Chapter 42
“ALWAYS FIGURE THE RIFLE IS LOADED,” Bethie said, her voice authoritative. “Because it probably is. Treat it with respect. Never, ever point it at anything unless you have a mind to shoot it. And today that means pointing it at me or Uncle Dodge. Or Jessie!”
The dog’s ears perked up from where she lay near Dodge as he leaned against the wagon, arms crossed, Stetson pulled low, simply watching.
Sitting on a tree stump and cradling Bethie’s rifle, Josephine nodded dutifully, fully aware of how much the girl—standing right in front of her, like a teacher instructing a class—was enjoying telling her what to do.
They’d driven some distance from town to a tree-lined clearing Dodge and Bethie knew well, and the area was lovely. Wildflowers in full bloom swayed with the breeze, and the trickle of a creek whispered nearby.
“And one of the most important things,” Bethie continued, “is to keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to let a bullet fly. Else you might kill us all!”
Josephine double-checked. “My finger isn’t on the trigger.”
“I know, I’m just saying it shouldn’t be.”
From her peripheral vision, Josephine saw Dodge shake his head. She caught his mouthed “I’m sorry” and waved it off. If he only knew how much she admired Bethie’s spunk and how she wished she’d possessed half as much at that age.
Some might have called Bethie bossy or insolent.
But Josephine, having taught truly insolent students, and knowing Bethie Coburn’s story better than the girl realized, saw it differently.
This was a grudge lingering from the incident with her mother’s clothing.
But more than that, it was a child grasping for control when the rest of her world felt like it was careening downhill.
Josephine knew that feeling well. But she was twenty-four to Bethie’s nine, and her heart went out to the girl. When Todd had been killed, then her parents died months later, she’d felt just as lost. Without Sarah—and her students—she didn’t know how she would have endured it.
So even as Dodge looked at her with apology, she had all the patience in the world.
Bethie was actually a good teacher. Clear, concise, holding eye contact better than most adults Josephine knew.
Bethie Coburn wasn’t merely a diamond in the rough, she was a rare jewel, and Josephine felt a stir of grief imagining the heartbreak Kathleen Coburn must have experienced departing this world and leaving her precious, incredible daughter behind.
“Are you listening to me, Mrs. Dunham?”
Josephine snapped back. “Yes, Bethie. Of course.”
The girl cocked a brow. “Then what did I just say?”
Josephine hid a grin and retraced her steps. “I’m to lean into the rifle. And since I’m right-handed, my left foot goes slightly forward.”
Bethie gave a grudging nod. “That’s mostly it. This here’s my gun. It’s a Winchester 1903 .22 caliber semiautomatic. Means you can shoot it without reloading.”
Josephine already knew that, thanks to Todd, but simply nodded. Todd had held more than a passing interest in guns, though their father forbade anything to do with them. That hadn’t stopped Todd.
“I’ve already got it loaded.” Bethie pointed. “Magazine’s in the buttstock. Holds ten cartridges. They just slide right in altogether. That’s about it on the gun.”
Sensing the end of their lesson, Josephine started to stand.
“Hang on.” Bethie held up a hand. “Why don’t you let me show you how to do it first?
” She walked toward where Dodge had set tin cans along the top of a fence in the distance, paused, and tucked the rifle into her right shoulder, cheek resting easy against the stock.
Her movements were smooth, practiced. “Let your eyes move on down the barrel to your sights. Take your time, get a good aim.”
The shot cracked. Josephine jumped a little, grateful Bethie wasn’t looking. A sharp ping followed and a tin can went sailing.
“Good eye, Bethie girl,” Dodge said, pride threading his tone.
Cheeks flushed, Bethie handed the rifle back. “Just remember, don’t lock up. Stand easy but strong, like you belong out here. Which, of course, you don’t, but . . .”
Except for that last comment, Josephine heard the clear echo of Dodge’s counsel in Bethie’s instructions. And the way the girl beamed up at him told her she was likely repeating what he’d said when first teaching her to shoot.
Dodge stepped closer. “That’s good teaching, Bethie, but I think it’s time for Mrs. Dunham to—”
“Sink or swim!” The grin on Bethie’s face revealed her preference.
“I was about to say ‘try it herself.’ I could be wrong, but Mrs. Dunham doesn’t strike me as the sinking kind.”
“I don’t know . . .” Josephine slid Bethie a look. “There’s a chance I’ll sink. But you are a good teacher.”
Bethie just stared back, saying nothing.
“All right, Mrs. Dunham, come stand over here.”
Rifle in hand, Josephine did as he asked, certain now the difference she’d sensed in Dodge when she’d climbed into the wagon nearly a half hour ago wasn’t imagined.
At first, she’d thought it was simply the formality he adopted around Bethie, which she understood—and returned. But it was definitely more than that.
“Take your time,” he whispered, giving her room. “It’s not a race.”
“Unless a cougar’s coming at you,” Bethie said. “Then time is one thing you ain’t got!”
“You haven’t got,” Dodge corrected. “And you know good and well cougars haven’t been sighted in these hills for years. Leave Mrs. Dunham be and let her get her first shot off without—”
Josephine took a breath and slowly exhaled—exactly as she’d read yesterday in A Course of Instruction in Rifle Firing by Colonel T. T. S. Laidley in the library, Dodge’s margin notes fresh in her mind—and squeezed the trigger.
Time stilled. Then ping. A can went flying!
It was all she could do not to jump and shout. Instead she turned, heart pounding, to see disbelief on both their faces.
“You’ve done this before!” Bethie accused.
“I promise, I haven’t. But your excellent instruction . . . and Mr. Coburn’s notes in the margins of Colonel Laidley’s book helped me immensely.”
A hesitant smile tipped Dodge’s mouth, tugging her thoughts in a direction they had no business going. She looked away.
“Try it again!” Bethie pointed toward the fence.
“Bethie, don’t be rude. Mrs. Dunham hit that fair and square. Who knows, maybe she’s a natural like you are.”
“I don’t think so, Uncle Dodge. I think it was luck!”
Bethie stared from Josephine to the cans and back, and Josephine, not at all certain she could hit another can, turned back around, took aim and fired. And missed.
“See? I told you it was luck! She can’t—”
Josephine trained the rifle’s sight on the next tin can and fired.
It went flying, and Bethie went quiet. The exhilaration of shooting, the feel of the weapon in her grip, and having actually hit two of three cans gave her surprising confidence.
She glanced at Bethie whose raised brow was clearly a dare to try again, when Jessie started barking.
Josephine turned, expecting to see the dog having spotted a squirrel or even a butterfly. But Jessie stood rigid, hackles raised, staring into the brush. And that’s when Josephine heard it.
Deep, guttural grunts. Dry leaves crunching underfoot.
“Bethie, Josephine,” Dodge said low. “Get to the wagon!”
They turned to go, but the grunting and snorting sounded again. This time coming from a different direction, louder and closer. Jessie ran toward it, barking.
“Jessie! Come!”
The dog looked back at Dodge, then at the grass near the wagon as it began to stir.
Bethie grabbed the rifle from Josephine and took aim.
“No, Bethie! Your .22 won’t stop it. Both of you get to a tree. Run!”
Bethie took off. Josephine followed as snorts and pounding hooves tore through the thicket, feral squeals making her skin crawl.
“Can you climb?” Bethie yelled.
“With the best of them!” Josephine answered, spotting a low-limbed oak. “I’ll help you up!”
“I don’t need your help!”
In a flash, Bethie scaled a low oak limb, somehow still clutching the rifle. Josephine, skirts hiked, scrambled up beside her—when Bethie slipped and fell, hitting the ground hard, the rifle skidding away.
“Bethie!” Josephine jumped down just as the wild boar burst through the brush a few yards away, tusks flashing.
“Get up there!” Dodge yelled.
Bethie cradled her right arm. “I can’t climb up!”
“Oh yes, you can!” Josephine picked her up and shoved her onto the branch. Thin as Bethie was, the girl’s weight still proved a challenge. Muscles burning, Josephine hauled herself up just as the crack of a rifle—and Bethie’s scream—split the air.