Silas flushed and was glad for the cold, an excuse for the roses blooming on his cheeks.

“Well, there is one thing.”

She followed him again as he headed to the truck parked in the driveway. His gun case was in the back and he unlocked it, pulled out the 10/22 Ruger, checking the safety and shouldering it. It was always loaded.

“I hate guns.” She trailed him back again behind the shed.

He gave her a quelling look. “I can’t be here all the time, you know.” He went out to the fence line, lining several targets up for them to shoot at that he’d picked up in the shed-three tin soda cans and a beer bottle. Then he went back to where she was standing, watching, arms crossed over her chest. Silas lifted the gun, let the safety off, and aimed.

“You’re going to have to learn how to protect yourself,” he said, pulling the trigger. One of the soda cans jumped and fell off the fence post. His shot was a good one, although he’d just clipped it-he was actually far better with a bow.

“The first rule of guns is to always assume they’re loaded.” He showed her the clip. “The second rule-”

“Never point the gun at anything you’re not willing to kill.” She held her hand out for it.

Silas hesitated, frowning. “I said I hated guns, not that I didn’t know how to use one.” He handed the Ruger over, watching doubtfully as she turned the safety on, checked the clip herself, and then unlocked it, shouldering the gun and aiming. The second and third soda cans fell, followed by the bottle, which shattered with her last shot. He gave a low whistle as she put the safety back on and handed the gun over.

“So you can handle a gun.” He nodded, squinting his eyes at the carnage of bottles and cans left in the snow. It was pretty impressive. “But can you cook?” Jolee grinned. “Far better than I can shoot. Where’s that elk?”

* * * *