Turned 2: The Bramblewood Werebear

Chapter 6: Firearms

Oliver's personal parlor was at the west end of the house, and Jennie had been unaware of its existence. It was paneled in dark wood, with a broad writing desk and comfortable leather chairs. It smelled of linseed oil from a cabinet containing oil paints and brushes, and an unfinished painting leaned against the wall next to a folded easel. As Oliver rummaged through desk drawers, Jennie considered the painting. It portrayed a galloping horse against a background of a mountain ridge during a storm. Although the horse's back half had no paint, life stared from its eyes and snorted through its flared nostrils.
"You're very good," she remarked.
He glanced over his shoulder, smiled and ducked his head. "Just a trifle."
Wildness and beauty roared from his artwork, pouring from inside him. She studied the painting, and tenderness grew in her heart. One could always judge another by the fruits they brought forth, and Oliver continued to prove himself sound.
"When you finish it, may I have it, too?"
"Certainly." He straightened with a surprised look. "You're not merely saying it to spare my feelings?"
"No. I like it very much." The fervent tone in her voice brought a smile to his face.
He lifted two small wooden boxes. "Here we are. Let's take these outside."
They left the house's cool shade for the baking, muggy grounds, where the trees hung motionless, without a breeze to stir their fathomless leaves. Oliver led her down to the orchard, where a bale of straw was set on end, with a tattered cloth  target marked in a human shape. A short distance away, a weathered wooden table provided a place to load weapons and steady one's aim.
He placed the boxes on the table and opened them. One contained a small flintlock pistol, and the other held a collection of lead balls and bags of gunpowder grains. The odor of sulfur and saltpeter touched Jennie's nostrils. She gazed at the weapon in apprehension. "I am to learn to use that?"
"Yes, certainly," said Oliver. "I will demonstrate, and we will teach you to aim and fire, as well as reload."
"But it's not very ... ladylike."
"Nonsense." He waved away her objection. "This is a lady's muff pistol, created for defense. But to defend herself, a lady must learn to use it."
He demonstrated how to load the pistol, how to set its safety to half-cock, and how to unfold the trigger. "These weapons are dangerous, and you do not want one to fire while you are merely carrying it. Thus the designers included many safeguards for your protection." He made her handle the pistol until she could arm and disarm it easily. Then he produced cotton wool, which they stuffed in their ears, and demonstrated a shot.
It was startlingly loud, even with her ears padded. Also, Jennie disliked the way the pistol bucked in Oliver's hand. If it kicked him with such force, what might it do to her thinner, weaker wrist?
He reloaded it, let her screw the barrel over the bullet and powder, then set the safety. Then he placed the gun in her hands and showed how to hold the stock and prepare for the kick.
She aimed at the target and pulled the trigger. The gun cracked and leaped against her grip, jarring her arms to the shoulder. She gasped and dropped it on the table.
"Well done!" Oliver waved away gunpowder smoke. She had placed her bullet in the target dummy's breastbone. "Let's reload and try again."

***

By the time afternoon gave way to evening and they retired to the house, Jennie had begun to enjoy shooting. There was something satisfying about blasting holes in a target, and the roar of the pistol. She no longer dropped the pistol, but her forearms ached. Black powder stained her skin and fingernails. A wash would not cleanse it--she needed a full bath. She called Harriet to draw one for her.
After a luxurious soak, she dressed and joined Oliver downstairs for supper. His face was pink and freshly scrubbed, as well, and his hands were clean. They glanced at each other's fingernails, saw the other looking, and laughed.
They set to work on their meal with the enthusiasm of a healthy appetite. Halfway through the main course, Oliver remarked, "The berry crop is ripening."
"It is?" She looked up from her pork loin. "I have not seen your vines."
"We don't keep vines," he chuckled. "Bramblewood is so named because of the abundance of blackberry brambles in the surrounding woods. There is also an area thick with blueberry bushes. Wonderful grazing for a bear."
She met his dancing eyes with her curiosity. "What does a bear need with berries?"
"It's how they fatten themselves for their winter hibernation."
This was something she hadn't thought of. "Do you?"
"Not as such." He pensively cut a bite of meat. "But the bear does become sleepy in mid-winter. It becomes difficult to shift, and when I do, the bear is cranky and tired. I try to let it rest until spring." He brightened. "At any rate, I do enjoy berrying. Tomorrow let's visit the woods and investigate the crop."
"What of wolves?"
"None shall harm you while I'm with you. But do bring your gun."