Mucking out, scooping damp straw and shit and bagging it. Fetching a small packed bale from the store and forking it out and over. She knew to leave the wet spots, let them dry before she covered them over. She filled their water, gave grain twice a day, same exact time, the gray could get colic. She led them to their place and closed the gate, sometimes watching them run hard then kick and thrash like they were about to be roped. Duchess liked horses, as every outlaw should.
Gunshot.
It shook the calm from Duchess with such force she fell to her knees. The elk, one foot raised, heads tilted. And then they scattered and ran, so fast they were gone by the time she stood.
She sprinted for the house, heart hammering as her mind ran to Darke.
She calmed a little when she saw Hal on the porch, but his face was drawn with worry.
“He’s upstairs, in the closet.”
She took the stairs fast, into their room and saw him, on the floor, the blanket over his head.
“Robin.” She didn’t touch him just yet, instead scooted herself under till she was close.
“Robin,” she spoke softly. “It’s alright.”
“I heard it.” So quiet she leaned in.
“What did you hear?”
“The gun. I heard it. I heard it again.”
That afternoon Hal led them down to the red barn and told them to wait out in the sun. Duchess walked over to the door, peeked through the crack and saw Hal roll the mat back.
“Grandpa said to wait here.”
She hushed her brother.
Hal pulled up a door in the floor and stepped down. He returned with a gun. He held it loose in his hand, by his side, a small tin box in his other hand.
Duchess stood close to her brother.
“This is a Springfield 1911. It’s a handgun, light and accurate. Every farmer needs a gun. What you heard before was just hunters, it’s important you get used to the sound. I don’t want you to be afraid.” He knelt and held the gun out to them. Robin took a step behind Duchess’s leg.
“It’s not loaded and the safety is on.”
After a minute Duchess reached out and took it, colder than she thought, heavy when he said it was light.
She studied it with care, then Robin stepped out and looked. He ran a finger over the handle.
“You want to try shooting, Duchess?”
Duchess looked down at the gun, her mind on her mother. The hole torn in her chest. She thought of Vincent King.
“Yes.”
Out to the green field, crops no higher than Duchess’s ankle. Beyond they came to the first of the cedars, tall, ladders to the sky.
On a trunk wider than them both were a smattering of marks, pocks, neat and ordered. Leaves long dead and settled, green moss crept to fallen sticks and puddles that shone with the canopies above them.
Hal led them back fifty paces, removed four bullets and showed them the chamber as he loaded. He ran through the safety and sight, the correct two-hands and how to breathe nice and even. And then he handed each a pair of ear protectors.
The first time Hal fired Robin jumped clear back and Duchess held him. The second he did it again. Third and fourth a little less.
Duchess loaded next, Hal instructing. She handled the bullets with care like he said but her heart still quickened, the memories fluid, carrying her back so totally. Walk and the other cops, her brother. The tape and the news vans and the noise.
She missed six in a row, each time yanking her hand back from the kick instead of planting her feet. Robin grew bolder, still clutching Hal’s hand but not turning his head.
She loaded again, this time only the forest noise with her, Hal watching close but letting her figure it out.
The first time she hit the tree she took a chunk from the edge.
Then she put two in the center, Robin whooping and clapping.
“You can shoot,” Hal said.
She turned back before he could see the small smile.
She worked her way through the box, till she could sink them into the middle of the cedar, or a little higher or lower. And then Hal moved her back twenty paces and she learned all over again. Correcting the angle, shooting as she knelt, then from her stomach. Devoid of emotion, adrenaline, the human traits that ruined finesse.
As they walked back toward the farmhouse Robin ran on ahead to check on his birds. The chickens. He collected the eggs each morning, his job alone and he lived for it.
Duchess watched the land as the sun began its drop, not low enough to splinter the colors but she felt the heat dying. Summer was breathing its last, Hal said fall was spectacular.
She drew up by the gray, who came to her. Duchess stroked her gently.
“She doesn’t come for me,” Hal said. “She likes you, and she doesn’t like many people.”
Duchess said nothing, not wanting to fall into conversation, not wanting to lose that fire that kept her moving through each day.
That night she ate dinner alone on the porch, stomach tight as she listened as Hal laughed at something Robin said. It was moments like those it came for her, and dragged her back to the Cape. The old man laughing, smiling, after what his grandchildren had been through. A bond was forming.
She walked back into the kitchen, opened the cabinet and pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from the top shelf.
She took it down to the lake, unscrewed the cap and drank. She did not flinch at the burn. She thought of Vincent King, drank some more, then Darke, and drank again. She drank and drank till the pain eased, her muscles unwound and the world began to spin. Problems melted, edges softened. She lay flat on her back and closed her eyes, feeling
