Beth checked her rearview mirror several times, but her partner had no trouble keeping up. At least his driving was top-notch. He didn’t ram on the brakes before a hairpin turn like most city slickers. He coasted into the curve and then accelerated midway to maintain optimum control. Thirty minutes later, they reached the pothole-riddled driveway of her Uncle Pete and Aunt Dorrie. Surrounded by two hundred acres of low-lying delta farmland, suitable for rice and little else, the rural Kirbys enjoyed complete privacy. The sound of gunfire on a Wednesday afternoon would draw no attention whatsoever. Beth parked in the shade under a sycamore, leaving just enough room for his Fiat.
“I’ll leave my guns in the trunk while we go say hi to my kinfolk.”
“Guns?” Michael asked. “You carry an arsenal of weaponry?”
“Not normally, but I’d planned to shoot a variety at the range today. By the way, keep your hands where my uncle can see them and don’t make any sudden moves,” Beth teased as they climbed the wooden steps.
“Hey, y’all. It’s me,” she called through the screen door.
“Are these your father’s relatives or your mother’s?” he asked.
“Pete is my dad’s brother. Why?”
But the sudden appearance of the pair curtailed any response. “Good golly, girl, you know better than to knock.” Aunt Dorrie wrapped her muscular arms around Beth and squeezed. “It’s been way too long, child.”
Beth spotted her uncle over her aunt’s shoulder. He was leaning against the refrigerator with a big grin on his face. “What’s up, Uncle Pete. You get your crop in?”
“All in. I’m just waitin’ for the sun to work her magic. Your ma said you came back to Natchez. Thanks for paying the country folks a call.”
When Dorrie finally released her, she turned her attention to Michael. “You Betsy’s new boyfriend?” Dorrie let her gaze travel from his shiny loafers up to his sandy-colored hair.
Shamelessly, Beth did the same as though seeing him for the first time. Actually, Michael Preston wasn’t a bad looking guy.
“Unfortunately, ma’am, I am not,” he said. “We work together. She’s training me this week. Nice to meet both of you.” He shook hands with her uncle.
“Too bad.” Dorrie stopped ogling and shuffled to the stove.
Beth thought she’d better nip this in the bud. “Training—that’s why we’re here. Is it okay if we shoot some targets in the west pasture? Mike wants a few pointers.”
“Of course,” said Pete. “Nobody leased those acres this year. Don’t forget the bucket of soda cans in the barn.” Turning to Michael, Pete said, “If anybody can give marksman lessons, it’s my niece. Her cousins called her Deadeye for years. Too bad she had no stomach for hunting. Betsy could’ve kept us in venison and rabbit stew forever.”
“We better get started.” Grabbing Michael by the sleeve, Beth headed for the door. “Thanks for the trip down memory lane.”
“Don’t you dare leave without eating supper,” Dorrie hollered through the screen. “That boy needs something sticking to his ribs.”
“Sorry about the wisecrack about your being skinny,” Beth said once they were out of earshot. “Why do relatives think they can say anything that pops in their heads?”
“Don’t worry about it. I certainly won’t take offense with a crack shot who has guns for every occasion.”
“Dorrie and Pete are good people. They are just not loaded with sensitivity.” Opening her trunk, Beth picked a gun from her assortment and handed it to Michael. “This is what you’re going to shoot today—a forty caliber Mini Glock. Medium weight, not a lot of recoil, but it has plenty of stopping power.” She selected a second weapon. “I’m going to use this—a nine millimeter Glock. I can’t understand why this isn’t standard issue for the force.” Beth slammed the trunk on the rest of her arsenal.
Michael examined the gun gingerly. “She’s a beauty.”
“It’s not loaded, but keep the barrel pointed at the ground. Never joke around with a firearm. Plenty of fools have shot themselves or their friends with supposedly unloaded weapons.”
“Will do. That part was thoroughly covered in class.” Michael double-checked that the safety was on.
“Watch your step along the way. Remember, this is a farm.”
When they reached the barn, temporarily devoid of livestock, Beth pointed at the overflowing bucket of cans. “You carry the targets and I’ll bring the ammo.”
Michael shifted the mini Glock to his other hand and grabbed the bucket’s handle. “Thanks for not telling your uncle I never shot before.”
“Pete wouldn’t have believed me. Then he would have insisted on seeing for himself. I love my uncle, but we don’t need him launching into one of his two-hour stories about the good old days.”
Michael suddenly halted on the path. “It’s really beautiful out here. Does all this land belong to Pete and Dorrie?”
Beth shaded her eyes to appreciate the familiar view. “For as far as you can see. It might be beautiful, but it’s hard to make a living farming. Agribusiness has too much control. See that fence?” She pointed at a sturdy split-rail fifty yards away. “It’s there to keep cattle back from the steep drop-off to the creek. Pete replaced the top rail with a flat board for target practice. We’ll be shooting downhill with a high embankment on the other side. Stray shots won’t go anywhere. You can set up a row of cans while I load our guns.”
Michael remained rooted in place. “How do the cows get a drink of water?”
“Downstream. It’s only steep right here.”
As though pleased with the answer, Michael walked downhill to line up two dozen cans. When he returned, Beth reviewed basic safety instructions and then aimed her weapon at the fence rail. She fired nine shots at the row of cans. “Your turn. Try to duplicate my manner and interval between shots.”
Michael lifted his weapon, took aim, and pulled the trigger nine times. He didn’t flinch or blink or do a single thing wrong.
“Perfect, that was great,” she said.
“You might need glasses, Elizabeth. Neither of us hit a thing.” The corners of his mouth turned up.
“We weren’t meant to. I filled the clips with blanks for the first round to get you accustomed to the recoil and sound of discharge. And, in case any small critters were in those weeds, they’re long gone by now.”
“Very smart of you, Deadeye. Your uncle said you weren’t fond of killing animals.”
“Bambi and Thumper are safe, but the same can’t be said about those who call me Deadeye. And since we’re on the subject, forget about calling me Betsy. That honor is reserved for relatives over the age of fifty.” Beth loaded live ammo into her clip, met his gaze for a brief moment, and then turned and fired. The first nine aluminum cans fell from their perch. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Preston.”
Michael stepped up, aimed, and fired. However, his result duplicated his clip full of blanks. “How can that be? You made it look so easy.”
“Nothing in life is easy. We’re going to move up to twenty feet and use that upturned log to brace your arm. You must keep your arm steady when you fire, or you won’t hit the barn, let alone a moving target. When you can hit nine out of nine, we’ll move back to thirty feet. Eventually you’ll be able to keep your arm steady without bracing it.”
His forehead furrowed. “All that in one afternoon?”
“Nope. Take all the time you need. We can even come back here if you want to take a chance with my relatives.”
Michael watched as she reloaded his gun. “What kind of chance? I think they’re very nice.”
“They are. They’ll graciously welcome you back, invite you to supper on the back porch, and maybe even send a sweet potato pie home with you. Then one day Uncle Pete meets us in the yard with a shotgun. You notice tables and chairs have been set up, like they’re ready for a shindig. On the porch will be the preacher and my girlfriends in matching dresses. You will be forced to make a choice, Mikey.”
He hooted with laughter. “People don’t do things like that. Anyway, he’s your uncle, not your dad.”
Beth shrugged. “All I know is Dorrie and Pete have four daughters—all younger than me, but every one of them is married. Uncle Pete always complains that my dad is too lenient.” She handed him the loaded gun. “So I suggest you either improve your aim or your hundred-yard dash. Because Uncle Pete never misses.”