ought to
come with some kind of controlled substance warning. Judging by how bleary she suddenly
felt, they had to be at least 100 proof.
“Do you do this often?” she asked, forcing her mouth to make conversation. “Target
practice?”
He nodded. “Most afternoons, once the chores are done.”
She eyed the bow, wondering how heavy it was. Wondering if holding it would make her
feel as tough as Rob had looked.
“Would you like to try?” he asked.
“Kind of.” Kind of
definitely
. Especially if it might mean Rob would stand right behind her, his capable arms brushing
hers as he corrected her form, voice so close by her ear.
Pervert.
“All right,” he said. “Come on.”
A year ago, Merry wouldn’t have said yes. She’d avoided most any new activity that
called attention to her body—to her physical competence, or rather, complete lack
thereof. A year ago she’d
never
have tried archery with witnesses, nor kickboxing lessons nor tango classes nor a
beginners’ jogging meet-up, and certainly not a 170-mile solo hike across fucking
Scotland.
The old Merry,
she thought as they walked.
Good riddance, you poor frightened thing.
Rob led her back to where he’d been shooting from, the spot marked by its balding
grass. He leaned the bow and arrows against a large rock, then unbuckled the leather
strap from his forearm.
“What’s this for?” she asked as he handed it over.
“It’s a guard. Keeps your arm from getting bruised when the bowstring snaps back.
You right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll go on your left arm, then.”
She got it pinned between her forearm and chest, struggling with the little straps.
“Here.” Rob took it from her and she held out her arm. She stared at
his
forearms as he secured it, at those muscles and tendons, at the very physicality
of this man. He tugged the straps as tight as they went.
“That’s a bit loose,” he said, jiggling the guard, “but it’ll serve.” Next he unbuckled
the three-fingered strappy glove-thing and passed it to her. It was too big as well,
but pleasantly warm. From Rob. It covered her wrist and thumb and the backs and tips
of her three middle fingers. Merry fastened it and admired her hand. “I feel tough.”
He passed her the bow, showing her which way was up.
“Now get yourself sideways,” he said. “Face me.”
She did, struck by his height. And nearness. And authority.
“Sorry, shoulders facing me—your feet can be a bit more toward the tree . . . Yeah.
Good.” He grabbed the quiver and slid an arrow free, handing it to Merry. “Now get
the notched end seated against the string, right at the mark. Other side—there you
go. Go ahead and straighten your left arm.”
She did, and the arrow settled along a ridge in the bow’s wooden grip. She felt Rob
moving to stand behind her, just as she’d hoped. She didn’t get the warm length of
his body pressed flush to hers, but he did cup her shoulder, gently correcting her
stance.
“Close your left eye.”
She did, feeling all shivery from his voice, just as she’d known she would.
“Can you see straight down the shaft?”
Ooh, just that word, in that accent.
Shoft.
“Yes.”
“Good. Go ahead and pull the string back.” He stepped away as she did.
“Damn, that’s tougher than it looks.”
“That bow’s not exactly your fit,” he said, and Merry’s arm began shaking with the
pressure. “Line the arrow up, straight at the tree. Right elbow nice and high. Bring
the nock up a bit—”
“The what?”
“The notched end. Bring it right up beside your lips. Perfect. Take a deep breath,
then let it go after the exhale.”
Shoulder aching, she obeyed gladly. As the breath left her body, the string and arrow
fled her fingers. It missed the tree wildly, flying high and to the right by several
feet. But still. “Oh, cool! Give me another.”
She couldn’t quite tell in her periphery, but she thought he
come with some kind of controlled substance warning. Judging by how bleary she suddenly
felt, they had to be at least 100 proof.
“Do you do this often?” she asked, forcing her mouth to make conversation. “Target
practice?”
He nodded. “Most afternoons, once the chores are done.”
She eyed the bow, wondering how heavy it was. Wondering if holding it would make her
feel as tough as Rob had looked.
“Would you like to try?” he asked.
“Kind of.” Kind of
definitely
. Especially if it might mean Rob would stand right behind her, his capable arms brushing
hers as he corrected her form, voice so close by her ear.
Pervert.
“All right,” he said. “Come on.”
A year ago, Merry wouldn’t have said yes. She’d avoided most any new activity that
called attention to her body—to her physical competence, or rather, complete lack
thereof. A year ago she’d
never
have tried archery with witnesses, nor kickboxing lessons nor tango classes nor a
beginners’ jogging meet-up, and certainly not a 170-mile solo hike across fucking
Scotland.
The old Merry,
she thought as they walked.
Good riddance, you poor frightened thing.
Rob led her back to where he’d been shooting from, the spot marked by its balding
grass. He leaned the bow and arrows against a large rock, then unbuckled the leather
strap from his forearm.
“What’s this for?” she asked as he handed it over.
“It’s a guard. Keeps your arm from getting bruised when the bowstring snaps back.
You right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll go on your left arm, then.”
She got it pinned between her forearm and chest, struggling with the little straps.
“Here.” Rob took it from her and she held out her arm. She stared at
his
forearms as he secured it, at those muscles and tendons, at the very physicality
of this man. He tugged the straps as tight as they went.
“That’s a bit loose,” he said, jiggling the guard, “but it’ll serve.” Next he unbuckled
the three-fingered strappy glove-thing and passed it to her. It was too big as well,
but pleasantly warm. From Rob. It covered her wrist and thumb and the backs and tips
of her three middle fingers. Merry fastened it and admired her hand. “I feel tough.”
He passed her the bow, showing her which way was up.
“Now get yourself sideways,” he said. “Face me.”
She did, struck by his height. And nearness. And authority.
“Sorry, shoulders facing me—your feet can be a bit more toward the tree . . . Yeah.
Good.” He grabbed the quiver and slid an arrow free, handing it to Merry. “Now get
the notched end seated against the string, right at the mark. Other side—there you
go. Go ahead and straighten your left arm.”
She did, and the arrow settled along a ridge in the bow’s wooden grip. She felt Rob
moving to stand behind her, just as she’d hoped. She didn’t get the warm length of
his body pressed flush to hers, but he did cup her shoulder, gently correcting her
stance.
“Close your left eye.”
She did, feeling all shivery from his voice, just as she’d known she would.
“Can you see straight down the shaft?”
Ooh, just that word, in that accent.
Shoft.
“Yes.”
“Good. Go ahead and pull the string back.” He stepped away as she did.
“Damn, that’s tougher than it looks.”
“That bow’s not exactly your fit,” he said, and Merry’s arm began shaking with the
pressure. “Line the arrow up, straight at the tree. Right elbow nice and high. Bring
the nock up a bit—”
“The what?”
“The notched end. Bring it right up beside your lips. Perfect. Take a deep breath,
then let it go after the exhale.”
Shoulder aching, she obeyed gladly. As the breath left her body, the string and arrow
fled her fingers. It missed the tree wildly, flying high and to the right by several
feet. But still. “Oh, cool! Give me another.”
She couldn’t quite tell in her periphery, but she thought he
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