5

What should I call you?” James asked Hank after showing him every inch of the barn.

Hank started to suggest just his first name, but then thought better of it. Abram and Lydia had clearly taught their children to be mannerly, and he didn’t want to undermine that. “How about Mr. Hank?”

James mulled it over. “That’ll suit me fine. I was thinking we might call you Uncle Hank, but Ma might think that’s too familiar.” He nodded his head. “Want to get a closer look at the cattle?”

Hank agreed and ambled after the boy as he headed out to the pasture. He admired several red-and-white Herefords as well as an Angus bull, then only half listened as James rambled on about the pleasures and challenges of farm living. Mostly he was thinking about that itch of his. For almost a year he’d had a notion that it might be time for him to give up his position with Waccamaw Timber. Once upon a time, he’d thought he might be in line to run the company, what with George Heyward’s children not being interested in the job.

Then Judd came along, married the boss’s daughter, and stepped into leadership. No, Hank had to be honest—Judd didn’t just step in. He’d earned his place at the top in more ways than one. And he didn’t begrudge his friend in the least. But it did change his long-term outlook on things. Going from heir apparent to second banana was tough no matter how much he liked and admired Judd Markley. He supposed they could continue on indefinitely, yet Hank had a few buried dreams of his own that had been stirred up like silt in a pond. Hank gazed at the trees beyond the edge of the field—good timber, and good cover for deer. Yes sir, this place was heaven for a woodsman, especially one with long-dormant dreams.

James fell silent, and Hank paid closer attention. The boy was staring off into the distance like he, too, was taking the measure of the fields and forests. Hank smiled. He and Judd needed to head out soon to survey the stands they were thinking of purchasing, but for now he was glad to enjoy spending a little time with a delightful boy on a delightful morning. The thought ran through his mind that he might like to have a boy of his own one day. He’d stepped out with a girl or two, but he’d been so focused on work, his romances withered from lack of attention. And that right there was another buried dream rising to the surface.

“You gonna enter the turkey shoot on Saturday?”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a turkey shoot over at the Smallridge farm this weekend. Seems like Pa and Uncle Judd will want to enter. You aim to give it a try?”

“Don’t believe I’ve ever been to a turkey shoot, but I might come along and see how it’s done.” He winked at the boy. “You gonna enter?”

James kicked at a tuft of winter brown grass. “Aw, I ain’t good enough.” He bit his lip. “I’m not supposed to say ain’t. What I mean is, I’m probably not good enough. Uncle Judd and Pa stand a chance, but that ole Fleeta Brady usually wins. I heard Pa say Fleeta could shoot a gnat in the eye.”

“Well then, I’ll come along just to see this Fleeta shoot. Sounds like a good show. Now I’d best round up your uncle Judd and cruise some timber while the day’s still young.”

On Saturday morning, Fleeta sat muttering to herself as she scratched a design into the stock of Vernon Howard’s favorite deer rifle. She’d placed her mother’s brooch where she could see it every time she went into her room. But while she loved having a connection to her mother, she didn’t much like being reminded of Aunt Maisie’s words, which had been eating at her all week.

True love. How foolish does Aunt Maisie think I am? Why would I tie myself down to some man who’d only want to boss me around and saddle me with young’uns? If I’m ever going to smith guns, I need to keep my focus on what matters most.

She finished roughing out her design and sat back to see how it looked overall. She’d begin carving soon, but she liked to make sure everything was balanced before she jumped into the real work. She’d been carving wood since she was big enough to hold a penknife, although it was only in the past few years that folks realized she was pretty good at it and began bringing her work. At first it was toys and purely decorative stuff, but then she did Uncle Oscar’s shotgun with a grouse taking flight, and he swore he hadn’t missed a bird since. Now everyone and their brother were after her to work something up. Of course, they wanted her to do it for free, but once she realized there was money in it, she started charging.

Vernon’s wife was paying her plenty to carve her husband’s favorite hound dog into the stock. She’d hinted that he thought somehow the dog, getting up in years, would hunt better once Fleeta carved its likeness onto the rifle. Fleeta was more than skeptical about that, but if she somehow won the dog another chance, that was fine with her. Plus, unfounded rumors and superstitions allowed her to charge more.

She’d almost saved up what Bud Lyons was asking to buy out his gun shop over in Hanson, the nearest town with more than a post office. While it wasn’t enough to buy everything outright, he’d let her live in the room upstairs and make full use of all his equipment. Admittedly, his tools weren’t quite up to snuff, yet she figured it was the best she could do for now. Once she started making real money, she could upgrade item by item. Except, of course, Aunt Maisie couldn’t spare her yet. She was better, but Fleeta was still doing the bulk of the housework and cooking—not that anyone appreciated it. She was a poor maid and a worse cook. Still, she guessed she was doing better than the boys would on their own, and still finding time to keep up with her woodwork.

Fleeta ran her hand over the smooth, curly maple, picturing how she was going to make the dog practically leap off the surface. She smiled as she examined the forestock. She’d added a raccoon, looking over its shoulder at the dog pursuing it. Leaves and acorns swirled between the two animals. Satisfied with the overall effect, Fleeta set the rifle aside. It was time to head on over to the turkey shoot.

Stowing her favorite squirrel rifle in the rack behind the bench seat of Uncle Oscar’s truck, Fleeta slid in next to her uncle, who was going just for the fun of it. The whole family had conceded that Fleeta was their best chance at a turkey, so she’d do the shooting. As large as the family was, they’d need two turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner, and she’d be sure to get at least one today. She hadn’t lost a turkey shoot in years. For the second turkey, she and Albert could always hunt one up. They could probably get two or three, except she liked winning shoots like this one—showing up the boys was just about the most fun she ever had.

They parked in Merle Smallridge’s pasture, lining the truck up with several others already in place. Looked like a good crowd, which meant an extra fun time. Every now and then a stranger would show up and Fleeta would play the timid female. The local fellas let her get away with it for laughs.

Slinging her Winchester 1890 over her shoulder, Fleeta made her way around the house to the back of the barn, where competitors were already sighting down the firing line. Merle had nailed hand-drawn targets to fence posts about fifty yards out. A lot of folks had gone over to shotguns for turkey shoots, but Merle liked to keep to rifles. Which suited Fleeta just fine. She caressed the forestock of the rifle that once belonged to her father. A .22 caliber, it didn’t have a ton of firepower, but it was accurate and felt like an extension of her own body. She kept thinking she’d carve the stock—it would be good advertising if nothing else—only she couldn’t decide what to put on there. She supposed she was a little bit afraid of spoiling this last connection to her father.

An image of her mother’s brooch flashed through Fleeta’s mind. Now she had a connection there as well, although it felt tainted by silliness with all that “true love” nonsense coming from Aunt Maisie.

“Fleeta, I didn’t know you were coming.” Merle ambled over with his rolling gait, the result of a steer breaking his left leg. The leg healed crooked, and Merle always looked like he was either drunk or on board a ship at sea.

“You know how much I enjoy a good shoot,” Fleeta said. She eyed the men fiddling with their rifles and testing the air for a breeze. “Any competition today?”

“Well, as it happens—”

“Ho there, Merle! You willing to let a Southern boy get in on this shoot?”

Fleeta turned to see who had interrupted their conversation. Judd Markley was striding toward them. He too had a hitch to his gait, but only someone who knew about his getting trapped in a mine collapse was likely to notice it. Judd was something of a legend around these parts. He’d not only survived a cave-in, but he’d gone off to South Carolina, gotten married, and come to be a bigwig in a timber company down there. Fleeta didn’t much know him, but Uncle Oscar thought the world of him and his brother, Abram.

“Who you got there?” Merle asked.

Fleeta noticed a second man catching up to Judd. He was shorter and thicker, though not heavy by any means. His hair was sandy—almost blond but not quite. More the color of honeycomb. Fleeta thought he looked pleasant enough and started to smile. Then she froze as she got a good look at the rifle slung over his shoulder. Sure enough, it was a Woodsmaster—a Remington 740, and a .30-06 caliber. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the gun was brand new. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forgot to blink. It was the finest rifle she’d ever seen and a semiautomatic at that. She wanted to reach out and touch it so bad she could almost feel the silk of the wood and the ice of the steel.

Someone elbowed Fleeta in the ribs. “I said, this here’s Fleeta Brady. Fleeta, you know Judd, dontcha?”

Fleeta choked on the spit she’d failed to swallow. “I do, but it’s been years since I last saw him.”

Judd looked at her with serious eyes that let her know he wished her to be at ease. She gentled under his gaze and shifted her focus back to the second man. Apparently she’d already been introduced, but she had no idea what his name was.

“It’s short for Henry,” he said with an easy smile. “Folks started calling me Hank before I could talk, so I didn’t get to have any say in the matter. Fleeta, though, that’s unusual. Is it a family name?”

Fleeta finally blinked. “I have no idea. My parents died when I was a baby. Is that a Remington seven-forty?”

Hank blinked back. Twice. “It sure is. Just acquired it over the summer and thought I’d bring it to West Virginia and see how good it is at getting me a deer.”

“The gun won’t have any trouble. Only thing that could get in its way is the one firing it.”

Judd made a sound that might have been laughter. Fleeta ignored him, her eyes riveted to that beautiful rifle of Hank’s.

Hank cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, like to take a closer look?”

Fleeta handed her own rifle to Judd and held out her hands. Hank settled the gun into them, and she sighed involuntarily. She ran her hands over the stock, examining it from every angle. She opened the breach and furrowed her brow. “It’s not loaded.”

“No, I generally don’t drive around with a loaded gun.”

Fleeta shook her head. “An unloaded gun isn’t much more use than a stick.” She closed the breach, fitted the rifle to her shoulder, and sighted out across an open field away from the gathering crowd. She moved her finger inside the guard and squeezed the trigger until it clicked. Like cutting warm butter.

She exhaled slowly and handed the gun back to Hank before she could get any more attached to it. “A fine piece of workmanship,” she said.

“I agree. I’m a bit of a collector, and this is my latest prize.” He tilted his head to one side, considering her. “Maybe you’d like to shoot it before the day’s out?”

Everything in Fleeta screamed yes, but instead she took a steadying breath. “Oh, well, I’d hate to waste your ammunition.”

“I’ve got enough to spare a few rounds.” A look of surprise crossed his face. “Wait a minute—James mentioned someone named Fleeta he said is a crack shot. Is that you?”

Fleeta felt her cheeks flame. She was a crack shot, but she didn’t like knowing folks were talking about her skill. Not even little boys and strangers.

Before she could answer, Merle jumped in. “That’s her all right, and I was just about to tell her she’s disqualified from this match.”

A bucket of well water dumped over her head couldn’t have surprised Fleeta more. “What do you mean ‘disqualified’?” she asked, pinning Merle with her sternest look.

“I mean you win every shoot every time and it ain’t fun no more. Me and the boys agreed, you have to sit this one out and give somebody else a chance for once.”

Fleeta spun toward Judd. “Give me my rifle.” She snatched it from him. “If you men”—she said the word with a sneer—“are afraid to shoot against a girl, then I don’t have any use for you. I can get my own turkeys anyhow.” She stomped off, but before she got more than three steps away, someone snagged her arm and stopped her.

“Hey now.” It was Hank with that funny drawl stretching his words out. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Fleeta wanted to tear away from him, but she also wanted to shoot that rifle in his other hand. She waited, quivering with anger, frustration, and the unexpectedly pleasant shock of his touch against her arm.

“What if you make the contest a little harder for whoever won the last shoot? Put the target farther out or something like that?” His grip eased, and still Fleeta waited. “If you think she’s that good, then challenge her with something worth her trouble.”

Fleeta wanted to smile at that—it was the nicest thing she’d ever heard someone say about her. She’d relish a challenge. She half turned to see how Merle was taking the suggestion. He was scratching at his scraggly beard and eyeing Judd.

“What do you think, Markley?”

“I think it would be a pleasure to see Fleeta do some fancy shooting. And I don’t think there’s a one of those boys over there who wouldn’t be game for putting Fleeta to the test.” He glanced at her. “So long as she doesn’t mind.”

“I can outshoot anyone here or in the state of West Virginia, for that matter,” Fleeta said, throwing her shoulders back. “You make it just as hard as you want and I’ll still win that turkey.”

Hank grinned. “This is shaping up to be an entertaining afternoon.”