Aunt Henry was the first to step up to the shooting line, wielding her spanking-new Colt revolver with purpose. She didn’t hit anything with her first round of bullets, but after reloading and accepting a few quiet suggestions from Grace, she managed to put a hole in the edge of the scarecrow’s leg on attempt number ten. Her whoop of triumph spurred on a barrage of gunplay as the others vied to equal her success.
“C’mon, gals,” Betty urged as she strode up and down her line of riflewomen. “Don’t let Henrietta Chandler best you. If she can hit the target with that peashooter of hers, you can do it with a real weapon!”
Tori lifted her rifle and motioned to Emma with her free hand. “That’s our signal.”
Emma waved her on. “You go ahead. I want to observe for a while. At least until Malachi gets here. He’ll want to know how everyone is doing.”
“What he’ll want is for you to practice,” Tori chided. “Lead by example, remember?”
“Leadership also requires supervision,” Emma quipped with a healthy dose of sass before turning serious. “I’m not trying to get out of anything, Tori. Honest. I’ll take my turn.” Even though the thought of shooting left her queasy.
Ever since Mal had pointed the barrel of that pistol at his own chest, the thought of firing a weapon made her ill. What if she accidentally wounded Mal or one of her ladies? Or a true innocent, like Lewis? She’d never forgive herself. Yet logic told her that the best way both to prevent an accident and protect those she cared about was to learn the skill. She just needed a couple minutes to settle her stomach first.
Tori stared at her, no doubt seeing past Emma’s excuses to the truth beneath, but she didn’t press further. “Don’t wait too long,” was all she said. “Postponing usually makes it worse.”
Emma nodded, knowing Tori was right. She’d walk the line once, see how everyone was faring, then take her place with Betty’s group. And if her stomach still churned? Well, she’d just have to ignore it. Or find a nearby bush to hide behind when she lost her breakfast.
“Hit the targets, Mama!”
Emma glanced up at the church steeple to see Lewis’s short arm waving at them through the opening in the bell tower, a popgun grasped firmly in his hand.
Tori smiled and waved back at her son. “I’ll do my best.” She glanced meaningfully at her friend. “And so will Aunt Emma.”
Rolling her eyes, Emma shooed Tori toward Betty’s group on the left and made her way to the opposite end, where Grace was helping Claire balance her revolver in two hands, much like Malachi had demonstrated for Emma.
Remembering that particular lesson brought an altogether different swirling sensation to her belly. Which only worsened the churning.
Breathe, Emma. Walk and breathe.
Taking small steps and slow breaths, Emma made her way down the line, focusing on each of her ladies as she passed, desperate to take her mind off her nausea. Some were timid with their weapons. Others gripped them so tightly their arms shook from the force. None of them seemed able to hit the targets with any consistency.
It was early yet, Emma reminded herself. Like any skill, marksmanship required practice. Repetition. Time.
Unfortunately, time was in short supply.
She’d nearly reached the end of the line when she spotted Malachi jogging across the field behind the station house, rifle in hand, holster on hip. A little jolt of pleasure shot through her, though she couldn’t tell if it was more from the prospect of spending time with him or the excuse he presented to postpone her lesson a few minutes longer.
She smiled and waved. He raised his chin in acknowledgment and angled his path to intercept her.
“How are the troops shaping up?” he asked, not the least out of breath after his little run.
“Aunt Henry hit the scarecrow.” She decided to start with the good news. And to leave out the part about it taking ten attempts.
“Henry?” Mal chuckled and wagged his head. “Well, good for her. Anyone else connect with a target?”
And now for the bad news. Emma winced slightly. “Well . . . not that I’ve seen. But I’m sure they will by the end of the practice session.”
Mal eyed her, one brow raised. “And you?”
Emma dropped her gaze to the dirt, her stomach immediately clenching. “I haven’t . . . ah . . . taken my turn yet.”
A warm hand circled her wrist. “No time like the present.”
So much for him being her excuse to procrastinate. Emma bit back a groan as Mal dragged her over to Betty’s group. She also pointedly ignored the I-told-you-so look Tori aimed her way as she stumbled up to the shooting line.
“Focus on the closest target,” Mal instructed, gesturing to the painted board staked twenty paces away.
It might be close, but the thing was only a foot across and even fewer inches high. Its insignificant size instilled no confidence whatsoever.
Mal demonstrated the proper stance, took aim with his own rifle, and fired. The blast blended in with the rest of the shots echoing at random intervals along the length of the line, but for some reason, Emma flinched. The target flinched, too, taking the punishment of Mal’s nearly perfect hit through the red circle at the center of the board.