Free Cherish by Catherine Anderson

Missouri to New Mexico, never understanding a word said to him the entire trip. “Please, darlin’, tell me anything but that. An expert at dealin’ with babblers, I definitely ain’t.”
    Still looking bewildered, she continued to stare at him. He leaned slightly forward over his knees, touched two fingers to his lips, and then swept his hand outward, making the Indian sign for talking. “English. Comprende ?” Her blank look told him she didn’t know any cowpen Spanish either, which was the only other language he knew, save for a smattering of Apache and Cheyenne. Damn . “Come on, darlin’. Don’t tell me you don’t know English. ’Cause, I’m tellin’ ya, if you don’t, we’re eyebrow deep in a fine fix!”
    With a suddenness that startled him, she lunged for his guns, her long nightgown hanging up under her knees as she scrambled across the floor in a frenzied crawl. Race made no move to stop her. If he was misjudging the girl, then he’d die for his mistake. But he honestly didn’t believe she had what it took to shoot him.
    As a safety precaution, he kept a chamber in each Colt empty and the cylinder latch locked. It was a damned good thing. Otherwise, she might have hurt somebody, who being anybody’s guess. Never had he seen anyone handle a weapon so back-ass-wards. First off, she frantically tried to jerk one of the Colts from its holster without unfastening the strap, pointing the gun every which way in the process.
    Under her breath, he heard her whispering, “Oh, God—oh, God—oh, God!”
    Unless he was hearing wrong, she was calling on the Almighty in good, old-fashioned English. Just to be sure, he narrowed one eye and said, “It clears leather easier if you undo the strap.”
    She threw him a startled look, then renewed her attempts to withdraw the weapon, fumbling at the strap with frantic fingers. She had understood him; that much was plain.
    After jerking the Colt from the holster, she clutched it in both hands, the force of her grip on the pearl butt turning her knuckles white. Then, still hampered by the nightgown, she hobbled about on her knees to face him and take aim. Sort of, anyhow. She was shaking so badly, the barrel weaved, not only from side to side, but up and down, which damned near made him dizzy trying to keep track of it.
    His gaze colliding with hers midway along the gun barrel, Race relaxed against the wall, drawing up one knee to support his arm. “Can I offer you a couple of friendly pointers?” He inclined his head at her unsteady aim. “Find yourself a firing rest. Weavin’ like that, you couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a handful of banjos. Sit cross-legged with your elbows propped on your knees.”
    Her lips drew back from her teeth, her lungs rasping asshe took rapid, shallow breaths. “I-I’ll shoot you, mister.”
    Even spouting threats, she had a sweet voice, soft and distinctly feminine. He smiled slightly.
    Evidently misinterpreting the reason for his smile, she rushed to add, “If you’re under the gross misconception that I won’t, you have another think coming. I shall, and without any compunction whatsoever.”
    Race had never heard anyone spit out so many highfalutin words. He was surprised she didn’t get her tongue tied into knots around them. Compunction ? He rolled that one around in his head for a minute, trying to figure the meaning. Given the gist of all else she’d said, he decided it must be a fancy word for “error.”
    “That’s heartenin’. Like I said, I got a dread of bein’ gut shot.” Knowing as he did that the gun wasn’t even cocked, he struggled not to smile. “I’ll tell you what. How’s about you sittin’ back and keepin’ a bead on me while you hear what I got to say. Then, if you still wanna shoot me, you can empty the gun tryin’, and if I ain’t dead enough to suit you by then, I’ll help you reload.”
    “I have no interest in hearing your pathetic fabrications!” she cried, her voice going