I tug my scarf up higher against the cold as the vapor of my breath clouds my vision.
“Remind me why this isn’t happening inside, in the warmth of say, a barn, or the clubhouse?” I ask.
“Cause I’m not sure how badly you’d shoot the place up until I’ve seen your shot.” His voice rumbles behind me, low, amused, and enough to heat me through the chill. Thick gloves are tucked in his back pocket, as if he doesn’t feel the cold.
“I can hit a target,” I mutter. But the truth is, the targets I’ve shot at were much bigger than a tin can about twenty-five yards away.
“Mm-hmm.” I can feel the heat of his breath on the back of my neck in spite of the scarf I keep trying to tug up.
I turn my face, defiant and ready to argue, and immediately regret it when his face is right there, his eyes soft. He smells like smoke and cedar oil.
I step up and steal a kiss.
“Don’t try and soften me up,” he says, handing me a pistol. He told me the make and model and why he thought it would be a good fit for my palm as we were walking out of the ranch house, but I already forgot it.
I take it, square my shoulders, take the safety off, and aim at the largest of the tin cans. The gun is steady in my hands as I squeeze the trigger, but the shot pings wide, and the can is left untouched.
“Not too bad,” he says, grinning. “You sure scared that can out of its wits with that warning shot.”
I scowl, hating being beaten. “You wanna try doing better, cowboy?”
He laughs softly, and I realize that River smiles a lot. He’s a happy human. Despite the way kids treated him growing up. Despite having a family that needs him. Despite a fraction of the money still missing.
He’s just one of those people who finds a way to see the good in the day.
“Oh, I can do better, but you’re the one who needs to learn. And I wouldn’t be much of a teacher if all I did was show you how good I am.”
Before I can muster any argument, he steps back up behind me, our bodies aligned. His hands cover mine on the grip. They’re large, rough, and too damn steady. I didn’t even realize my own hands were moving and shaking until his steady one took control.
My back hits the solid wall of his chest, and suddenly, the cold doesn’t matter.
“What if people see us?” I ask.
“What are they going to see? Me teaching you to shoot a gun. No big deal.”
“From where I’m standing, you being all up in my space feels like a big deal.”
Catfish chuckles at that. “Well, it’s nice to know I have that effect on you, sweetheart.”
“Please don’t call me sweetheart in earshot of any of your friends.”
“Can’t guarantee I won’t slip every once in a while, but I’ll do my best. Feet shoulder width,” he says, nudging the inside of my right boot with his own until I shift my stance. “And weight a little forward. You lean back and the recoil will eat you for breakfast.”
I shift my feet so one foot is slightly in front of the other. “Like this?”
“Yeah, exactly like that. And quit lockin’ your elbows. You aren’t a gangster or Sicilian mobster. You got to breathe through it. Stay a little looser.”
He lifts my arms a fraction, and the brush of his fingers against my wrist makes my pulse stutter. His breath is even; Ican feel it in the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
“Like this,” he says. “Inhale. Aim. Exhale slow. Let your body settle before you squeeze.”
I try my best to follow his instructions, but it would be a fair assessment to say I’m more aware of him than I am of the gun and the waiting tin can.
But this time, when my shot cracks, I’m rewarded with the explosive thrust of the can into the air before it spins into the snow.
Catfish grabs both my shoulders and shakes hard. “There you go.”
I lower the gun and turn my head to him, a triumphant grin on my face. “Told you I could hit it.”
