.

Thus the shotgun. With buckshot flying, I’d have a better chance of hitting something.”

      Brendan shook his head. “At least we’re gettin’ to where you’ll have more than two shots, and you’ve not even picked up the gun. I’d prefer you hit what you aim at. Mind, if you do pick up a gun to defend yourself, you have to be ready to pull the trigger.”

      “So you said. And I said that I am. I’d have to think of it as him or me, right?”

      He gave a sharp nod. “There’s no room for guilt with these raiders. They’ve started this war.”

      She nodded in turn. “I’d fire. I still have too much to do in this life.”

      He wanted to ask what, but he’d given up any right to even wonder. And if he was honest with himself, he hated that he had. Wished he was the kind of man who’d be comfortable being kept. But Michael Kane hadn’t raised his sons to live off their women. And even if Brendan could get past that, there was the knowledge of where her wealth had come from to torture him. He’d been taught not to hate, too...but his father would have to be disappointed in his son, because Brendan did hate Harlan Wheaton, Franklin Gowery and, though he’d never met him, Harry Conwell by association.

      He cleared his throat. “So about the actual shootin’. It’s important not to tense up.” He showed her how to load and unload his Colt in its half-cocked position. “This is a single action. Meanin’ you pull the hammer all the way back, through all four clicks, each time you want to fire.” He eased the hammer back and the clicks sounded in the silent clearing. “Now it’s ready to fire. You have six shots,” he went on, and handed the weapon to her. “Hold it with both hands and sight down the barrel.”

      She turned to the targets.

      “Now squeeze the trigger,” he ordered.

      She did, but only the good Lord knew where the shot went.

      “No. No. Don’t jerk it. That sends the barrel up or down. You don’t want to be hittin’ the bad guy in the foot, or blowing a hole in his hat. You need to keep the barrel parallel to the ground.”

      He stepped behind her, caged her with his arms, his hands enveloping her small ones so he’d absorb the recoil and she’d see her next shot fly true. “Pull the hammer back,” he ordered, his voice suddenly rough. It was her—the rose scent of her—grabbing hold of his senses that was to blame.

      Brendan swallowed as Helena readied the Colt to fire. The feel of her warm hands beneath his heated his blood to boiling. And the feel of her back nestled against his chest nearly undid him. He went hard below the belt. Luckily, her round bottom wasn’t nestled against him.

      Helena went utterly still for a protracted moment. Then, apparently less affected than he, she said, “Now I fire?”

      He cleared his throat. “Squeeze the trigger.”

      The can she’d aimed at flew up into the air, then fell to the earth. He stepped back as she spun to face him, her face filled with delight. “I did it!”

      Frowning at the effect her nearness had on him, he all but growled, “Don’t ever point a gun at anyone you don’t want to dig a hole for.”

      She looked down at the Colt in her hand, then backed up. “Oh! Sorry.” She pointed the revolver at the ground. “But did you see? It flew up just like yours did.”

      Brendan couldn’t help but grin at her happiness. He nodded. “Deader than a doornail, that dastardly can is. Now try on your own. Be ready to compensate for the kick.”

      She fired, but a chip tore off the bottom rail. The rest of the cans fell off from the vibration. But the seven jars remained. Her shoulders drooped a bit in defeat.

      “That’s okay,” he told her, trying to be encouraging. “Figuratively, you at least hit the barn this time. Try again,” he insisted.

      Helena bit her bottom lip, then pressed both lips together as she pulled back on the trigger. And one of the jars shattered. Then two more exploded, one after another. “I did it. Oh, thank you.”

      Maybe he should start hiring himself out to greenhorns. Or maybe she had one hell of an eye. That or it’d been beginner’s luck. “That’s good. Really good,” he forced himself to say. He took the gun, ejected the empty shells and reloaded it for her, noting her rapt expression as she watched. “There are six jars left standing,” he said, and pointed that way with the Colt. “Have at them.”

      But he had eyes only for her as he heard one after another shatter. He finally looked at the fence and blinked. The fence was clear. Damn, but that’s enough to give a gunfighter a wet dream.

      She sighed loudly and relaxed her tense shoulders. “At least if they do come, I can defend myself. You won’t have to worry about me.”

      And that naive statement had him thumping back to earth double quick. How could she not know that was impossible?

      * * *

      Helena watched as confusion shadowed Brendan’s emerald eyes for a moment. Then he pressed his lips into a hard line. What had she done wrong now?

      “Now there’s a load off my mind,” he all but snarled. “You can practice with a revolver on your own. Just warn the rest of us before you start.” He took the gunpowder-stained Colt and spun it into the holster on his right hip. “You do have one, don’t you?”

      She looked at the gun, which had gone back where it had come from as quickly as it had appeared, and nodded. She’d bought one. Now she knew what to do with it. “Thank you,” she told him, bent on ignoring his shifting moods. But really, what had she done now?

      “The lesson isn’t over,” he told her. “A Colt is a good weapon, but it’s a close-in weapon. Let’s give the Winchester a try.”

      She looked at it, figuring it must weigh what she did. “But it’s so big.”

      “No bigger than that shotgun you greeted me with. And it’ll blow a big hole in an attacker before he gets to your porch, and you’ll still have nine rounds to chamber, instead of two with the shotgun. I’d prefer it if you could defend yourself from a bit of a distance, havin’ ten full shots at the ready.”

      She stared at him. He was so different from the man she’d married, yet still the same. She didn’t know why, but she had to know how much had changed. Could he finally see who she really was?

      “Brendan, where have you been? Abby cagily mentioned whenever she got a letter, and let what you were up to drift into our conversations. But then I think the letters stopped coming, because she stopped doing so.”

      He raised his left eyebrow, then nodded. “That’s a fair question, I suppose.” Still, he seemed a bit hesitant as he said, “I spent the last year or so before I came back here posin’ as a gun for hire in and around Corpus Christi. In doin’ that I managed to infiltrate and shut down a gang of outlaws who’d been terrorizin’ the residents in that part of the state. The Lyons gang, they were called. They’d eluded the law for four years before the major put me on their tails. I wired where they’d be on a certain day. Now all but three are in Huntsville Prison. The others are six feet under. They resisted arrest. The hit-and-run tactics Lyons used reminded the major of the raiders here.”

      Helena tilted her head. “But they aren’t the same men—they’re in prison, right? And these are Indians. Ghost Warriors.”

      “There’s a big difference between what went on down in Corpus Christi and the trouble here. Here they’re killin’ indiscriminately. Lyons was a former Confederate officer. He kept his men in check. They robbed indiscriminately, but never killed a soul. Nor did they steal horses, which is why they’re in prison and didn’t swing from a rope.”

      “And you’re here because Sheriff Quinn wired for help.”

      He shrugged. “Major Jones called me in and told me about these raids that started while I was...gone...and that Quinn had