Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

      I didn’t like it.

      I wasn’t here for a relationship or a fling or a one-night stand or hanky-panky. I was here to do a job to the best of my ability. I was here for the money. I wasn’t opposed to a friendship, but I’d learned the hard way that work and relationships don’t mix. In my case, the mistake had been deadly. That wasn’t a lesson I was bound to forget in this lifetime or possibly even the next.

      When Alby and Santos finished, Hank and I walked up to the table. Dale’s expression was grim. I wondered if he was as concerned as I was about the ranch being able to protect itself. Though even after what had happened to the dog, I found it hard to believe there was any real danger. Which was probably the reason I was still here.

      “Care to put your money where your mouth is?” Hank asked as we both loaded cartridges into our rifles.

      His was a bolt action Remington .30-06 with a black composite stock. It was a good rifle, with the added benefit of being able to mount a scope since the cartridge ejection was to the side. I preferred the Winchester .30-30 with the lever action I’d chosen. Besides the lighter recoil that I hoped would be easier on my healing body, I liked how the lever action allowed my trigger hand to remain in contact with the gun. The sniper guys could be crazy fast with their bolt actions, but personally, I had always been conscious of that momentary slip of time as I repositioned my finger over the trigger.

      Even though I hadn’t fired a weapon since leaving the service, the fact that my hands didn’t shake made me proud, and a little cocky. “Sure, Cowboy. What do you wanna bet?”

      “Best of ten rounds wins. Loser makes coffee and lunches for a week.”

      Seven days was a long time for me to stay in one place, but I wasn’t one to back down from a bet. Besides, I didn’t plan on losing. “You’re on. Challenger shoots first.”

      We shook on the deal. His hand was callused and warm and held on to mine a heartbeat longer than necessary. What was that about? Then his attention turned downrange.

      We waited while Jenna and Quinn replaced the paper targets with fresh ones. The targets had five sets of concentric rings. White on the outside then black, blue, red, and finally yellow in the center.

      “Take them out to a hundred yards,” I called out to Jenna.

      Hank arched a brow at me.

      “To make it more interesting.”

      “Fair enough.”

      Link leaned against the round bale where Dale sat perched. When Quinn and Jenna returned, they, along with Santos and Alby, formed a small semicircle behind us and made side bets for chump change.

      By the time Hank was prepared to shoot, he had Alby and Quinn on his side and I had Jenna and Santos on mine. Like Switzerland, Link and Dale remained neutral, but Dale winked at me from above so I figured I had a covert ally.

      No wink from Link, and by his sour expression, I shouldn’t hold my head under water waiting for one. I’m not sure what he had against me, besides the fact I couldn’t ride. Maybe Dale hiring me against his wishes had bruised his ego.

      As Hank fired his first shot, I pushed the thought out of my mind and concentrated on the bet. I wasn’t one who lost sleep at night if someone didn’t like me.

      Hank finished his ten-shot round and laid down his rifle, he had one shot in the blue, five scattered just on the red side of the center, and four in the yellow.

      “Not bad,” I admitted, knowing that with that kind of spread if we’d taken the distance to two hundred yards it would look like he’d been using buckshot.

      Hank tried to come off nonchalant, but he stood straighter, shoulders back, and I could imagine him as an old-time gunslinger blowing the smoke off the end of his pistol. “Your turn, hotshot.”

      “You’ve got this, Mac.” Santos clapped encouragement behind me.

      Jenna whistled sharply. “Take the old man down.”

      Hank shot them a quick glare, but there was no heat behind it. “Old man my ass,” he grumbled as he stepped back from the table to join them.

      Hank called out to Dale and held up one hand. “Toss me those binoculars.” Hank sighted in the target. “Ready when you are.”

      I stepped up to the table, taking my time nestling the stock to my shoulder as I sniffed the sweet mixture of hay and gunpowder hanging in the air. I found the combination comforting somehow. Much in the same way I knew the scent of hot sand would forever put me on edge.

      The sun was out, warming my back, and there was little breeze to account for. I levered a round into the barrel and aimed. I fired.

      “Black. High and left,” Hank reported efficiently, but there was a faint smile on his face. He thought he’d win.

      The old gun didn’t shoot straight, but I knew it wasn’t off by that much. Most of that miss had been me. I inhaled long lung-filling gulps of air and willed my heart rate down. I widened my stance and leaned forward a touch more. The muscles in my bad shoulder burned with the strain of holding the barrel, but I pushed the sensation from my mind.

      I exhaled carbon dioxide and waited for that slice of a second between heartbeats that would still the barrel even more. I rarely caught the timing right, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I fired again.

      “Blue. Left,” Hank reported.

      And again.

      “Red. Left.”

      I was narrowing in on the center. I levered another round and the empty shell sprang free.

      “Yellow. Left of center.”

      I made a hair’s width correction.

      “Bingo,” Hank confirmed.

      I glanced back at Hank as I reloaded five more rounds. He winked at me and my insides squished around as if someone was kneading them like Play-Doh.

      Shaking my head, I cleared my mind. I had five more shots to go and unlike Hank, who had shot well, but was all over the map with his corrections, my grouping grew tighter and tighter. I could still win this.

      My next two shots were tight in the yellow at the center. As I aimed again, Hank moved up behind me. I heard him breathing. My heart sped up and my next shot nicked the line between red and yellow.

      “So close,” Hank said. “Don’t choke now, Army.”

      Army. The acronym the Marines use for Ain’t Ready to be a Marine Yet. Yet it rolled off his tongue like a term of endearment. My heartbeat spiked as I fired.

      “Red, right.”

      Stupid distractions. That was the sort of thing that got you killed. One shot remained and it had to count. I wouldn’t miss again. I blocked out the shouts of Jenna and Santos cheering me on and the friendly jeers from Quinn and Alby. Clearing my mind, I focused on the sights and on my body and found that sweet spot between heartbeats. I fired.

      “Hot damn,” Hank said. I only heard him because he was so close. I’d hit my mark.

      “Dead center,” he announced to the crowd.

      I put the rifle down. Jenna whooped, and she and Santos high-fived each other.

      “Atta girl,” Dale said from the top of the round bale. When I turned around, he was climbing down. Link had already left and Quinn and Alby were grumbling and paying up. If Hank was upset about losing, it didn’t show in the least.

      “Congratulations,” Dale said as he reached me. Before I could thank him, he added, “You’re now our official rifle instructor.”

      “Ehr…Excuse me?” I didn’t quite know how I felt about that. He was not asking me if I wanted to do it. He was informing me that I was doing it.

      “Someone has to teach these yahoos how to shoot. Every