Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 114647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 573(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 573(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“Where are we going, exactly?” He asked carefully.
“Well, I have two reasons for coming here. One,” I said holding up a finger. “Is that I want to practice with my .38. I have a concealed handgun class next weekend, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. The other, is that Sam said you’d enjoy coming here. He even sent me with a rifle.”
His eyes shifted to take in the backseat, but looked at me in confusion when he didn’t see anything.
“I had Cheyenne hide it in the back for me. I didn’t want you to tell me no.” I said cheekily.
“I would’ve never told you no. It’s just that...” He started to say before trailing off.
“What?” I asked confused at the emotion I saw in his eyes.
“I had a friend who died while on a mission with me. He was my spotter. Ever since his death, well, let’s just say I haven’t found incentive to get out here.” He said gruffly.
Sam had told me that might be the case, and I didn’t tell him that I had his rifle in the back of the truck. Sam had been holding it ever since his mission failed, and Dougie had died. I’d also gotten the story on Dougie, and I was truly heartbroken to hear of it.
According to Sam, Dougie was James’ spotter. While on a fact-finding mission, they’d been made, and when they were going to the extraction point, Dougie and James had both been hurt. Only Dougie had died, while James had lived. Sam said that ever since, James hasn’t been acting the same.
I wasn’t sure if James would shoot his rifle, but I figured I would let the option be available if he decided to face his fear.
“When was the last time you shot your rifle?” I asked curiously, as he came to a stop outside the handgun range.
I hopped out and went to the back of the truck, waiting patiently for him to take in his surroundings, and then finally open the back hatch with his key.
“A few years.” He hesitated. “Four to be exact.”
Four years ago was when Dougie had died. And that broke my heart a little bit.
“Well, don’t laugh at my target shooting skills.” I said lightly, very aware that his mood was taking him down a dark path that I very much didn’t want him down.
“I’ll help you, honey.” He laughed lightly.
Five boxes of ammo, and a thirty-minute search of the immediate surrounding area for the copper casings later, James and I were standing beside his truck staring at the rifle range.
“We don’t have to do this.” I explained hesitantly.
“It’s okay, I’ve put this off long enough.”
With that bold statement, he grabbed the case to his rifle and walked up to the area where he could set up his rifle. He did so with swift adept movements. First came removing the rifle from the case. Then he checked the chamber, the safety, the scopes mount, and finally set up the bipod to where the rifle rested on the table.
Ejecting the magazine, he loaded the shells that Sam had handed me earlier with a hopeful smile, and replaced the magazine into the bottom of the gun. Gesturing to his earphones with his eyes, I reached forward and placed his pair he’d produced from under the seat in his truck over my ears, and stepped back to sit on the concrete bench that was directly behind him.
Since no one was in the rifle target area, he didn’t have to tell anyone that he was walking down range. Using a fancy handheld device, he took his staple gun and a target, and walked downrange. It took him what seemed like forever to walk, and walk until he was at his desired distance.
Once there, he pinned the target to the metal wire that was hanging across the range, and then walked back to me, licking his finger, and holding it in the air as he came back towards me. Seeing that he was in his zone, I stayed quiet, not asking the questions that were barely being held in, practically burning a hole to escape the confines of my mouth.
He took his time setting up, reading the handheld device, and then producing a pen and post-it from his pants. He wrote something down, looked at his scope, and adjusted it in some way that I couldn’t really see from my vantage point.
I was utterly flabbergasted by all that went into the process. The man was stunning when he was in his element.
Today, he was wearing dark washed jeans, brown mud-caked boots, and a fitted gray t-shirt that hugged his muscled torso to perfection. He had on a pair of blue Oakley’s that covered his expressive hazel eyes, and his beard, that just yesterday resembled a five o’clock shadow, now covered the lower half of his face with a scruffiness that only added to his sexiness.
Now, with his cheek snug against the stock of the rifle, his eye close to the scope, and his muscled shoulder cradling the butt of the massive gun expertly, I was sure I’d never seen anything sexier in this world. The man was the picture perfect example of a man.
His hand flicked up in a gesture of ready, and I held my breath, waiting for him to finally break through the barrier that he’d put up four long years ago.
Crack.
The sound of the rifle shot echoed through the tall Pine trees, and I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“That’s some damn fine shooting there, son.”
My heart leapt in my chest, and I turned sharply to find my father standing behind us. Although muffled, James’ curse didn’t escape my awareness.
“Hi, daddy.” I smiled.
***
James
“Mr. Mackenzie.” I nodded my head warily after switching the safety on my M21.
Silas Mackenzie was an intimidating figure. He was wearing jeans that had holes in the knees, a black t-shirt, and a flannel shirt that was hanging open. A small amount of leather peeked out every time the wind gusted. Which made me notice that he was covering the leather cut that was probably exactly the same as his sons had been last night.