The decision to come to the shooting range was a mistake. I could be on a shaded dock with the other woman who’d been corralled into this weekend. I could be enjoying the breeze off the lake (a generous description for the extra-large pond) while I enjoyed a gin and tonic. But no. I’d chosen guns and the opportunity to test my skills, and now I stood in late afternoon sun hot enough to melt the polish off my nails and listened to two men take potshots at each other. Potshots more accurate than their actual shooting.

“Just kicking off the rust,” Thatch ground out. “I haven’t held a shotgun in months.”

“That’s your story?” Graham produced another grin.

Thatch’s shoulders tightened, a posture that wouldn’t help his aim.

I held my tongue. Thatch wouldn’t appreciate shooting tips from a woman. Even if I could tell him exactly what he was doing wrong.

As a girl who adored her daddy, I'd embraced his passions—hunting and golf. I learned early how to shoot a gun and swing a club. And because (according to Mother) anything worth doing was worth doing well, I’d excelled.

When I refused to shoot animals, Daddy had introduced me to skeet. We’d spent countless Saturday afternoons blowing apart clay pigeons.

One of Daddy’s first lessons? Hold a shotgun like a baby bird.

Thatch gripped his gun as if it were a baseball bat signed by the Royals’ third baseman he and Graham had discussed before the shooting began. His death grip coupled with the tightness in his shoulders meant he’d be lucky to hit the broadside of a barn. “Pull!”

Bang!

Thatch wasn’t lucky, and Graham laughed out loud when the shot went wide.

“May I try?” Intervening seemed like the best way to avert a murder before cocktail hour.

Thatch forgot his ire, and Graham forgot his mockery. Instead, they stared at me as if my presence surprised them. That or they didn’t believe women could shoot skeet. Either way, they’d been so invested in measuring their…egos, they’d forgotten me.

A cocktail on the dock was sounding better and better.

I ignored the 12-gauge double-barrel that Thatch held out. Maybe he thought a 12-gauge was manly, but I could live without the kick. Instead, I claimed a .410 from the gun rack. Then I loaded, stepped forward to station one, and settled the butt against my shoulder.

“You should adjust your stance,” said Thatch. “Open up.”

Because he was so good at hitting the clays? My stance was fine. “I think I’ll stick with what I know.”

He grunted his disapproval.

Graham studied me with narrowed eyes. “You need a tighter hold on the fore stock.”

For the love of Pete. I forced a small smile, acknowledged his unsolicited advice with a quick nod, and kept my Daddy-approved, firm-but-not-so-tight-I’d-kill-a-baby-bird grip. “Pull!”