He took a breath. Held it. Narrowed both eyes on the target, shutting out the world around him. Ever so slowly, the air whooshed from his lungs, his fingers moving slightly to release the arrow—
When something clattered behind him, shattering his focus. The arrow flew too soon. Too wide. The tip of it plummeted into the target’s black dot, but not at dead center.
He wheeled about. Trestwell grinned hardly six paces behind him, stooping to pick up his dropped bow.
Immediately Bram’s students yelled all manner of complaints—as did his uncle and even Dixon.
“Foul!” Bram agreed. “That man deliberately tried to distract me.”
Trestwell held up his hands. “Untrue. All can see this divot here.” He pointed at a dip in the ground as the judges neared him. “Lucky I didn’t twist my ankle.”
“Of all the—”
“Indeed, there appears to be a divot here, Mr. Gallen,” one of the judges called to the announcer. “Nothing intentional.”
“Even so,” Bram objected, “he broke my concentration. That is not fair.”
A round of ayes raised from the crowd, the loudest of which came from Eva and the crew.
Mr. Gallen held up a hand. “It is of no consequence, for you have won the third round, Mr. Webb. And so we have our three semifinalists. Gentlemen, take your positions as new targets are posted.”
Trestwell sauntered to the far side of him, leaving Golightly between them. Just as well. Were Trestwell any closer, the temptation to knock him to the ground would be hard to resist.
“Release!”
Again Trestwell’s sank deep into the center. Bram’s hit spot-on as well. The other fellow’s tip hit an inch too wide.
“This round goes to Mr. Webb and Mr. Trestwell. Sorry about that, Mr. Golightly. Good try and all.”
The bald-headed man slumped away, the tip of his bow dragging on the ground.
Mr. Gallen approached Bram and Trestwell, speaking for them alone. “For the final round, gentlemen, you will be aiming for the same target. A flip of the coin will decide who goes first. Mr. Trestwell, being you were the better aim in the first round, you get the call.”
“Heads.”
A penny arced in the air, landing flat in Mr. Gallen’s palm. “Heads it is. You’re up, Mr. Trestwell.”
Good. Bram stepped aside. He often told his students that being the last to shoot allowed one to time his shot strategically, ensuring proper focus and concentration without feeling rushed by the pace of competition.
“When you’re ready, Mr. Trestwell,” Mr. Gallen called.
A hush came over the onlookers. Bram didn’t dare look at Eva. Better to keep an eye on Trestwell’s form and prepare for his own shot.
Thwack.
Trestwell’s arrow once again sank deep, hitting true.
Cheers raised. Bram absently rubbed the scar on his cheek. No wonder Trestwell had won the last three years. The power in his arms had to be magnificent to plant a tip into the target like that.
Trestwell wheeled about and took a formal bow.
Of all the arrogance.
“You have not won yet,” Bram grumbled as he stepped to the mark.
“Now then, Mr. Webb.” Mr. Gallen spoke above the crowd. “You will have to split that arrow in order to win, sinking your tip in deeper than Mr. Trestwell’s, which has only been accomplished once to my recollection.”
He tested the weight of his bow by lightly bouncing it in his hand. Mentally, he calculated the trajectory and force required to split the arrow. With unwavering focus, he drew the bowstring. Filled his lungs. Held the air. Aligned the tip of his arrow just to the right of Trestwell’s.
