No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(64)

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.

“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.