He nodded. “One of the underclassman’s arrows shot wild. I dodged but not nearly quick enough.”
“Youare the Trinity College archery coach?”
He grinned, the wonder in her eyes oddly satisfying.
“What other secrets do you hide, Professor?”
Just then, the rest of the Inman Manor crew clustered about them, Jonathan Barker jamming his thumb against his own puffed-out chest. “Hah! That’s the mark I left.”
“It is not a prize to be heralded, Barker.” Bram chuckled. “But if there are any prizes to be had at the moment, I should think Miss Penny would get a blue ribbon for the sheer amount of icing sugar on her coat.”
“Oh!” Dixon whipped out a handkerchief and began scrubbing off the offense.
“Archers one through ten, to position!” a bass voice belted out. “All other contestants, queue up behind them.”
“Guess this is it.” Bram strode away to the jolly encouragements of his uncle and students.
Being in the third round, Bram found a spot at the back of two men. Apparently Trestwell was in the second heat, for he stood two rows over behind a burly man nocking his arrow. The announcer positioned himself between the archers and the onlookers.
“The rules are simple, gentlemen. On my mark, you will draw, aim, and release. The closer to the bullseye, the higher the score. There shall be one semifinalist chosen from each round, then those three men will face off to determine the winner. Understood?”
A rousing “Aye!” rumbled through the archers’ ranks.
“Very good. Let the competition begin. Gentlemen ... draw!”
Each man took a sharp stance, feet wide—some too wide—and pulled the bowstrings even with the corners of their mouths.
“Aim!”
Eyes narrowed. Some shut one completely. All focused on the haystacks twenty yards off with a paper bullseye secured to each mound.
“Release!”
Arrows flew. One by one the metal tips thunked into the targets. Only one hit close to center.
“Our first round goes to number eight, Mr. Thomas Golightly.” Applause broke from the spectators, nearly drowning out the announcer. “Second round contenders—eleven through twenty—take your positions, if you please.”
Trestwell cut him a smirk before stepping up to the line in the grass. He nocked his arrow, then planted his feet shoulder-width apart, perpendicular to the target. Bram frowned. There wasn’t one thing wrong in the man’s form, not even when he drew back the bowstring. The real test, though, would be on his follow-through.
“Release!”
Trestwell’s arrow shot true—more than true, actually. Bram scrutinized the target. Trestwell’s arrowhead appeared to be sunk in far deeper than the competition’s. Granted, the man had tremendous upper body strength, but so much?
“The second round belongs to number seventeen, Mr. Richard Trestwell!”
Once again applause thundered. Trestwell arched a brow at Bram. Ignoring him, Bram glanced over at Eva. She stood ramrod stiff.
He smiled, praying such a nonchalant grin would ease her mind. Trestwell had hit dead center of the target, but so would he.
“Last group—twenty-one through thirty—to your mark, please.”
Bram stepped up, taking care not to inch his toe too close to the chalk line. Too many of his students had been disqualified for such a careless stance.
“Draw!”
Bram pressed the tips of his three middle fingers to the string, pulling it even with the corner of his mouth.
“Release!”
