Page 33 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Good,” he says, low enough that Boone needn’t hear it.

It is hardly praise at all.

Naturally, I store it away like a fool.

Boone tips his head, eyes narrowing with a slow grin. “You sure you ain’t been lying to us? Shootin’ like that first time out?”

“Beginner’s luck.” My voice comes out thinner than I like. I clear my throat. “Or good instruction.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let it go to Okee’s big head.”

Okee ignores him entirely as he swings open the loading gate and thumbs fresh rounds into the cylinder. “We’ll walk them left to right. Keep your focus on the sights, not your audience.”

My ears go hot at that last word.

Boone saunters closer anyway, boots crunching in the snow. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, hip leaning against the fence so he sits square in my side vision.

“Who says I’m just an audience? Maybe I want to give her a try after you’re done manhandling’ her.”

Okee snaps the cylinder shut and offers me the pistol again, grip-first.

“I don’t need two instructors,” I say, perhaps more sharply than necessary. “One is quite enough.”

Boone laughs, delighted. “Hear that? She’s already sick of you.”

“Feet,” Okee says calmly, as if we are alone. Once more, he nudges my boot out with the toe of his. “Wider. Good. Now⁠—”

“Least let me set the stakes,” Boone cuts in, mischief in his eyes enough to ignite damp wood. “You knock down three in a row, I’ll shut up for a whole hour. You miss, you got to admit I’m prettier than Okee.”

Okee does not even pretend to be offended.

“Now there’s motivation,” he says dryly. He pats my elbow, eyes on the sights. “Come on. For all our sakes, you can do this.”

I cannot help it. I glance over my shoulder, taking them both in—the frost on Boone’s lashes, the clean line of Okee’s jaw beneath his turned-up collar.

“What happens if I knock them all down and refuse to say either of you is pretty?”

Boone presses a hand to his heart. “Then I’ll know you’re a liar.”

“Trigger,” Okee reminds me, though his mouth twitches, betrayed by the smallest hint of a smile. “Straight till you’re ready. Don’t let him in your head.”

Too late for that.

I turn back to the cans. The next one waits, dull and innocent in the gray light. I breathe in. Okee’s knuckles brush my elbow as he adjusts the angle, a touch so light it might be imagined.

“Easy,” he says. “You already did it once.”

Four clicks.

Breath out.

Press.

The can flies.

The recoil shudders up my arms, but this time I ride it out. Smoke curls past my cheek. A knot I had not known was there loosens in my chest.

“See?” Okee’s approval is quiet, and somehow that makes it worse. Better. “You did that.”