He fumbled while hitching the horse to the wagon. The mare refused to take the bit in her mouth. He dropped the girth strap twice. Then he sheared the cotter pin off the hand brake and couldn’t find a replacement. By the time he fashioned one out of a horseshoe nail, the back of his shirt was wet.
Sarah opened the pistol cabinet, and he felt the color leaving his face. Her voice was never sweeter. “Darling, where’s my Derringer?”
