Page 6 of In Her Sights

He forced himself to look inside the case. That's what a man who worked in a gun shop would do, after all. Examine the merchandise. Offer expert opinions. Sell ammunition and accessories. Guns were his business. His livelihood. The one thing he was good at. So why was he more intrigued with the woman than the weapon?

The pink mother-of-pearl grip caught his eye and pulled him out of the fog Tessa's unexpected appearance had instigated. He lifted the revolver from the velvet-lined case and studied the lines. It was a well-crafted piece. Customized from what looked to be a Smith and Wesson base model. Five chambers instead of the usual six. Self-cocking mechanism. Lightweight. Well-suited to a feminine hand.

He raised a brow. "You said Annie Oakley gave you this gun?"

Tessa nodded, and a slender corkscrew fell from beneath her hat to bounce along her cheek. Jackson tightened his grip on the pistol, hoping to discourage the compulsion to touch that unruly curl and watch it twine around his finger.

"I couldn't believe it either. I was easily the worst shot of all the ladies taking lessons. I was an absolute disaster with the shotgun, but when Annie insisted I try her pistol, things began to click. It's a loan of sorts. I don't get to keep it permanently, but she urged me to take it and practice often to improve my marksmanship. I was hoping . . ." Her dark lashes lowered over her eyes, and a delightful blush colored her cheeks. "I was hoping you might consider helping me with my target practice. You being such an expert and all."

A cough that sounded suspiciously like a strangled guffaw echoed from Randal's direction, but Jackson ignored the sound, too concerned with the woman in front of him. Being the focus of her attention made coming up with words, any words, remarkably difficult. Standing there, staring at her, his chest tightened. Hard to tell if it was from pleasure in the fact that she admired his skills or abject terror from the need to wiggle off the hook of her invite.

"I . . . ah . . . gotta work 'til the shop closes."

"Oh, I do too." She smiled and waved away his poor excuse of an . . . excuse. "Mrs. Elliott only let me sneak away from the shop for a few minutes to run my errand. I'm expected back to finish out the afternoon." She spun around to face the storefront and gestured toward the windows with a flourish. "The weather is nice today, don’t you think?" She pivoted back, her enthusiasm so contagious he returned her smile before he could stop himself.

Her eyes danced with delight, making it hard for him to breathe. How was he supposed to resist her charms when she looked at him as if his opinion on the weather actually mattered?

"This time of year, we have to take advantage of the sun whenever it shines, so I plan to walk out to the old schoolhouse after work today. The red oaks and elms are changing colors, so even if I fail to hit any targets, the stroll will still make for a lovely outing." She tapped the counter with her fingertips, her expression growing thoughtful. "I'd planned to set up my targets behind the schoolhouse to use its back wall as a barrier to stop any bullets that go astray, but maybe you have a better suggestion? I'm really not sure of the protocol for shooting in the wild."

The abandoned schoolhouse was far from the wild, but at least she knew better than to fire her weapon within the town limits.

"Be sure to check inside the schoolhouse for squatters. And it might be good to give a loud holler before you start shootin', to warn anyone who might be in the area. Most hunters go out early in the morning and prefer the areas closer to Davidson Creek, and since it'll be close to suppertime, you shouldn't have to worry about young'uns running around."

Boys with slingshots enjoyed using window glass for target practice. Last time Jackson had passed by the old schoolhouse, there hadn't been much glass left, but one never knew what challenge might draw a group of would-be marksmen.

Her fingers stilled their tapping. "I hadn't thought about children being around." She searched his face. "Do you know of a better place for me to practice? I don't want to chance hurting anyone."

Of course she wouldn't. This was the girl who did mending for the widowers at church free of charge and always had a kind word for everyone she met. Her heart was probably carved from a sugar cube.

Too bad he'd always had a hankering for sweet things. Made avoiding her downright difficult.

"Just take those precautions I mentioned, and you'll be fine." Jackson dipped his chin to block his view of her a little. Maybe if he didn't have those deep brown eyes looking at him like a fawn in the forest—innocent, trusting, stunningly attractive—he'd manage to keep his head. If he wasn't careful, he'd be taking her up on her invitation for private shooting lessons before he could rein in the impulse. He'd already had to choke down his agreement twice. Odds were against him being successful a third time. He turned his attention back to the pistol. "I've got boxes of fifty cartridges or larger ones holding a hundred. Which do you want?"

He pivoted to face the ammunition cabinet behind him instead of looking at her while she answered.

"Well, I'm supposed to practice a lot, so let's go for the large box." The enthusiasm in her voice had dimmed. Made him feel like a heel.

"Here you go." He set the box of short rounds on the counter, still angling his face away from her. "That'll be eighty cents."

"All right."

She pulled a coin purse from her skirt pocket and counted out the payment while he put the box of bullets in the gun case for her and closed the lid.

"I appreciate your help, Mr. Spivey."

Jackson winced. He hated being called Mr. Spivey. Reminded him of his pa. A man he worked hard not to emulate. The gun case disappeared from the counter, so he judged it safe to look up. A mistake. She'd lain in wait for him with the patience of an expert hunter and now pierced his chest with a pointed look.

"If you change your mind about helping me, the invitation stands. I really could benefit from your knowledge and experience." A shy smile emerged, not quite as bright as before but equally as devastating to his ability to remain unmoved. "I'll be there until close to sundown. I hope to see you."

"I can't promise anything . . ." He couldn't refuse outright either, apparently.

"I understand." Her eyes captured his, and he knew he was doomed to do something stupid. Thankfully, she didn't ask him any more questions. Just tucked the gun case under her left arm and waved with her right. "See you later."

His hand found its way into his trouser pocket and curled around his pocket watch. Catching himself, he clenched his jaw, released the watch, and let it fall back into his pocket, time unchecked.

Yep. Doom was stalking him.

The moment she passed through the shop door, Randal pounced, his overlong hair flopping against his forehead. "You're an idiot."