sit-down." Annie welcomed him into her tent and gestured for him to take a seat across from her at a small camp table.

Frank followed them in but busied himself at the back of the tent, organizing the Butler family armory. Nothing like having a renowned sharpshooter with dozens of weapons at the ready to keep a guest on his best behavior.

"May I see it?" Annie pointed to the case Josiah had yet to relinquish.

"Yes. Of course." He set the case on the table and scooted it toward her.

He held his breath as she opened the lid and beheld his work. He was here for Pauline, but the professional side of him couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction when Annie let out a low whistle.

"I never seen the like." She glanced up at him, eyes wide. "How'd you make the grip such a pretty pale pink?"

"Mother-of-pearl."

She grinned. "I seen plenty of pearl-handled pistols, but none like this one."

"I wanted it to be a woman's weapon," Josiah explained. "Feminine."

Annie removed it from the green-velvet-lined case and examined the craftsmanship. "Looks like a Smith and Wesson, .32 caliber." She opened the revolver's cylinder and counted the chambers. "Five shots." She stood, twirled the pistol around her finger, then fit it to her hand and took aim at an imaginary target outside the tent. "Nice and light. Fits well in a lady's hand." She twirled it again, then laid it back in the case. "I'd have to shoot it to know its accuracy, but the custom work you did on the piece is beautiful. I'd be honored to add it to my collection."

"Thank you." Josiah smiled even as his gut tightened. "However, I was hoping you might consider using it in a different capacity."

Annie's brow furrowed. "I thought you said this was a gift."

"It is. And if you choose simply to keep it in your collection, I will be greatly honored." Josiah held out his hands, praying she'd see his vision and not think him an old man with an unstable mind. "Instead of keeping it for yourself, though, I had hoped you might pass the gun along to one of the women you teach. One in need of the special hope this particular pistol can provide."

The grooves on her forehead deepened. "I don't understand."