Page 5 of Quiver

“There’s an understatement, but you’re decent enough on a horse, and you have to admit, combat sports are a pretty cool father/daughter hobby.”

He laughed. “Better than ballet, I suppose.”

“I don’t know. You could pull off the tutu.”

“Damn right I would, but this seems a little more my speed. I’ll give it a go.”

“Glad to hear it. And I’ll appreciate having an extra set of hands on the reins.”

“I’m not sure I can keep up with your standards. Then again, not many do.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t hate her reputation for perfectionism.

“You’ve been that way ever since high school. Hey, speaking of which”—he lowered his voice and turned his back to the others—“I’m not sure you even want to hear things like this, but just so you don’t get blindsided, I heard folks at the Christmas market yesterday say Kylie Manchester’s on her way home.”

A cold sweat ran along Fletcher’s neck and palms. Her shoulders hunched forward involuntarily, and she gritted her teeth against the visceral urge to turn in on herself. She took a slow, quiet breath and clenched her fists before releasing both. Still, no amount of mind-over-matter exercises could help her find a full sentence, so she merely lifted one shoulder and shook her head. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Bob nodded and took a step back. “I’m sure she’ll be in and out. She’s not one to linger, not that it matters.”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“All right then.” He edged farther away. “Hey, you have a great Christmas, and we’ll see you in January.”

She nodded again and realized she was probably starting to look like a bobblehead before spitting out, “Merry Christmas.”

She glanced around for several seconds without seeing much, but as the white tinge from her vision faded, most people had filtered out. A couple of girls were petting horses on their way through the barn, and she should probably go supervise, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the arena yet. Instead, she merely kept her ears open to anything out of the ordinary. She could always hear if any of her animals grew agitated and knew how to calm them quickly. Too bad she hadn’t developed as many cues and cures for her own anxiety.

Well, she had one.

Ignoring the paperwork waiting for her on the table, she reached for the rich, smooth, recurve bow propped up against it. By the time she lifted it to chest level, she’d already snugged an arrow against the string. Turning her torso toward the target in one fluid motion, she drew and sighted as her muscles flexed on memory. With her feet still facing perpendicular to the direction she intended to shoot, the string slid across her side.

She didn’t have to aim, not from a standing position or for anything the size of a standard archery target, but she still took her time, settling in, not so much to the shot but to her own situation. Her breath slowed and her pulse decelerated its drumbeat in her ears.

This was her own personal equivalent of slipping into a bubble bath or snuggling beneath a down comforter. Behind the painted rings in the center of her vision, she could see fat flakes of snow falling outside the arena windows, but the air around her still carried the warm scent of dirt and hay. Bear must’ve approved of having the place to themselves again as he flopped softly to the ground beside her.

Pulling the taut string back until two fingers brushed along her cheek, the tension in her muscles shifted from stress to anticipation. Her chores were done, her horses fed, her bills paid. She’d hit every target the day had put in front of her.

Except for one.

Though in that case, she hadn’t exactly missed as much as failed to bring it into focus.

Closing her eyes, she timed the rise and fall of her chest, trying not to replay Bob’s gentle warning. So what if the town rumor mill was burning up with the big news of its most famous resident’s impending visit? Fletcher didn’t allow her mind to wander down any dark paths, a skill she’d mastered over years of avoiding worthless what-ifs. Nothing about her reality had changed drastically in all that time, and there was no reason to expect it to now.

As if to prove her point, she loosed the arrow. The low hum of the reverberating chord, the subtle whoosh, and the satisfying thump against the center of the target all soothed her on a level she sensed at her core. There was no elation or even relief at hitting her mark. She expected to make the shot, always. Still, the familiar actions and foreseeable outcomes carried a sort of satisfaction in their predictability. She repeated the movements with the next arrow from her thigh quiver, and then another and another.

Losing track of time and anything else not in her immediate line of sight, she worked steadily, and when her fingers came up empty, she walked only far enough to collect her arsenal from the target and reset to go again.

Nocking another arrow, she raised the bow and drew back the string lightly, only to pause at the distant crunch of tires on her gravel driveway. Maybe someone had merely lingered outside chatting? Her heart kicked her ribs, and she leaned hard against the urge to guess as it became clear the noise was growing closer instead of pulling away.

Bear lifted his head, and one of the horses nickered in the barn behind her as the vehicle slowed to a stop. The dog rose, tail sweeping slow across the leg of her pants, but he didn’t trot off at the sound of a car door opening, instead choosing to stay close, which meant he didn’t recognize the visitor.

She inhaled through her nose, counting the seconds, not the steps against the hard-packed dirt on the path. Sharpening her gaze until she could see only the small yellow circle across the arena, she pulled back the string until the strain of holding it overshadowed all the other tension vying for the chance to torque her muscles. She would surrender to the pressure only of her own choosing.

She’d worked and trained and built, then rebuilt herself too painstakingly to allow even a tremor to trace her fingertips as the steps stopped, replaced by the silent sense of eyes intent on her back.

Bear whined, but the only release Fletcher would allow either of them was the slight flick of her fingers that loosed the arrow. It stayed true without so much as a wobble before striking home with enough force to make the target shudder the way she ached to.

A slow clap started behind her.