“Go with her,” Buffy urged. “You know how she gets.” Once Mel got an idea in her head, it was near impossible to change it.

“It’s hot,” I complained.

“You can swim after we shoot. The water will be twice as refreshing.”

The water wasn’t terribly refreshing now. A few more hours of sunlight would not improve its temperature.

“Please?” Mel hit me with puppy-dog eyes.

I knew Mel. She wouldn’t stop asking. Not until she wore me down. “Fine. Give me a few minutes to change.”

“Great. Thank you! I’ll meet you at the range.”

Fifteen minutes later, wearing jean shorts, cowboy boots (because, snakes) and a long-sleeved t-shirt, I joined Mel at the field.

The guys moving into the trap houses looked even less than thrilled to be there than I was. I couldn’t hold their thunderous expressions against them, the heat in the tiny boxes had to be awful.

Mel shot her way around the circle and only missed three clays. “Your turn. What are we shooting for?”

“A cold beer in the shade.”

“When?”

“Right after my round. It’s too hot for this.”

She tilted her head. “Since when are you a delicate flower?”

“I was thinking about the guys in the trap houses. They have to be melting.”

“Oh. Right.” She frowned. “I didn’t think about them.”

I picked up a shotgun, wiped the sweat from my eyes, and hit every clay. “That’s it, guys,” I called. “You can come out.”

The two men, positively dripping with sweat, emerged from the trap houses. I gave them each slightly damp twenty dollars from my back pocket, then turned to Mel. “You owe me that beer.” And shade. I wanted shade almost as much as I wanted a cold beverage.

“A deal’s a deal.” She didn’t look happy about it. “There's beer in the fridge at our cabin.”

“Lead the way.”

I followed her to the cabin closest to the clubhouse. There was a view of the lake and the gazebo. When we stepped inside, I found the same rustic charm, the same knotty pine, and an actual sitting area. “This is nice.”

“Compared to what? Have a seat.”

I collapsed onto a loveseat covered in a deeply ugly, nubby, plaid fabric. Who thought harvest gold, burnt sienna, avocado green, and puke brown (Anarchy could attest to the accuracy of that shade) went together?

“Do you want a glass?”

“Yes, please.”

Mel took two mugs from the freezer and two beers from the fridge, then gave me one of each.

I poured my drink and shifted on the lumpy couch. The fabric was scratchy against the back of my thighs and I suspected there was a spring loose.

Mel took the seat across from me, poured her beer, and drank. “I have to admit, this is a good idea.”