Call It Magic by Janet Chapman Page 0,111

wet, you’re bossy, and someone is actually shooting at me. Well, Ace, I intend to shoot back!”

With that off her chest, Jane limped over to where she’d thrown her backpack and gun. She rummaged around in the pack until she came up with a box of shotgun shells, then unloaded the bird shot from her gun and replaced it with the new ammunition.

“Come back here!” the man ordered in a guttural hiss. “Now, before they return.”

She looked over and felt a moment of chagrin. If it wasn’t bad enough the guy was blind, he was also in the middle of nowhere with a stranger who was semi-hysterical and very angry. His plane was wrecked and somebody was trying to kill him. And somebody he couldn’t see was ignoring him.

Jane took pity. “It’s okay,” she assured him. “I have a gun. I can shoot back.”

“What kind of gun?” he asked cautiously, apparently not knowing if he should be alarmed or thankful.

“It’s a shotgun.”

He snorted.

“I have slugs for it. Sabots can go through anything short of armored steel. And their range is impressive.”

“What were you hunting? Elephants?” he asked dryly.

Jane took back her pity. “I was hunting partridge.”

He snorted again.

“I was planning to find a gravel pit later and do some target practicing,” she said defensively.

“Are you out here alone?” he asked, apparently dismissing the issue of the gun.

“Yes.”

He dropped his head and muttered that single foreign word again as he rubbed his face in his hands, then sighed and looked in her direction. “How far are we from civilization?”

Jane didn’t get a chance to answer. The plane was back. She ignored his second command to come to him—also ignoring the fact that he sounded rather angry himself—and stepped onto the small beach and shouldered her shotgun. She knew she’d only get off one or two surprise shots before they flew out of range, but she intended to give them something to think about before they left.

The plane swooped low over the lake again, the man with the machine gun straining out the door trying to spot his prey. Jane fired off a shot at the approaching plane, then slid the action on her gun and fired again, causing the Cessna to sharply bank away when her slug connected with metal. She quickly jacked another shell into the chamber and fired one last time at the turning plane, satisfied to see the man in the door throw himself back when the slug tore through the fuselage over his head.

She shouted in triumph at the retreating plane, then danced her way over to the wounded pilot, setting down her gun and going to her knees in front of him as she boldly stated she’d just scared those monsters silly. She never noticed he wasn’t exactly celebrating with her until he reached out with unbelievable swiftness and blindly grabbed her. He hauled her toward him with surprising force, repositioned his grip on her shoulders, and shook her.

Jane squeaked in alarm and tried to break free. “You’re hurting me!”

“I’m going to throttle you, you little idiot! You could have been killed!”

“Well, I wasn’t. And neither were you, thanks to me,” she shot back, forgetting her precarious position. “And you’re welcome, you Neanderthal!”

He shook her again.

“If you don’t quit manhandling me, you’re going to find yourself back in the lake,” Jane said, her voice a whisper of warning as she tugged on his wrists.

Although she did register the fact that she was gripping what felt like solid steel, she didn’t back down from her threat, not caring if he could see her glare or not. She broke free and immediately stood up, then backed a safe distance away and simply stared at the scowling pilot.

He was a huge, wet, battered mess if she ever saw one, his face scorched and his eyes watering and blinking frantically. But even sitting on the ground in an undignified heap, the guy still looked lethal—his wet leather jacket clinging to a trim torso and his large hands clenched in either anger or pain or both.

Jane quietly stepped to the side and watched his blinking gaze follow her movement. “Just how blind are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I can see you,” he confirmed. “But you’re blurry,” he added, rubbing his eyes.

“Don’t do that.” Jane rushed back to him and gripped his head between her hands, then leaned down and studied his injuries. “You’ll make it worse. Your face is red, but I can’t see any real damage to your eyes. It’s possible

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