Free The Weston Front by Gray Gardner Page A

coffee cup violently into the trashcan, turning his body and adjusting his hat.  I watched his back for a few seconds with total confusion, and then leaned back a little when he turned to face me with a resolute look on his face.
    “After you,” he said in a forced polite voice, sweeping his arms towards the sounds of distant gunfire.
    I dropped my arms to my sides and began walking with purpose towards the shooting range.  This was definitely going under the victory column.  I was very pleased with myself by the time we approached the cement slab covered with a wooden veranda and about 15 or so other guests getting instructions and firing at targets.
    “Survival Day,” one of the cowboys said, nodding at the guests getting coached on how to stand and how to aim.  “We’re showing them how to safely react with a firearm when in danger…like if you come across a bear out here.”
    He winked down at me, making me smile, but it quickly turned into a frown as West’s annoyed face came between us and he handed me a gun.  The weight surprised me a little, and when I looked down I realized why.
    “This is a BB gun,” I dispassionately stated, looking down at the pump action Daisy in my hands.  I’d had the exact same one when I was six years old.
    “Can’t do much damage with that,” he nodded, pushing his hat up on his forehead as I scowled up at him.
    “Everyone else here is using at least a .22!” I loudly said, gesturing at the people around me.  I even saw one guy with a .243 Winchester.
    “You’ll be safer with a Daisy.”
    “I’ll be safer with a pistol if I need to survive!” I yelled, pointing over to the sign by a wooden table that indicated it was Survival Day. “I know how to handle them, I have one…”
    “You can survive with a BB gun,” he calmly said, though it seemed a little forced as he stared down at me.
    “The only thing I will accomplish by shooting something with a BB gun is just pissing it off!” I argued, holding the stock and pumping the air rifle as I glared up at West with exasperation.
    “That’s not true,” he sighed, stepping back with the instructors and leaning on a waist high stone pillar.  He smiled arrogantly and crossed one boot over the other, chuckling with the others.
    I finished pumping the BB gun, flushed with anger, and quickly drew it up to my shoulder, aiming right above his knee on his bent leg and pulling the trigger. 
    At the faint sound of the littl e pin g I knew it had been a terrible idea.
    “Ah!  God damn it!” he shouted, stumbling forward and grabbing his knee, looking up at me like I was totally crazy.  “What the fuck are you doing?”
    “Told you it would just piss off whatever I shot,” I shrugged, slamming the Daisy on a tabletop and walking through the completely silent shooting range as everyone just stared at me.  What, they’d never seen a girl in her mid-twenties with a BB gun on a bad day? 
    Though…the guilt was creeping in.
    I made it about two steps up the hill when suddenly someone grabbed my arm and yanked upwards and forwards, leaving me no choice but to stumble helplessly afterwards.   Oh shit .   It was the big fat Santa guy.  The boss.  How unlucky was I that he’d been there?  My feet could barely keep up with his long strides and he was holding my arm at such an awkward angle that I had to cry out in pain every now and then when I failed to keep in step next to him.
    Shit !   How would I explain this?  We rounded a few pine trees and he dragged me through a back door in the Administration Cabin, down a dark wood paneled hallway, and into a huge office with oversized everything.  Enormous desk, big chairs, big coffee table, tall windows looking out over the property, and then there was me: tiny and insignificant and of course, in big trouble.
    He released my arm and paced in front of his desk for a minute before pinning me with a look.
    “Do you mind very much, Miss Campbell, explaining to me what in