Free Wildblossom by Cynthia Wright Page B

repeating rifle.
    "It's just like the one Annie Oakley shoots in the Wild West Show," Shelby explained as they lined some bottles, and even a few small stones, on the garden fence.
    "Have I told you that I saw them all perform in London in 1887?" He held the rifle and tried to get a sense of its weight and balance. "That afternoon probably led to my journey to Wyoming this spring."
    "Really? How amazing! The world's smaller than you'd think." Distracted, she watched him prepare to shoot.
    Slowly, Geoff lifted the rifle and looked down the barrel. His finger squeezed the trigger and the first bottle exploded.
    Shelby cheered, trying to be a good sport until her own turn. Gazing at his profile as he aimed, she suddenly had butterflies in her stomach. His hands were elegant and strong as they curved around the stock and trigger of the rifle.
    One by one the bottles shattered and fell, but Geoff left every other one standing. "For you," he told Shelby with the driest of smiles. Then, as her sense of sportsmanship faded quickly, he proceeded to pick off the stones as well, hitting even the smallest with the first shot.
    Shelby had begun to pout by the time she accepted her rifle. Even her older brother, Byron, hadn't been able to beat her at shooting. She reloaded, then took aim and fired. The first bottle broke and flew into the air; Geoff applauded.
    "I've never known a woman with so many talents!"
    Shelby gave him a sidelong glance before taking aim again. She felt patronized, particularly since he'd lowered the level of difficulty for her by increasing the distance between her targets. When she squeezed off her next shot, the bullet only grazed the side of the bottle, which dutifully fell off the fence and landed in the dirt with a thud. Little hairs bristled at the nape of her neck, and she struck her remaining targets at dead center.
    "Well done! But I don't think the light's as favorable as it was a few minutes ago. No doubt that's why—"
    Shelby interrupted. "You needn't make excuses for me, or apologize for besting me with my own rifle." Turning toward the house, she set her chin and added, "I suppose I must have underestimated you because you're English—again. I keep forgetting that I lost the ranch that way."
    "Is that your stew I smell?" Geoff wondered as he fell into step with her. Casually, he reached out to lightly cup her elbow with his long fingers and she didn't pull away. "I'm ravenous suddenly—and I'd kill for a good cup of tea."
    "I'll make a pot." Shelby allowed him to hold the screen door open for her, adding over her shoulder, "But I'm having whiskey."
    By the time the kettle had begun to boil on the stove and Shelby had poured boiling water into the teapot, Geoff had a fire going and the clouds outside had turned ominous.
    "I believe we're going to have a storm," he remarked.
    Through her kitchen window Shelby saw a white flash of lightning, followed by the boom -boooom of serious thunder. "I hope that the boys have sense enough to take cover rather than ride back here in a lightning storm."
    "I wonder what Manypenny is doing? I haven't seen him all day," Geoff mused as he stirred milk into his tea. "Perhaps he's reading."
    Shelby couldn't resist. "Trollope? The Eustace Diamonds'?"
    He gave her a faintly quizzical look before heading toward Manypenny's little room at the back of the house. A tap at the door brought a muffled "Hmm? What?" which made Geoff's expression even more puzzled. He opened the door.
    "What are you up to in here, old man? Did you have your tea whilst I was off roping horses?" His tone was light, but he was brought up short by the sight of Manypenny in bed. The manservant was clad in Oriental-style silk pajamas and a nightcap, and was bundled under several quilts. "Are you ill?"
    "I fear so, my lord." The old man's expression was pained. "I believe it's the... ague."
    "Good God, this is horrible!" Geoff came over for a closer look. "I've never known you to be ill before, old