Page 43 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

Liv froze, heart pounding.

"You clipped it," Kenny said. No smile, but his voice carried something close to approval. "Try again. Aim lower this time."

She pulled in another breath. Steadied herself. Remembered the weight of the rifle, the way the kick felt, the sound echoing across the open land.

Squeezed again.

The can flew off the post.

"Yes!" Charlotte shrieked, jumping up and down. "You killed the can! You get a sticker!"

Liv lowered the rifle, hands still shaking—but not from fear this time.

From something else. Something fiercer.

Power. Competence. Control.

She looked at Kenny.

He nodded once. "Welcome to Texas."

Heather came over, grinning. "Not so scary when you know how to hold it, right?"

"No." Liv handed the rifle back to Kenny carefully. "I feel... stronger."

"Good," Mike said. "That's how you should always feel around here. Now let’s try it with a hand gun. Different feel. Mr. sharp-shooter here prefers rifles,” he said, nodding at Kenny. “But you might be more comfortable with something smaller."

“I thought you were a medic in the service?”

“You make that sound wimpy.”

“Oh, no! I?—”

He laughed. “Kidding. Even us medics are highly trained in weaponry.”

For some reason, she found that incredibly sexy.

Mike swung a small black case off his shoulder and popped it open. Inside, foam cradled a matte-black pistol and two magazines. He lifted it out, cleared the chamber even though she’d just watched him check it twice, then angled it so she could see straight through. Empty.

“Rules don’t change,” he said. “They just get bossier.”

Kenny made a low sound that might have been a laugh. Heather nudged him with her elbow and whispered something that made his mouth twitch.

Mike slid a magazine in and locked the slide back. “We’ll start with five rounds. Less to think about.” He glanced at Kenny for the go-ahead. Kenny gave it without words.

He set a second can on a lower fence rail. Twenty feet, maybe. Close enough that she could see the rust.

He handed her the pistol muzzle down, grip first, his fingers warm against the backs of her knuckles. “Grip is everything here,” he said. “Thumbs forward, not behind the slide. I like your thumbs where mine are.” He guided them, palm over hers, coaxing her fingers into place. “Good. Think firm handshake, not death clamp.”

Her chest tightened anyway.

He shifted, came in behind her. He didn’t crowd. He surrounded. The heat of him, the steadiness of him, slipped under her skin like sunlight.

“Stance is almost the same,” he murmured, and she felt his breath at the shell of her ear. “Weight a little forward. Knees soft. If you lock your elbows, you’ll fight it.”

She tried to remember how to breathe.

“Sight picture,” he said, and she watched the little squared-off front post float and sharpen. “Front sight is your queen. Focus on her. The rest is just cheering.”