Her death grip on the weapon eased some, but Ian frowned when he realized that within the circle of his arms, her whole body was trembling. Keeping his voice low and soothing, he continued, "We're in no hurry, so take your time aiming."
He let go of the rifle and stepped away from Laura. "You closed both eyes when you shot before, so this time try to keep them open. Do you have the paper in your sights?"
As she nodded, the rifle swayed to one side. Ian said, "Don't shoot until you're ready. When you pull the trigger, don't jerk it but squeeze it v-e-r-y slowly so that the barrel won't move and spoil your aim."
It was vain advice. Her whole body spasmed when she shot, and again the bullet went into the bluff. Without looking at Ian, Laura rammed in another charge and tried again, with no better result. If anything, it was worse.
After another futile attempt, Ian said, "Perhaps the rifle is too heavy for you." He unholstered his revolver. "Try this—it's much lighter. When you're comfortable with a handgun, you can try the rifle again."
Laura swung around with such fury in her eyes that if the rifle had been loaded, Ian would not have been surprised if she had fired it at him. Instead, she hurled her weapon to the ground. "I'm not touching that filthy thing," she snapped. "You can bully me into shooting a rifle, but there's no way in hell you can make me fire a pistol!"
Her reaction was so intense that Ian rocked back on his heels. "Laura, what's wrong?" He kept his voice even, trying to conceal how disturbed he was. "This is far more than a ladylike distaste for weapons. Why do handguns bother you so much?"
Hissing like the furious cat she resembled, she said, "If you'd seen your father's brains spattered across a wall, you'd hate pistols, too!"
"Dear God!" Ian breathed, suddenly guessing what lay behind her reaction. "Your father committed suicide?"
"Yes," she said starkly. Her anger was draining away, leaving her pale as ashes. "And I was the one who found him."
The shock she had shown in the temple was nothing compared to the devastation in her face now. Ian jammed his revolver into its holster, then wrapped his arms around his wife, trying to physically shield her from the anguish of her past.
As he rocked her back and forth, she began to cry as if she would never stop. She felt as small and fragile as a fawn.
In a low, furious voice, Ian swore, "Damnation, how could he do such a thing? How could any man shoot himself when his own child was nearby and might find him? How could he?"
If Laura's father had not put himself beyond human justice, Ian would have gladly wrung the man's neck with his bare hands. To hell with dashing and romantic; no wonder Tatyana and Laura had both loved Kenneth Stephenson for his kind, steady nature.
Though his words had not been meant for her, Laura responded by raising her head and looking at him in confusion. "You're angry with my father for shooting himself?"
"You're damned right I am." Feeling helpless, he brushed at the tears that glimmered on her cheeks, wishing that he could do more. "And you should be, too. I don't care how mad or sad or melancholic your father was—to do something like that to his family was unforgivable. Especially to do that to a child. If he found life unbearable, he could have found a better way to kill himself so that no one would ever suspect."
Laura's brows drew together. "It sounds like you've given some thought to the etiquette of suicide."
"I have," he said tersely. "That makes me qualified to say that it's unforgivable for a man to subject his loved ones to what you and your mother suffered."
Laura was silent as various emotions chased across her face. Finally she said with a note of wonder, "I am angry with my father."
Blindly she balled her hand into a fist and slammed it into Ian's shoulder. "What he did to Mama and me was despicable." She struck him again, crying out, "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault!"
She had a very decent right hook. Ian caught her fist before she could use it again. "Of course it wasn't your fault," he said quietly. "For God's sake, why didn't you tell me before? I would never have asked you to touch a gun if I'd known."
"I've never spoken of it to anyone, not even Kenneth, though my mother must have told him." She closed her eyes for a moment, and her face showed the fierce effort she was making to control her emotions.
More calmly, she continued, "It was mid afternoon, a Saturday just before Easter. My parents had a huge fight, and Mama stormed out." She wiped her eyes with the back of her left hand. "Later I heard a shot from my father's study and raced downstairs. At first I was afraid to open the door. When I finally did..." Her voice broke. "He... he was so handsome. But ever since then, I can't think of him without remembering what he looked like that day. I began screaming. I didn't stop for two days."