Miranda remained silent. She walked over to the cot and pulled the boots out from under it, bringing them over and dropping them beside him. “There’s no sense putting them on tonight. It’s nearly dark and you have what you need. You won’t be going out anymore.”
Jake scowled at her and turned away to pull on his socks. For nearly two hours he remained silent. Miranda cleaned up from supper, then picked up some knitting and sat down in a rocker beside the fireplace. Occasionally she glanced over at the table where Jake had his revolvers and rifle and shotgun broken down into pieces. He carefully cleaned and oiled every part, and she thought how he probably would make a good gunsmith, just as he’d suggested he might do.
She wanted to tell him so, but the anger remained in his eyes the whole time he worked. She felt like a fool for being caught rummaging through his things like a curious child; and she was fed up trying to tread lightly with her words, never knowing what would offend him and what would not. She decided that from here on, if he wanted to talk, she would let him start the conversation. It was a good thing if he could leave tomorrow. The better he felt, the ornerier he got…and, most likely, the more dangerous he became.
By the time the guns were taken apart, cleaned and oiled, and put back together again, it was very late, and Miranda had finished the sleeve of the sweater she was knitting. Jake turned up the table lantern and raised one of the revolvers to its light, then began mechanically working the revolving chamber, using the gun action itself. He cocked the gun, pulled the trigger. Click. Cock and click. Cock and click, peering through each open cavity as the chamber turned. He whirled the chamber twice, then he loaded the gun. He picked up the second revolver and did the same, cocking it and pulling the trigger, checking to be sure it was working properly. He loaded the second gun.
Miranda started a second sweater sleeve, feeling nervous at the sound of the whirling and clicking. This was the first time she had been alone in the house with him when he felt good and was getting back his strength. He had his guns back, and he was angry with her. Had she been wrong to trust him? Wrong to believe him when he said he never harmed women? Now he was cocking his Winchester, checking it, loading it. “You want me to clean your rifle for you?” he suddenly spoke up.
It had been so long since he had said anything that the words startled her. She looked over at him and saw that his eyes did not show quite so much anger now. “I suppose it needs cleaning,” she answered. “My father used to do it. It hasn’t been cleaned since he was killed, but then it hasn’t been used, either.”
Jake finished polishing the barrel of his shotgun, then laid it and the Winchester carefully across the end of the table. He rose and walked to the wall against which her rifle stood. He brought it back to the table and began taking it apart. “I took the beads from my mother’s jewelry box after my pa killed her,” he said then, surprising Miranda with the statement. She had no idea he was still thinking about the rosary beads. “I knew Pa would try to sell the necklace, so I hid it. I caught him tearing through her things one day, and I knew what he was after. It was the only thing of value she owned. Her grandmother had given it to her. It was made by a goldsmith friend of her grandfather’s—has real rubies in it.”
Miranda continued knitting. “Your mother was a religious woman then?” she asked carefully.
“When you live with someone like my father, you do a lot of praying.”
Miranda took her eyes from her knitting and watched him for a moment. Do you ever pray, Jake Harkner? She decided she had better not ask. It sounded like a question that might bring back his anger. “How did you come to know so much about firearms?” she asked. “It’s one thing to know how to shoot a gun, but you take them apart to the last little screw and put them back together again.”
“You use guns enough, depend on them to keep you alive, you learn how to take care of them. A clean, well-oiled gun won’t backfire on you or fail you when you need it most. It will shoot straighter and react quicker when you pull the trigger. It even comes out of a holster faster.” He opened the Winchester and began running a brush through the barrel. “I just made myself learn. Comes with the trade, like you knowing how to cook and knit—or even knowing about doctoring from helping your father.” He picked up a long rod and oiled a rag, then shoved the rag through the inside of the gun barrel. “Your pa ever hit you?”
Miranda returned to her knitting. “No. He was a good man, gentle, caring. He loved helping the sick, until my mother fell and he couldn’t save her. He got a little harder after that, gave up doctoring. He was never really very happy after that.”