I sighted the target and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The clay pigeon exploded in a satisfying cloud of dust.

“Pull.”

This time, the pigeon came from the low house.

I pulled the trigger, reduced the clay to rubble, and reloaded.

“Pull.”

Two clays. One from the high house and one from the low.

I hit them both.

“Where did you learn to shoot? And can Thatcher get lessons?”

“My father taught me.” I reloaded and shifted to station two. “Pull.”

I hit another clay.

“Nice.” Thatch fisted his hands as if the compliment cost him.

“Thank you.”

“Does your husband shoot?” Thatch asked. “Skeet, I mean.”

My husband was a homicide detective and carried a handgun. “He does.” We’d discussed skeet after Libba strong-armed us—me, I strong-armed Anarchy—into accepting the invitation to come this weekend. “Pull.”

I aimed, and another low-house clay exploded.

Thatch rubbed his chin. “Is he as good as you?” Perhaps he planned on asking Anarchy for shooting tips.

“We’ll have to find out.” I kept my voice mild. “Pull.”

Again, clays flew from the high and low houses.

I shot them both, and, for a half-second, a smirk claimed my lips. I quickly replaced said smirk with a polite smile. “Graham, would you like a turn?”

Graham grimaced. “You’re a hard act to follow. Please finish.”

I visited all eight stations and didn’t miss a single clay, then Graham claimed the gun Thatcher had used, positioned himself at station one, and rested the shotgun’s butt against his shoulder. "Pull."

He missed.

Thatcher chuckled.

“Pull!”

Graham missed a second time.

Thatcher crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. Now he was the one smirking. “Shall we make this interesting?”

Betting? Neither of them had hit a clay yet. I sealed my lips (they wouldn’t appreciate my observation) and batted away a determined mosquito.

“Twenty dollars a clay?” asked Thatcher.

“Fifty,” Graham replied.

“Let’s make it a hundred.”

Graham grunted his approval.

“What are the rules?” I asked. “You pay for misses or hits?”

They both turned their scowls my way.

Even though I’d asked a legitimate question, I held up my hands. “Can I get in on this?”

The sun had turned the back of Graham’s neck lobster red, he rubbed at his burned skin. “You’re not part of the bet, Ellison.”

Because I could actually hit the targets?

“To twenty-five?” Graham meant twenty-five clays.

“You can afford to lose that much?” asked Thatch.

Graham produced another smirk. “You haven’t hit anything yet.”

Neither of them had. Again, I kept that thought to myself. Instead I eyed the field, now filled with their missed clays.

Graham reloaded and lifted the gun to his shoulder.

The cicadas in the distant trees droned louder than ever.