The sun is high over the mountains when I finally haul my venison up the stairs of the back porch. Everything I could carry is wrapped in the deer’s own skin, tied with twine. My shoulders ache—I carried it a mile or more—and though I bundled it up tight as I could, my blouse and skirt are badly stained.

“Mama!” I call out. “Could use a hand.”

She bangs out the doorway, a dishrag in her hands. A few strands of hair have already escaped her shiny brown bun, and the lines around her eyes have gone from laughing to worried.

“Daddy’s not doing so good, is he?” I ask.

Her gaze drops to the bundle in my arms and to the rifle balanced carefully across it. “Oh, bless your heart, Leah,” she says. She shoves the dishrag into the pocket of her apron and reaches out her arms. “Give it here. I’ll get a stew on while you tend your gun and feed the chickens.”

As I hand it over, I can’t help blurting, “There’s more, Mama. I had a find.”

She freezes, and I leap forward to catch the package of meat before it slides out of her arms. Finally, she says, “Been awhile. I thought maybe you’d outgrown it.”

“I reckon not,” I say, disappointed in her disappointment.

“I reckon not,” she agrees. “Well, take care of your business, and we’ll discuss it with your daddy when you’re done.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She disappears into the kitchen. I hitch the Hawken over my shoulder and head toward the henhouse. Just beyond it is a break in the trees. We keep the land clear here, so nothing can sneak up on the chickens easily. It’s a good hundred-yard stretch—all the way to the scar tree, a giant pine I use for discharging my rifle. I whip the gun down and cradle the butt to my shoulder. The wind is picking up from the north a bit, so I aim a hair to the right. Best aim I ever saw from such a wee gal, Jefferson’s da once told me, the only compliment I’ve ever heard him give.

Rear trigger, soft breath, hair trigger, boom. Splinters fly into the air as my shot hits its target. The chickens squawk a bit but settle quickly. They’re used to me.

I lean the gun against the side of the henhouse. I’ll clean her while I’m at the table talking with Mama and Daddy. It will give me an excuse to avoid their worried gazes. “You hungry?” I say, and I hear my chickens—who are not nearly as stupid as most people think—barreling toward the door for their breakfast.