“Okay. It’s okay. Don’t hold your breath. Don’t close your eyes. Eyes on the target this time, and squeeze the trigger.”

She did, hit the white of the paper, then lowered the gun.

“I won’t learn this. I’m sorry.” Deliberately she unloaded, handed the gun carefully to Sawyer. “I’m sorry, I can’t learn this. I’ll work harder, and I’ll fight, but I can’t do this. It feels evil in my hand. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Hey, don’t,” he said quickly when her eyes welled with tears. “We’ll find something else for you. No guns.” He looked meaningfully at Doyle. “She doesn’t have to use a gun.”

“Her call.”

“Yeah, it is. See that.” Sawyer holstered the weapon, put an arm around her shoulders. “Your call.”

“I’m going to fold the laundry. Sasha showed me how. I’m going to go fold the laundry.”

“We’ll think of something else,” Sawyer said to the group when she dashed off.

“I might be able to come up with something.” Bran looked after her. “Something that would give her a weapon, a defense, and not upset her. Let me work on it.”

* * *

By the time they’d concluded what Sasha thought of as Weaponry 101, she found all the laundry finished, folded—and her own share neatly stacked on her bed.

And the house sparkled.

She found Annika in the kitchen, diligently unloading the dishwasher.

“I cleaned the house.”

“I’ll say.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You need to stop being sorry. No one’s mad at you.”

“I didn’t do my task.”

“Because it’s wrong, for you. Everyone understands.” Sasha thought of her sore and aching muscles, weighed them against friendship. “You said you’d teach me the handstand. You could give me a couple private lessons before you work with everyone. Give me a—ha-ha—leg up.”

“Yes, I can. I will.”

“How about now?”

She failed, and even when Annika held her legs, Sasha’s arms and shoulder muscles quivered and pinged like plucked harp strings. During the group lesson, after multiple face and/or ass plants, she was relegated to practicing simple forward and backward rolls.

She would get stronger. She would get better.

Deeming herself finished, she took her aches and pings off for a soak in the hot tub. She considered doing laps, as Doyle had suggested, but the way her arms and legs felt, she’d probably sink straight to the bottom of the pool and drown.

Besides, she’d damn well earned a break.

She hit the jets—ahh—adjusted her sunglasses. She’d just sunk down to her chin when she saw Annika and Riley coming her way.

She liked their company, but at the moment she’d have preferred the moans she knew would come to be a private thing.

Riley set a pitcher of margaritas on the table, poured three glasses. And Annika held up a small bottle.

“Bran said to add this to the water.”

“What is it?”

“Lavender and rosemary and . . .” She looked to Riley.

“Magic. He said it would take care of any muscle soreness. Dump it in, Anni. We’re going to test it out.” Riley handed Sasha a glass.