“Remember what I said. Repeat it in your mind, and with enough practice, it’ll become second nature.”
Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Sight on the target. Focus on your muscles. Don’t shake. Hold the gun tight and steady. Three slow breaths, and on the third, hold it, and brush your finger on the trigger. Don’t jerk it. Brush it like paint on a canvas.
Boom!
Reload in case the animal needs a second shot.
Ian had been working with her for six straight hours on every gun she owned. She now knew the name of each and its ammunition, and what gun was best for each situation.
“Good,” he said low. “You want to see the damage?”
“Yeah.” Not because she needed to see if she’d hit the mark. Bark had flown with each shot so she knew she’d been on target, but her shoulder needed a rest. Ian didn’t have to know that little tidbit, though.
Elyse turned the gun back over and shoved the bullet back down out of the chamber and safely into the magazine, then slid the bolt in place with a satisfying click of metal to keep the bullet out of the chamber. This was the first layer of protection, and the second was when she physically clicked the safety into place. Chambering the bullet was as easy as pulling her bolt handle back, slamming the bullet forward, and releasing that safety button right before she pulled the trigger. She and Ian had worked on that over and over until it was as natural as breathing. He seemed just as determined to have her constantly aware of gun safety as he was of working on her marksmanship.
Anticipation surged through her as they hiked closer to the target, and she saw where she’d really been hitting. This was her closest grouping all day, and the grin on Ian’s face said he was proud of her improvement, too. He hugged her against his side and said, “Woman, I think you’ve got this.”
Damn, that man knew how to lift her up. He was a good teacher who didn’t ever put her down. If she messed up, he would simply go over and over the correct way until she understood the how and why. His comments weren’t ever biting either. Ian was patient, calm, and generous with letting her know when she did something right. And the beaming smile on his face now made her heart swell. She was glad she hadn’t given up earlier when her arm had first begun to get sore. From the start, she should’ve trusted him. The tighter against her shoulder she held the weapons, the less recoil she endured when she pulled that trigger.
“I need to eat,” he said.
“Again?” He’d been eating constantly all day.
His smile turned sad. “That’s how it gets…”
“At the end? Like real bears do…you have to eat a lot right before you go to sleep, right?”
Ian led her back toward the table he’d dragged out for the rifles. “Right, but I still don’t feel tired, Elyse. We still have time.”
He kept saying that, but he could never tell her how much time. Shouldering a couple of her rifles while he shoved ammo into his pockets, she said, “I’ve got work to do in the house today.”
“Yeah?”
“Laundry. Contain your jealousy.”
“I can help if you want.”
Imagining him washing her delicates with his big, rough hands, she snickered and shook her head. “Polite decline.”
Back in the cabin, Ian rummaged around the kitchen while she gathered dirty clothes. Hers were spread out here and there as was her habit—some in the corner, some over the chair in their bedroom, some on the end of the bed, and a small pile in the bathroom. Ian was cleaner by nature than her. How much of that was animal instinct, she couldn’t tell.
The soap was bubbling up nicely in the tub, but the water was slow as molasses today, so she dumped the clothes in and left the spout running as she strode across the living room into the guest bedroom, humming to herself. At the kitchen table, Ian was tucking into leftover hamburger pie smothered in cheese. The aroma was a delicious temptation, and while the laundry soaked in the tub, she was going to eat a piece with him.
Ian hadn’t slept in the guest room in weeks, but this was where he kept his belongings, piled neatly on and around the rocking chair in the corner. And beside an empty trash bag he’d used as luggage was a small mountain of wadded up clothes. She dug through the pockets of his pants, grinning at the empty bullet casings and small tools she found, and when she came to a back pocket with a folded piece of white paper, she rushed and put it with the small pile of treasures she was building on the dresser. It was the writing on the other side that caught her attention, though. It read Elyse.
She froze, and the pair of jeans she was rifling through fell from her hands onto the floor near her boots. That wasn’t Ian’s handwriting.