Lord, help them. There were too many safety rules for anyone to forget just because they had a bout of nerves.
He flipped back the barrel, removed the bullets, and shoved them into his pocket, then flipped and locked the barrel back into place. “Rule one:neverlook down the barrel of a gun, even if you think it’s empty.”
“What if someone is pointing it at me? I don’t think I’ll have much choice then.”
“If someone is aiming a gun at you, either do what they say or run for cover. A moving target is harder to hit than a still one. Of course, thebestcourse of action is to never be on the wrong end. Which brings us to rule number two: never point the muzzle at something you don’t intend to shoot.”
“You mean, like my face.”
“Exactly. If the derringer were to accidentally go off, you’d want the bullet to go in a direction where it can’t possibly shoot anyone. This means you should always know where you’re pointing and what’s beyond it. Bullets have the potential to pass through your target, so be aware of what else it might hit. Colonel Plane has those sandbags stacked four deep and ten tall to stop any bullets from passing through to the other side of the carriage house. That’s the only place we are going to aim this gun, loaded or not. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now give me your hand.”
She stuck it out, and he adjusted her position until the derringer would be directed at the sandbags. Once sure her aim would be correct, he carefully wrapped her thumb and three bottom fingers around the grip. When her pointer finger automatically went to the trigger, he pulled it off.
“Keep your finger off until you have your sights on your target and you’ve made the decision to shoot. Not one moment before. Otherwise you may shoot before you intend to.”
She nodded. “There’s a lot to keep in mind.”
That wasn’t even half of what he intended to teach her about handling a gun. She still needed to support the base of the grip with her other hand, learn how to aim, be able to hold steady while pulling the trigger, and maintain control of the weapon during the recoil. And eventually he’d have to get up the nerve to actually load the gun and let her shoot it.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. His earlier visions of teaching her to become the best markswoman in the country in one lesson had been foolish.
“It’s a deadly weapon, Lydia. You can’t forget any of these rules without jeopardizing your life or someone else’s.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve only fired a gun once. It was enough to realize I was a danger to myself and others.” She lowered the weapon so that it pointed down, but failed to notice the muzzle was directed at her foot instead of the ground.
And her finger was once again resting on the trigger.
Abraham released a prayer of thanksgiving that he’d had the foresight to remove the bullets before allowing her to keep the derringer in her hand. “It appears that is still true. You’re about to put a hole in your boot.” He retrieved the gun, reloaded it, and knelt to return it to the holster at his ankle.
“What? You’re not going to teach me anymore?”
“I think our time would be better spent determining other ways to protect you.”
Her shoulders drooped. “You don’t think you could teach me if you were behind me and helping me to hold the gun? Maybe use your arms to support and guide mine?”
He looked up at her and rested an elbow over his knee. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels. If you can’t control a gun on your own, you shouldn’t be holding one.”
“Maybe you could try one more time?”
The pleading in her voice was tempting, but …
“Did you fake struggling in hopes that I’d come up behind you like in one of your stories?”
“I wish I could say yes, but, unfortunately, I’m just that bad.”
He’d laugh if the situation weren’t so serious. He rose to his feet. “We’re done using a gun. I’m not risking your life in an attempt to teach you how to protect it.”
She sighed. “Truthfully I have no desire to learn anyway.”
“You just desire to be in my arms, is that it?”
By the immediate flame to her face, the jest proved as true as her inability to shoot. He focused on adjusting his pant cuff over the weapon to hide his own struggle with that revelation. He didn’t mind holding her. He rather enjoyed it—far more than an officer should with the woman he was supposed to be protecting. She no longer served as a suspect in his mind, but that didn’t change her standing in Lawson’s. Any sort of relationship with her was unprofessional.
But if this trap proved effective, then their relationship wouldn’t be restricted to professional etiquette. Friendship would be theirs to explore. Except Lydia wasn’t the sort of woman he could confine to friendship. Either something more lay in their future or he would have to walk away at the end of this case. The trouble was determining which course he should take.
