He fetched the rifle and a box of cartridges from the cabin, then led her out past the corral to a clearing where the land opened up. He set up a row of tin cans on a fallen log about 50 yards out. Then came back to where she stood waiting. "You ever fire one of these?" he asked, holding up the rifle. "Once, a long time ago."
"All right. First thing you need to know is respect. A rifle's not a toy. You point it at something, you better be ready to kill it. Understand?"
She met his eyes. "I understand." He showed her how to hold it, how to brace the stock against her shoulder, how to line up the sights. She followed his instructions carefully, her movements deliberate. When she was ready, he stepped back.
"Take your time. Breathe out slow. Squeeze. Don't pull." She sighted down the barrel, her body tense.
The shot cracked across the clearing loud enough to scatter the crows from the trees. The bullet kicked up dirt 6 feet to the left of the cans. "Too much tension," Wyatt said. "You're fighting the recoil. Let the rifle do the work."
She adjusted, tried again. This time the bullet clipped the edge of the log. "Better. Keep going." They spent the next hour out there, Ayla firing round after round while Wyatt watched and corrected.
She was a fast learner, her focus absolute. By the time the box of cartridges was empty, she'd hit three cans and come close to several others. "Not bad," Wyatt said as she lowered the rifle. "Not good enough," Ayla replied, her voice tight with frustration. "You'll get there.
Takes practice, same as anything else." She handed the rifle back to him, her face unreadable. "Thank you." "Don't mention it." They walked back to the ranch in silence, the sun starting its slow descent toward the horizon.
When they reached the cabin, Wyatt cleaned the rifle and put it away while Ayla started on dinner. She'd taken over most of the cooking without being asked, and he'd let her. She was better at it than him, and the meals had improved considerably since she'd arrived. Tonight it was beans and salt pork, simple but filling. They ate by the fire, the warmth slowly seeping back into their bones.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters. Wyatt glanced toward the window, then back at "Ayla." "You ever think about what comes next?" he asked. She looked up from her plate. "What do you mean?"
"After winter, when the roads clear, you planning to move on?" The question hung in the air between them. Ayla set down her fork, her expression guarded. "I don't know," she said finally. Haven't thought that far ahead.
Wyatt nodded. He understood that when you were running, you didn't think about next month or next year. You thought about tonight, tomorrow morning, the next meal. Anything beyond that was a luxury you couldn't afford. "Well," he said, "you're welcome to stay as long as you want.
No pressure either way." She studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Really?" "Told you already."