She raised it, her arms shaking slightly. Eli stepped up behind her. He did not touch her at first. Stand with your feet apart. Good.
Now lean into it. He reached around her to adjust her grip. His chest pressed against her back. Maggie's breath hitched. She could feel the solid wall of his body, the heat radiating through his shirt, his arms were around her, his hands covering hers on the grip of the gun.
It was an embrace disguised as a lesson. Relax your shoulders," he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. "I I am trying," she stammered. "Breathe, Maggie.
Don't hold it. Squeeze the trigger. Don't pull. " Like you are threading a needle. Smooth. She focused on the can.
She tried to ignore the pounding of her heart, the overwhelming sensory overload of having him this close. She focused on the front sight. She exhaled. She squeezed. The gun roared, bucking in her hands.
The can on the far right spun off the post. A jagged hole through its center. I hit it, she shouted, turning to look at him. She found his face inches from hers. He was not looking at the can.
He was looking at her, his eyes dark with that same simmering heat from the barn. "You have a good eye," he said softly. They stood there, the gun smoking in her hands, the echo of the shot fading into the hills, the line between survival and desire was blurring, erasing itself with every lesson, every glance, every moment of shared defiance. "I want to try again," she said, her voice dropping. Eli nodded, but he didn't step back.
He stayed right there, wrapping his arms around her again, steadying her aim and anchoring her to the earth. Again, he whispered. And as she took aim, Maggie knew she wasn't just learning to shoot. She was learning that she was dangerous. She was capable.
And for the first time in her life, she was not alone. The world was still too big. Yes, but she was growing to match it. The war for the Mercer ranch did not begin with a roar of cannons, but with the quiet, metallic snip of wire cutters in the dark. It was a slow strangulation.
At first, it was just a few stray calves found wandering on Silas Crane's land, branded with the Mercer brand, but claimed by Crane's foremen as mavericks found on open range. Then it was the water, the creek that fed the north pasture. The lifeline for the herd during the dry season began to run suspiciously low. Eli rode upstream and found a newly built dam on Crane's property, diverting the flow. When he tore it down with his bare hands in a crowbar, he found it rebuilt 2 days later, guarded by men with Winchesters resting across their saddles.
Silas Crane did not hide his hand. He simply dared Eli to bite it. Maggie learned to sleep with one ear open, the silence of the Wyoming night. once terrifying, was now a canvas on which she painted her fears. Every snap of a twig, every hoot of an owl sounded like an intruder. She and Eli took turns keeping watch from the porch, a rifle resting on the railing, a pot of black coffee between them.