Finally, a deep, tawny chest and a white throat slide into view. He bends a black nose to the ground, and I glimpse tall, curving antlers—at least three points on each side. His neck is long and elegant, feathered with winter fur. He’s so close I can almost see the pulse at his neck. A beautiful animal.

I pull on the rear trigger—soft, steady pressure, just like Daddy taught me. The click as it sets is barely audible, but the buck’s head shoots up. I refuse to breathe.

I am patient. I am a ghost.

He takes a single dancing step, nose twitching. But I’m downwind, and after a moment he returns to grazing. I shift my finger to the hair trigger. The deadfall blocks my view of his skull, so I aim for the lungs.

It will only take the slightest pressure now, the effort of an exhale.

Church bells clang. The buck startles a split second before my gun cracks the air. He crumples, flails in the snow, scrambles to his feet, and darts away, tail sprung high.

“Blast!”

I rip off the ramrod from the barrel as I plunge through the windfall. In good conditions, I can load and shoot again in less than half a minute. Though my fingers are chilled, I might still bag him if I’m quick.

Of course, I wouldn’t need to reload if someone was hunting with me, ready with a second shot. Everything’s harder when you do it alone.

I’m reaching into my satchel for my powder horn when crimson catches my eye. Bright red, sinking wet and warm into the snow. He left a puddle where he fell, and a trail of lighter drops to show me the way. I flanked him good.

I follow at a brisk walk, loading as I go—first gunpowder, then a ball nestled in paper wadding, all shoved down the barrel with my ramrod. I won’t waste another shot on the deer, but there’s a big catamount been prowling these hills. In a winter this mild, the scent of fresh blood might even draw a bear. It’s not quite the hungering time—when a critter that’s naught but fur and fangs and ribs will attack a near-grown girl—but I’ll take no chances.

The trail veers sharply to the right. I pass a bloody depression in the snow where the deer’s legs must have buckled again. I stop to load the cap and rotate the hammer carefully into place, then I lift my skirt and petticoats with my free hand and run—smooth as I can so as not to jostle my gun. I have to reach that deer before anything else does. Never bring home meat that’s already been et on, Daddy always says.