“Show him, Shannon,” his father said, holding the rifle out to him.

“Show him? Where?” Shannon took the rifle. “The targets are only two hundred yards out.”

Jergen looked past his brother to the plantation’s far end. “Yes, but the shed’s a good way off. How far would you say that is, Christian?”

All three faced the distant structure, sitting against the tall forest. “Must be a good thousand yards. Maybe more.”

“Twelve hundred,” Jergen said, still looking at the small barn. “And that weather vane propped on top, do you see it?”

Christian lifted his field glasses from his chest and peered north. “That rooster? You can’t expect Shannon to hit that from this distance.”

“No, not just the rooster, Christian. The rooster’s head.”

“Impossible.” He lowered the glasses. “There’s no way. The best marksman in the world would have trouble putting a round there.”

“A round? Who said anything about a round? That rooster there’s been rusted in place for years now. I’ll place money on the boy placing three rounds in its head from this distance.”

Shannon gazed stoically at the distant target. Tanya knew he could shoot, of course. Anything to do with hunting and sport he did well. But she had to use her imagination to even see the rooster’s head. There was no way this side of Jupiter a professional marksman, much less Shannon, could hit a target so far away.

The three men faced away from her, still unaware that she watched.

Shannon suddenly cocked his head over his shoulder, smiled, and winked at her.

She smiled and returned the wink. For a moment they held stares, and then Shannon returned his gaze to the rooster. Tanya took a step closer, swallowing.

“Show him, Shannon,” Jergen said, glasses still at his eyes.

Shannon flipped the rifle in his hands, gripped the bolt, and chambered a round in a single smooth motion. Kachink!

He dropped to one knee and brought the gun to his shoulder, squeezing his eye to the scope. His bronzed cheek bunched on the wood stock. Tanya held her breath, anticipating the first detonation.

Shannon adjusted his grip on the rifle once and sank slowly to his haunches. For several long seconds nothing happened. Father and uncle stared ahead, each through their own binoculars. Tanya breathed, but barely. The air grew deathly still.

The first shot came suddenly, Crack! and Tanya started.

Shannon flinched with the recoil, chambered another round—Kachink— steadied himself briefly, and squeezed off another shot. And then a third, so close to the tail of the second that they chased each other to the target. Echoes reverberated across the valley; father and uncle stood frozen, binoculars plastered to their eyes like generals on the battlefield.

Without lowering his rifle, Shannon twisted his head and drilled Tanya with his bright green gaze. A broad smile split his face. He winked again and stood.

His uncle grunted. “My dear goodness! He’s done it! He’s really done it!”

Tanya walked forward and laid a hand on his arm. The breeze lifted his shoulder-length hair, and she noted the thin sheen of sweat that covered his neck and chest. He bent and kissed her lightly on the forehead.