“Now you.” He stepped aside and urged her forward.
Emma swallowed hard, her insides roiling with greater ferocity. Her hands shook as she lifted the weapon to her shoulder. She tried to steady the barrel with her left hand, but her palm was too sweaty. Dropping her left arm, she rubbed her palm against the fabric of her skirt and bumped against the hard circle of her father’s watch.
“You can do this, Emma.” Her father’s words rang through her mind, encouraging, expectant, gently pushing her past her fear of failure just as he had every time she’d tried something new as a child. Riding a pony, saying her lines in the school Nativity play, balancing a column of figures.
“Take a slow, deep breath. It will still your nerves.”
It took a moment for Emma to realize the advice came from Mal, not the memories of her father. Mal’s voice was as steady as her father’s always had been. Calming. Brimming with belief that she could prevail.
It was his belief in her that finally quieted the storm inside. The queasiness didn’t abate, but after she followed his direction and inhaled a long, slow breath, the churning slowed enough that she could clear her mind and release her fear.
“Hold the grip. Tuck the stock into the pocket of your shoulder. Now reach out and support the barrel.” His voice rolled over her like warm oil, soothing her remaining rough edges and greasing the cogs inside until everything ran smoothly. “Widen your stance a bit. Good. Twist at the waist and sight your target.”
He didn’t touch her, but she could feel him at her side. Feel his support. His strength.
“When you’re ready, move your finger to the trigger, release your breath, and squeeze.”
As if hypnotized by his voice, she followed his instructions as he spoke them. Her finger slid down to curve around the trigger. She exhaled, made a mental note to keep her eyes open this time, and squeezed.
The kick surprised her, shoving the stock into her shoulder with more force than she’d expected. Pulling a trigger for practice when the magazine was empty didn’t exactly produce the same experience. Feeling a little bruised, she started to lower the rifle in order to rub the sore spot, but Mal’s voice intruded again.
“Wide right. Try again.”
She scrunched her nose. He was starting to sound less like a source of calm and more like a taskmaster. But she responded, fitting the rifle stock back into her shoulder. Couldn’t have the man thinking her too delicate to continue, could she?
Not waiting for his instructions this time, Emma regained her stance, sighted the target once again, and shot.
High.
She glared at the target and adjusted the angle of her rifle, no longer caring about the ache in her shoulder. She was going to hit that plank of wood.
“Lower your cheek to the stock this time,” Mal murmured close to her ear. “Use your dominant eye to sight the target. Don’t try to look through both.”
Emma pressed her cheek to the stock and focused on the sight at the end of her barrel then lined it up with the center of the target. She squeezed the trigger. The target wobbled. Her heart thumped a wild, excited rhythm. She lifted her cheek and stared at the old board in disbelief. She’d shot the top right corner clean off!
“Good job.” Mal’s hand rested on her left shoulder for a brief moment, just long enough for her pulse to ratchet up another notch. “Now do it again, and this time hit the paint.”
Determined to prove to him she could do just that, Emma gave a sharp nod and lifted the rifle back into place. But just as she fit the stock to her shoulder, a muffled gunshot rang out behind her. Far behind her. She turned.
“That came from town.” Malachi took off, sprinting toward the church even as the steeple bell rang out a warning.
Emma raced after him, not about to let him go alone. He slowed slightly at the front of the church and craned his neck up to peer at the bell tower.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled a single word. “Where?”
Emma doubted Aunt Bertie would be able to hear a thing with the bell donging so close to her head, but she leaned out the opening and gestured across the street anyway.
The station house.
Emma leapt toward home, but a firm grip on her arm brought her up short.
“No.” Mal scowled down at her, his eyes promising he’d give no quarter if she chose to disobey.
“That’s my home,” Emma protested, even as a touch of rationality cut through the haze of anger that had blotted out all else the instant she realized someone was in her house doing only God knew what. If she blindly rushed in, she’d no doubt play right into the outlaws’ hands. Mal was right. She had to think.