Page 27

Apparently, shooting was one more thing Ranch Girl needed to get reacquainted with.

Jodie set the case aside and thought about looking at herself in her bedroom mirror that morning. She’d been getting dressed for work, standing in her underwear and a tank top while she decided which pants would fit over the brace, when her gaze had landed on her bare arms. She’d flexed one and stared at it critically. She could practically hear Dale again.

Your muscles look like they don’t get much action.

Jodie had dropped her arm like it had betrayed her.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She hadn’t stood in front of a mirror and picked apart her body since she was a teenager. She’d spent years being perfectly comfortable with herself. Maybe she had a few more soft places than she’d had at twenty-one. Big deal. She liked a beer with a slice or two of pepperoni pizza. When she got home after a long day, she liked sprawling on her couch with a new book boyfriend to fall in love with, a box of chocolates, and a glass of wine standing by.

Nothing wrong with that.

And Mac certainly didn’t have any difficulty carrying her.

That memory had made her smile.

Then she’d flexed her arm again.

Dammit.

Dale hadn’t done this to her. Somewhere along the way, without noticing, she really had gotten weaker, and now she couldn’t ignore it.

She sat behind a desk most of the day. She exercised the dogs and assisted in the clinic and ran around Watchdog putting out everybody else’s fires, but none of that was the same as hauling hay and riding every day and doing hours of physical work on a ranch. There had been a time when she’d been strong because her life required it. Now it didn’t. And that bothered her.

Apparently, Dale had managed to poke at her one insecurity, and she was furious with herself for giving the asshole that much power.

Jodie had looked at herself in the mirror one last time.

“Congratulations, Douchey Dale. You got in my head. Now I gotta join a gym.”

Well, eventually. Once her ankle stopped being an asshole, too.

But this morning, she could at least shoot.

Jodie pushed the morning memories away and began setting up. Safety glasses on. Hearing protection and ammunition on the bench, separated until she was ready. She checked the rifle before laying it down, muzzle pointed safely downrange.

The fertility-control dart rifle Arden used was different, and Jodie would need training before anybody let her anywhere near a wild horse with one. But marksmanship was marksmanship. Breath and trigger and a shot that landed where she meant it to. And all of it done standing, because nobody darted a mare from a bench.

And right now, she was rusty as hell.

Fine. That’s why I’m here—to fix all that.

She’d beaten everyone into Watchdog that morning except Kyle, who had told her he was more than happy to give her another day off if she needed it. Camo normally greeted her with a dog-hug—a heavy lean against her leg—but today he leaned lightly, as if he’d recognized her limping as an injury. She’d told Kyle she was fine and where she was heading, and he nodded his approval and thanked her for stepping in for Arden.

Then he gave her a smile that told her Arden had spilled her guts about everything they’d talked about on Sunday.

Ugh!

She was clipping a fresh target to the carrier and running it out to fifty yards when movement on the path caught her attention. Someone was coming down from the main building. Tall. Broad shoulders. Easy stride. Even from a distance, she knew him.

Mac.

Jodie smiled before she could stop herself.

Well. This morning is certainly looking up.

As if she hadn’t known his habits. Mac would do just about anything to avoid practicing in the middle of the day under full sun, and she had absolutely known that when she’d decided to come in early.