Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Ray Paisley

Author:Ray, Paisley [Ray, Paisley]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: The Rachel O'Brien Chronicles
Published: 2014-07-18T04:00:00+00:00

MRS. JETTESON WAS A solid lady. Dressed in khaki slacks and a navy-colored quilted shirt-jacket with one suede shoulder pad above her left chest, she looked bad-ass country chic. Between shucking oysters and carrying a Winchester model 12 shotgun, she didn’t need a gym membership. Her stride across a field of dried grass to a clearing where a group of ladies with fold-out chairs and picnic blankets had assembled was long and purposeful. She was a woman to be reckoned with, and whether Jet noticed or not, she was following in her mother’s footsteps

“I’m sorry Jet was feeling ill,” she said apologetically.

I nodded.

“It came on suddenly.”

Suddenly coincided with the moment Jet retrieved the mail and opened her report card. I didn’t know what her marks were, but it wasn’t too hard to guess that she wasn’t happy with them.

“You girls put yourselves under a lot of pressure, getting through the semester and all. And you both have been a big help in the store.”

“It’s been fun.”

“All the test cramming wears down your immune system. Some rest will set her straight. You know, she has a real sharp eye for targets. Wins all the tournaments in these parts.”

I had no idea Jet knew how to handle a gun, but it didn’t surprise me. She was a take-charge kind of girl who liked gadgets, and was especially fond of getting to grips with household appliances, garden equipment, engines, and Clay. “So what’s trap shooting all about?” I asked.

Mrs. J gave me a quick tutorial. “A trap is a clay throwing machine, kind of like a tennis ball shooter, except clays are small plates with a neon orange rim. You and whoever else is shooting the round rotate through five stations from left to right behind the thrower.”

The machine looked like a snow blower on a wooden platform and I didn’t really get what she was saying.

“You’ll see.”

“I’m not sure I can hit a marker.” Although I was game for shooting at Clay targets.

“You take it slow, block everything around out of your mind, and concentrate. Your index finger will lightly grip the trigger, but you can’t flinch. She stopped and positioned the gun high on my right shoulder on the collarbone. Folding a piece of paper, she laid it near the butt of the gun. “When you aim, press your cheek on this, look straight down the barrel, and don’t let the paper move. You’ll need to make a snap-second decision, no regrets, as though your life depends on it. Tighten the trigger and pull. There’s kickback from the barrel. Don’t fret about it. Your shoulder will take the impact. Once you get accustomed to it, you’ll be hooked. I don’t care what anyone says. There’s nothing like the feeling of splitting a target.

As we approached I noticed a few of the gator shooter gals sipping from engraved silver flasks.

“Ladies.”

“Hey Ina Jean, you break away from the oysters long enough to shoot something?”

“Wild pigs would have to drag me away from time with y’all.

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