6

Merle had two live turkeys penned near the barn—a fat hen and a tom that looked like he could whip a dog in about sixty seconds. Fleeta wanted the tom. The hen was up first. Everyone who wanted a chance put up their money and got three tries to hit an X drawn on a piece of paper gently flapping in the breeze. There were at least two dozen men ready to try hitting one of the three targets already in place. Merle would change them out as they got riddled with holes, although there was much laughing about how the targets would last longer if the poor shots went first.

“I’ll sit this one out,” Fleeta said, leaning against the side of the barn.

Hank decided to plant himself nearby. When James mentioned a fine shot named Fleeta, he’d assumed it was a man. He’d been thoroughly unprepared for this dark pixie of a woman who might be wearing men’s clothes but wasn’t fooling anybody. She was clearly unaware of her femininity, which made Hank assume she was equally unaware of anyone else’s masculinity—his own included. But she’d struck a chord in him, and he had to admire anyone who appreciated a fine gun as much as she clearly did.

“You’re not trying for the hen?” Fleeta asked him.

Hank hoped he hadn’t been staring. “Judd’s gonna try for the hen, and I’ll go for the tom if he loses. Lydia said one turkey would be more than enough for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“You planning to stick around that long?”

“I am. We came up to check out some timber the company might buy, but we timed the trip so we could do some hunting and spend the holiday with Judd’s family.”

“What about your family? Won’t they miss you?” Fleeta kept one eye on the first round of shooters while she talked to him.

“I have a sister who says she wishes I were there, but I think that’s mostly because I keep her children out from underfoot when I’m around.” He shifted his Winchester, cradling it in his arms. “My parents were killed in a boating accident when I was sixteen. My sister practically raised me, but I’ll spend Christmas with them, so it’s all right.”

Fleeta’s eyes jerked to his face, raw with sudden emotion. “You lost your parents? Both of them?”

“I did, but it’s been a long time now.” He missed them, sure, but he’d made peace with the loss in his twenties after a few years of hard rebellion. He was thirty-four now and liked to think he’d matured at least a little.

“Do you remember them?”

Hank quirked a brow. That was an odd question, but then again, he had her full attention now and found he liked it. “Well sure.”

“My parents died before I was old enough to remember. Aunt Maisie and Uncle Oscar were good to raise me, but I sure do wish I could remember even one thing about my parents.” She had a wistful look. “Sometimes I think I can remember a song, maybe one my mother sang, but it’s probably just wishful thinking.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Naw. I’ve got more cousins than I can count, though. Mostly boys except for Elnora—she’s the one raised me more than Aunt Maisie did. Aunt Maisie was too busy—” She stopped abruptly and flushed pink, making a beauty spot stand out near the corner of her right eye.

“We have a winner!” The shout came from Merle at a makeshift table where he’d been examining targets.

“What?” Fleeta stomped her foot. “I wasn’t paying attention to that last round of shooters. Looks like Eddie got it the way he’s dancin’ around over there. He’s using his daddy’s Stevens over-under.” She looked thoughtful. “I’m surprised he did that well with an open sight.”

“Could have been luck,” Hank said.

Fleeta nodded slowly. “Judd’s a good shot and so is Marsh Wilson.” She pursed her lips. “Might have something to do with Eddie’s daddy being laid up, and Eddie losing his job when the two railroads merged.” She rolled her neck as though preparing for battle. “Bet they won’t go easy on this next round.”

Merle approached, listing to one side like a drunken sailor. “All right, Fleeta. Here’s the deal. We’re gonna let everyone who wants a chance shoot, and then you go up against the winner. ’Cept you have to shoot from seventy-five yards out.”

Hank stepped forward. “Here now, that hardly seems fair.”

Fleeta held up her hand. “Hank’s right.” She flicked a look at him. “I’ll shoot from a hundred.”

Hank watched her walk over to the scoring table and lay down her money. She nodded at the other men, who treated her like she was one of them. He thought about the girls he knew back in South Carolina and decided they might could learn a thing or two from Fleeta Brady.

Fleeta pulled a soft rag from her back pocket and rubbed her peep sight with it. Lots of folks used scopes, and a few still had open sights, but she preferred her aperture sight. When she looked through it, everything else faded away, and that one little bead in the center of the target was all she could see. Sometimes she wished the world could be like that, fading into the background so she could focus on the one thing that was important—becoming a gunsmith.

Carving stocks was pure pleasure, yet it was just one step in the process, and a last step at that. She wanted to shape a rifle from the very beginning. Which meant she needed not only to be able to work wood, but steel as well. Bud let her come into his shop and watch and even tinker a little now and then. She’d rifled a barrel or two with his help, and he said she had a knack for it. But the equipment was expensive, and while her nest egg was growing, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to leave the family with Aunt Maisie taking so long to recover from losing the baby. She felt like she owed it to the family who had taken her in to stick around for as long as they needed her.

“Stand clear.” Merle waved at the men lined up ready to shoot, and Fleeta turned her attention to the competition. Hank was in the second row, behind Marsh. Since Judd wasn’t shooting this round, Fleeta figured Marsh was the one to beat. He was shooting with a Winchester 94, .30-30 caliber. Fleeta had carved mountain laurel blossoms into the stock. Marsh’s wife was named Laurel, and when he commissioned the carving, Fleeta guessed it was as close as she’d ever come to thinking there might actually be such a thing as true love.

She grunted under her breath, remembering Aunt Maisie’s words: “Your mother wanted you to fall in love one of these days.” But why in the world would her mother want that for her? As best as she could tell, her mother died of grief because she loved Fleeta’s father so much that she couldn’t live without him. Why then would she want her daughter to sign on for that same kind of heartbreak?

Fleeta lifted her rifle to her shoulder and sighted at the target Marsh just shot. He’d come ace of splitting the X in two. He’d be tough to beat, but she thought she could do it. Hank stepped up next and handled his rifle as if it were an extension of his hands and arms. He moved carefully, methodically, and with purpose. Fleeta hadn’t thought to admire him as a man, but she could certainly admire him as a shooter. He clearly respected and cared for his firearm.

Hank fired three times in rapid succession. Fleeta sighted through her aperture again to get a better look, and by golly it appeared he’d bested Marsh. Merle sent one of his boys out to bring the targets in. There would be two more rounds and then she’d learn whom she was going to shoot against.

A nervous tickle stirred in Fleeta’s belly. She laid a hand there, feeling puzzled. She’d never been nervous about shooting. She thought back to her lunch of ham and an apple. Surely that hadn’t upset her stomach. And yet butterfly wings fluttered.

Hank held his breath each time another man fired. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to win so badly, but he did. He was a crack shot, having handled and fired guns since his arms were long enough to reach the trigger. Though he owned some outstanding collectors’ pieces, his rule was that if a gun couldn’t be fired, he didn’t want it. He’d shot each and every gun he owned multiple times and could hit just about anything he aimed at with all of them.

Today, however, his hands shook as he waited for the final shots to be fired. He tried not to look over at Fleeta, where she stood with her back straight and tendrils of hair grazing her cheeks in a way she obviously didn’t realize was lovely. As a matter of fact, he’d bet none of the men here realized just how pretty she was. They just saw the competition.

Merle sent his boy out for the last of the targets as everyone stood waiting, trying not to look like that was what they were doing.

“Appears our friend from the South has shown us up today, boys.” Merle held the target Hank and Marsh shot so that everyone could see it. “I think this is the closest I’ve ever seen, but looks like Fleeta’s going to have to try somebody new today.”

Hank felt a grin lift his cheeks, and he risked a glance at Fleeta. She was looking back with narrowed eyes and an intensity that made Hank a little uneasy. He thought he knew how a deer caught in her sights might feel.

Merle sent out new targets and pointed to the spot Fleeta would stand, well back from Hank. He felt small, shooting from fifty yards closer in. Even so, he stifled the urge to protest. He suspected Fleeta’s pride was at risk even more than the turkey.

“You’ll each have one shot,” Merle said. “Closest to the X wins the turkey.”

Hank shot first. He sighted through his scope, his very expensive scope. He exhaled slowly, squeezed the trigger like he didn’t want to bruise it, and took the recoil without flinching. He was pretty sure he’d hit the X dead center. Hank felt something like pride rise up in his own breast and started to turn to see what Fleeta thought when he heard a sharp crack split the air. She’d already fired. No fiddling about, no hesitation, just boom and done.

“All clear,” Merle hollered, and Hank had to lift his muzzle before he could look at the target through the scope. Tension hung in the air as they waited for the target to be brought in. Fleeta was the only one who looked cool. She cradled her rifle, barrel pointed into the dirt, a half smile giving her a Mona Lisa look.

Merle laid the square of paper on his makeshift table and took his time examining it. Hank’s nose itched, but he resisted scratching it. Merle waved Judd over and pointed at something on the paper. Finally he stood and looked around at the men who seemed to be holding their collective breath.

“It’s a tie.”

“What?” The cry came from Fleeta.

“Look for yerself,” Merle said. “They’s little more than one hole in this target. Might be one’s a hair’s breadth closer than the other, but I double-dog dare you to tell me which is which.”

Fleeta strode over and snatched up the paper, squinting at it. Hank approached more slowly and looked over her shoulder. Merle was right. There was no way to tell who’d made the winning shot.

“Fleeta, you shot from farther away, so you made the harder shot. Go on and take the turkey,” Hank said, feeling gentlemanly about it.

“Doggone if I will. We’ll shoot again, but both from seventy-five yards.” Her cheeks flushed pink, and he feared the sparks flying from her eyes might set the barn on fire.

Hank opened his mouth to demur, but the look on Fleeta’s face shut him up.

“How about you shoot each other’s rifles this time?” The suggestion came from Judd. Hank eyed his friend and thought he saw a sly smile playing around his mouth.

Fleeta suddenly looked shy. She eyed the Woodsmaster, then looked Hank full in the face. “I’ll understand if you’d rather not.”

Hank felt something swell in his chest. This woman was willing to sacrifice her pride out of respect for . . . him? He blew out a breath. No, he suspected she just didn’t want to presume to handle his prized rifle.

“Fine with me,” he said. “Anything tricky about that gallery gun I ought to know?”

Her eyes narrowed. He didn’t think she’d like him calling her .22 by its nickname. She set the rifle down on the table between them. “The only trick to shooting is knowing how to do it.”

He let a lazy smile spread across his face. “Sounds right to me,” he drawled, extending his own rifle toward her. “She kicks a mite.”

Fleeta took the gun and tilted her nose toward the sky. “Uncle Oscar says his shotgun kills at both ends, and I’ve never minded shooting it.”

Hank chuckled and picked up her .22. He could still feel the warmth of Fleeta’s hands on the stock, which was worn to a silky smoothness. The rifle felt good, like it had been well cared for and appreciated. He realized he no longer cared who won the contest. Instead he just wanted Fleeta to feel good about the outcome, whatever it turned out to be. Which meant he could neither try too hard nor throw the match. He’d just have to do his best and let the cards fall where they may.