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things, but
the ultimate betrayal, the thing that made Silas’s gut twist into
knots, was the fact that his brother had gone on to marry a woman
so like Isabelle it made him both wistfully nostalgic and furious
every time he looked at her.
    “I came out here to help.” Jolee stepped
around the shed and Silas quickly grabbed his shirt, buttoning it
up, his back to her. “What can I do?”
    When he glanced over at her, wearing jeans
and her boots and one of his t-shirts—she still had a penchant for
wearing them in spite of the fact he’d gotten her some that
actually fit—and a hoodie pulled over that, he shook his head, more
to clear it than anything else.
    “Go back in the house.” He kicked the maul
aside, moving past her, heading around the shed. She’d broken his
reverie and he was in a sour mood now. He needed to do something to
steady himself.
    “No.” She followed him, watching as he
withdrew his bow and quiver. “You said there was a lot of work to
do around here. I can help.”
    Silas went back out behind the shed,
ignoring her as she trudged alongside him. There was a target set
up against a tree in the distance and he pulled an arrow, aiming,
trying to focus.
    “Wouldn’t a gun be more efficient for
hunting?” Jolee chimed in just as he let the arrow fly. It threw
him off and he swore under his breath, drawing another arrow.
    “Too noisy,” he countered, pulling his bow
again and breathing deep, centering himself. He could hear her
stamping her feet in the snow next to him, bouncing a little to
keep warm, her breath coming wispy white streams, and he found
himself unable to concentrate. Putting his bow down, he turned to
look at her, frowning.
    “I’m sorry about what I said.”
    She pursed her lips for a minute, blinking
those big dark eyes at him. Then she shrugged. “That’s okay. You’re
right, if I’m going to stay here, I should help you.”
    “Maybe when you’re all healed up.” He nodded
at the bandage on her forehead. It was smaller, but the wound
underneath was still considerable and she was going to have a scar,
no matter how many careful stitches he’d applied—he’d lost count
after the fifteenth.
    “Well there has to be something I can do.”
She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Besides, I’m going stir crazy
staying in the house all day reading Guns and Ammo and
watching you check in on me when you think I’m sleeping.”
    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