He was about my height, burly and dressed entirely in dark grey, a chauffeur’s suit with the cap held under his arm. His stance reminded me of a bod...guard, erect and tense with his large hands cupped at the front as though he was anxious to protect himself from attack.“Good evening Miss Risby,” he smiled and his face lit up as though he was genuinely pleased to meet me. He had a deep and laid-back drawl with only a trace of an American accent.“Hi,” I replied, trying to sound indifferent.“I’m. ”“You called the right number,” I said, “Tell me what kind of flintlock you’re interested in.”“What makes you think you can teach the manly art of rifle making?”“Because I’m sitting here looking at one I built.”“I’d like to see that,” he scoffed.“2227 US 14,” I said. “It’s off the road a bit. If there’s a Green Jeep Station Wagon in front of the shop, I’m there. Don’t look for me before 7:30 ... a girl’s gotta eat sometime. And it’s a 26 mile round trip.”“I’ll be there.”“If you’re not consider. More

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