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They do look incredibly generic, where have you seen them for sale in the UK?

When Colt finally sets his guitar aside and tells her, “You got magic in you, Sally Weiss. I mean that,” the whole room feels like it’s holding its breath. A broken country singer, a dead wife and daughter, a miracle girl from a wreck that should’ve killed her—suddenly it’s not just music anymore. It’s grief and grace colliding in a Texas living room, and Sally is right in the center of it. Sally can't forget Katrina and Clara's birthdays are coming up. Chatter about Lamborghinis - again. Then the chapter yanks her out of that sacred glow and drops her on the firing line. Steel. Dust. Commands that aren’t suggestions. Under Jeff’s hard-edged calm and the echo of gunshots, Sally discovers something terrifying and thrilling: she’s good at this. Scary good. Focus snaps into place, adrenaline hums in her veins, and every perfect shot forces her to ask who she is now—miracle survivor, or girl with a steady hand and a taste for this strange new power. If you read on, you’re not just watching her heal. You’re watching her become dangerous in all the right ways.   Chapter 129 (Cont.) Matt stood quietly in the doorway, bottle in hand, the label long gone to his fingers. He wasn’t watching the room so much as listening. The kind of listening that came from the chest more than the ears. Mambo lay stretched beside the hearth, head up now, tail thumping twice against the old wooden floor. Colt’s calloused fingers hovered over the strings, but he didn’t play. He cleared his throat, the kind of sound a man makes when what he’s about to say costs him something. “Jenna Rae used to say Emmy was never afraid of heaven. She’d say, ‘Daddy, I might get to meet Jesus before you do,’ like it was a race.” His voice was steady, but the silence around him made it sacred. “When I lost ’em… it felt like everything inside me just… drained out. Like someone pulled the plug. I did the show. Sang to a sold-out crowd that night. Didn’t know the plane had gone down until the lights went dark backstage.” Lillian touched Jeff’s hand. “I didn’t pick up a guitar for almost a year,” Colt went on. “And even when I did… it was different. I wasn’t writing for charts. I was writing just to breathe.” He paused, looked down at his boots. “I started reading the Word more. Not like a preacher or a scholar. Just a broken man tryin’ to figure out what the Lord had to say about it all.” He looked up, not at anyone in particular, until his eyes landed softly on Sally. “Then I saw this story about a girl pulled out of a wreck they said no one should’ve survived. Pilots call it a miracle. Doctors were perplexed. But I knew the word. I’d read about it. I’d begged for one. And then I saw her picture, bruised and bandaged and in a wheelchair, smiling like she had no right to be smiling. And something inside me just stopped.” He exhaled through his nose, blinked hard. “It was like God whispered, ‘Pay attention to her.’ Like He was showing me something. That He’s still able. Still writing stories where life comes from death. Not always the way we ask… but the way we need.” Sally sat still as stone, hands in her lap. She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips. “I never thought I’d meet you, sweetheart,” Colt said gently. “Didn’t even plan to come tonight until I got in my truck last minute. But here you are. And I just want you to know… you reminded this old wreck of a man that miracles still happen. Not always in the shape we pray for, but in the shape we didn’t even know we needed.” He smiled, slow and weathered. “Thank you for being strong. For getting out of that wreck and not hiding away. That song I sang earlier? I didn’t know it was for you until I saw your face while I sang it.” The room stayed quiet, the kind of quiet that felt more like a blessing than a pause. Sally opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. Matt stepped forward from the doorframe and set his bottle gently on the side table. Then he gave Sally’s shoulder a soft squeeze before returning to his quiet post, a little straighter than before. Colt nodded once, like the last chord had just landed. Mambo let out a huff, like the amen to a prayer no one wanted to end. -- Sally shifted in her seat, the room still thick with the echo of Colt’s voice, his story, his pain. Everyone seemed to be waiting, like they knew the moment wasn’t over yet. Sally’s hands fidgeted with the hem of her sweatshirt. She took a breath, then spoke, her voice soft but clear. “I’m not… finished healing,” she said. “I don’t think I even know what that really looks like yet. Some days I feel great. Strong. Like I can conquer anything. Other days, just thinking about jogging… or tennis…” She gave a small, dry laugh. “My dad wanted me to start tennis lessons last spring. Before the crash. I’d even gone shopping with my friends for cute outfits. We were so excited.” She paused, eyes dropping for a moment. “Now, just thinking about a court… makes my legs ache. It’s like my body remembers before my mind does. And the nightmares…” Her voice faltered slightly, but she pushed through. “They still come. Not every night. Not like before. But when they do, they’re worse. They find new ways to twist things, to reinvent that moment. The crash. It’s like my imagination wants to punish me. I wake up in cold sweats sometimes, heart racing like it’s all happening again.” No one moved. Not a whisper. “But I’ve learned,” she continued, her voice gentler, steadier, “to take one day at a time. I don’t try to conquer tomorrow anymore. I just try to get through today. And when the fear hits, or the pain, or the memories…” She looked up, eyes shining but steady. “I remember the Hand that held me. When I was stuck in that wreck… I felt it. It was real. Not a dream. Not something I made up to feel better.” Sally looked at Colt. “The Hand that held me… is the Hand that made me.” For a moment, nothing. Then Colt leaned back, eyes damp, gaze low, and let out a soft exhale through his nose. “Sounds like a Gospel tune,” he murmured. Lillian wiped her eyes with a dish towel she hadn’t even realized she’d brought with her. Trish reached over and gently took Sheila’s hand. Matt stood still by the door, jaw tight, as if he couldn’t quite breathe. Colt nodded slowly, reverently. “I reckon it is,” he said. “And I think I just found the chorus.” -- The fire crackled low as the night deepened, casting warm flickers across Colt’s weathered face and the glossy body of his guitar. He glanced around the living room—Jeff leaning back with his arm around Lillian, Trish curled up on the rug with Sheila’s head in her lap, Matt still by the doorway, arms crossed and half-smiling, and Sally… quiet, watching, her eyes catching the light just so. Colt shifted the strap over his shoulder, gave the strings a slow strum, and cleared his throat. “Alright, Sally-girl,” he said, his voice tinged with a drawl and something gentler underneath, “I reckon if I can’t sleep tonight, it’ll be your fault.” Sally blinked. “Mine?” He nodded, tuning one last string with a careful twist. “You stirred up something. It’s been a long time since I played these… but tonight feels right.” He looked down at the guitar. “Feels like Jenna Rae and Emmy would want me to.” Without waiting, he launched into one of his oldest hits. A love song, tender and aching, the kind that lived on every country radio station fifteen years ago. His voice, though aged by grief and time, still carried that raw, unmistakable timbre. One note and the room was his. Sally leaned forward, hugging her knees. It was like being inside a memory she didn’t own but somehow belonged to. Colt played two more songs—one about fathers and daughters that made Lillian press her lips and Jeff clear his throat, and another that had Trish humming along under her breath, the words still carved into her childhood. When Colt finally set his guitar aside, the room was quiet, soft, full of something sacred. “Well,” he said, reaching for the longneck at his side, “if that don’t beat all. A miracle girl from Connecticut shows up in Texas, steals the show, and gets me back to singing.” He raised the bottle slightly in her direction. “You got magic in you, Sally Weiss. I mean that.” Sally blushed, smiling as she ducked her head. “I think it’s just Texas. Everyone’s too nice to say no.” That broke the mood just enough for laughter to bubble up. “Texas,” Trish said with mock exasperation, shaking her head. “Forget the goats—though yes, she did flinch like they were miniature bulls with grudges—but you should’ve seen her behind the wheel of my Bronco.” Sally groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh no, no hiding now,” Trish went on, eyes gleaming. “This girl drove through the mud like she was in a monster truck rally. I swear, there was a rooster tail of muck twenty feet high. Looked like a tornado hit a pigpen.” “I was doing fine until I wasn’t,” Sally muttered. “Fine?” Jeff chimed in from his chair, a grin tugging at his face. “Took us an hour to dig that thing out. She got it buried to the axles.” “In my defense,” Sally said, lifting her head, “your mud is sneaky. It looks like dirt and then suddenly it’s quicksand.” “Rookie mistake,” Trish smirked. “Should’ve seen her face when the Bronco stopped movin’,” Jeff added with a chuckle. “She looked back like the wheels betrayed her.” “Hey,” Sally protested, “it was an ambush. The mud made the first move.” Everyone laughed again, even Colt, who shook his head slowly. “She’s got grit, I’ll give her that.” “Grit and goat bites,” Sally quipped, and Sheila erupted into a giggle fit. Colt leaned forward, interest sparking. “So… we got her feedin’ goats and gettin’ stuck in mud. What’s next—rattlesnake wranglin’?” “Let’s not,” Matt murmured dryly, and even that earned a chuckle. “Alright then,” Colt said, stroking his chin. “Let’s make her a real Texan. Teach her to shoot.” Sally’s head whipped up. “Excuse me?” Jeff nodded thoughtfully. “Might take her to the range tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Safety first. Just see how she does.” Sally’s eyes widened. “You’re actually going to put a gun in my hand?” Matt gave a half-smile, eyes meeting hers with just enough mischief to make her stomach flutter. “Rifle first,” he said, calm and sure. “Something easy. Then maybe a pistol. See how you handle it.” Trish leaned over toward Sally. “Don’t worry. If you miss every shot, they’ll still say you did great. We’re friendly like that.” “I’ll be lucky if I don’t drop it,” Sally muttered, though a smile was tugging at her lips. “You’ll do fine,” Colt said softly. “Just don’t shoot the goats.” Sheila giggled, Mambo thumped his tail lazily on the floor, and the room dissolved into warm, easy laughter. For the first time in a long time, Sally felt not just like a guest… but like she belonged. -- Sally had just slipped her diaper on and got under the covers when she heard the soft knock—followed by the telltale whisper-creak of the door opening. Trish stepped in barefoot, in a long T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, Mambo padding quietly behind her like a shadow. “Operation Sleepover is a go,” Trish whispered conspiratorially. “Sheila’s out like a log. She wouldn’t wake up if a goat parade marched through her room.” Sally sat up, brushing her hair back. “You sure we won’t wake her?” Trish grinned. “Already checked. She was snoring into her unicorn pillow.” She looked around the room and pointed to Sally’s bed. “This thing’s huge. There’s room for both of us—and Mambo, obviously. Though fair warning, he hogs the middle.” Mambo gave an approving snort as if on cue and leapt up onto the foot of the bed, turning once before flopping down with a thud. Within seconds, he was snoring gently. Sally laughed, sliding over to make room. “Well, that settles it.” Trish climbed in beside her, pulling the covers up. “So, Miracle Girl… you’re officially a mud-driving, goat-feeding, grounded Texan now. How’s it feel?” Sally yawned and tucked her chin into the blanket. “Like I survived a full episode of a reality show.” “A very muddy episode,” Trish added, her voice already fading to a sleepy murmur. They lay there for a moment, the room quiet except for the rhythmic snore of Mambo and the occasional creak of the old house settling. The storm outside had long passed, leaving a soft breeze and the gentle hum of frogs beyond the open window. Trish sighed contentedly. “We’re gonna miss you when you leave, you know.” Sally turned her head, her voice soft. “I haven’t even left yet.” “Well,” Trish mumbled with a sleepy smile, “then don’t.” Sally smiled into the dark. “I’ll think about it.” Another yawn. A quiet giggle. And just like that, the room drifted into the kind of silence only real peace can bring. -- Sally should’ve still been asleep. The morning light was only just starting to seep in through the sheer curtains, and the silence in the house was soft and hushed, as if it too wanted five more minutes. But her eyes had opened before her alarm, and now she lay staring at the ceiling, her body comfortably sore, her mind flickering between dreams and memories of the past days. As she stretched lazily, her covers slipped off. She frowned. That’s when she noticed why—Trish, sound asleep beside her, had stolen nearly the whole blanket in some unconscious conquest of the bed. Mambo was curled up by Sally’s feet like a boulder of fur and warmth, oblivious to the world and her subtle kicks. “So much for a comfy sleepover,” Sally muttered under her breath, wiggling to reclaim a sliver of the blanket. No luck. Trish was wrapped like a burrito. She debated getting up. The bathroom was calling, but the bed was too warm, too cozy, and procrastination felt deliciously deserved. So, she let go in her diaper, which, incidentally, was already wet. She adjusted her position to get used to the wet bulk under her bottom. She reached for her phone from the nightstand, the soft glow lighting up her face as she tapped into her messages. A text from Charlie waited for her, right where she’d left him last night.   Charlie: Cool car! Tell Matt he needs his car cleaner for the picture, but it looks good enough. Did you go very fast?   Sally smiled, relieved he’d replied with enthusiasm and not awkwardness. She typed back:   Sally: Difficult to keep it clean in the sticks. It’s been raining a bit here, and there’s a lot of dirt. But he’s probably already at the wash bay polishing it like it’s a trophy. And it’s like 6am here, by the way.   As she went to close the chat, she saw the three dots pop up.   Charlie: Hey, I’m just up myself. Still in bed lol. How are the goats? Miss you…   Sally laughed softly, careful not to wake Trish.   Sally: Goaty. Just the weekend here. I should be home Monday, I think. Will send flight info.   She closed the chat and scrolled over to her group thread. The 3Musk. Her lifeline. A picture greeted her—a Lamborghini showroom taken through the car window.   Sally: Birthday wish, @Katrina? I think for a quinceañera it’s a bit too much…   Three dots. Then four. Clara was first.   Clara: A bit too much for Katrina, I agree. Maybe a new pair of shoes. I’ll do with a new bag or something chic.   Sally could imagine her already eyeing something elegant and neutral.   Sally: Same week… Are you celebrating together?   Clara: No way! I want something quiet and elegant. Katrina wants to go all out.   Katrina: Yesss! 15 means womanhood. It must be expressed! ¡¡Pura fiesta y alegría!!   Sally shook her head. How were these two friends? Opposites didn’t cover it.   Sally: Well, I hope I’m invited to both.   Katrina: Lo pensaré… lol   Clara: Think all you want. Sally will be my guest of honor.   Sally: Just a guest is fine.   Katrina: Only if I can invite the press. Turn up the glamour a notch or two.   Sally rolled her eyes.   Sally: I charge per picture. Direct deposit to my Swiss account.   The typing bubbles appeared instantly from both girls. She could already feel the incoming wave of emojis, gifs, and fake outrage. It was silly and light and perfect. In that moment, Sally realized something—her legs still ached a little, her dreams still lingered in her mind… but she was healing. With her phone warming in her hand, Trish snoring softly beside her, and Mambo twitching in some goat-related dream, Sally felt something close to joy settle into her chest. It was going to be a good day. -- But Mambo was staring at Sally. Not moving. Not blinking. Just that focused, soulful dog stare that made her feel like he knew every thought in her head. She looked up from her phone and blinked at him. “Hey Mambo,” she whispered, her voice still sticky with sleep. He tilted his head ever so slightly, ears half-cocked. Sally pointed at Trish, who lay sprawled under a mountain of blankets. “You think she’ll wake up on her own?” Mambo gave a soft whine, eyes shifting back to Trish. Sally raised an eyebrow and looked him in the eye. “You think we should help her wake up?” His silence was telling. That, and the little tail thump that followed. Sally grinned and leaned over, her arm disappearing under the covers. She poked Trish’s side. “Wakeee! Time to shoot the roses!” Trish groaned and rolled deeper into the cocoon of blankets, taking most of the covers with her in a single sweep. Sally was left with the edge of a sheet and a rising sense of injustice. “Blanket hog,” she muttered, burying her finger repeatedly into Trish’s side again, this time with a little more persistence. “It’s morning!” Mambo, seeing this as the green light for full engagement, pounced. He leapt onto the bed, paws scrambling to grip the blankets and pull them away from Trish like a canine soldier on a rescue mission. “Hey, what—” Trish’s voice was muffled, then suddenly clear as she surfaced with a start, just in time for Mambo to greet her success with a flood of slobbery kisses. “Aaagh! Mambo!” she shrieked, laughing as she tried to push him off. “Sally, control your dog!” “He’s your dog!” Sally was howling with laughter, tears starting to form in her eyes. Mambo wagged his tail like a maniac, the mission clearly accomplished. The chaos must have been enough to stir the dead, because a bleary-eyed Sheila shuffled into the room, rubbing one eye and looking deeply offended. “Why wasn’t I invited?” she asked with a dramatic yawn, arms crossed and pout in full display. Sally giggled and opened her arms. “Because the party starts now. Come here, sleepy head.” Sheila didn’t need a second invitation. She marched over, flopped dramatically onto the bed and snuggled into Sally’s side, eyes closing the moment her head hit the pillow. Mambo sat back, watching the now-trio with the calm satisfaction of a sheepdog who had herded all his humans into one spot. Trish stumbled into the bathroom. The sound of water running came briefly, followed by the flush, and then she reappeared, hair fluffed and eyes more alert. She dropped down cross-legged beside Sally, her expression playful. “So, stranger,” she said with mock-seriousness. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Sally pretended to think deeply. “That I was attacked by a blanket thief, assisted by a very enthusiastic canine.” Trish raised an eyebrow. “Self-defense?” “Absolutely.” “Well,” Trish said, stretching her arms and glancing at Sheila, now softly snoring again, “guess that makes this a truce breakfast.” “Can we call it a treaty?” Sally asked, grinning. Trish smirked. “Only if it includes coffee. And maybe French toast.” Sally leaned back into the pillows. “That… sounds like peace to me.” -- “Shooting range: You’ll want to dress business. Tight jeans, fitted shirt. And put that new cap on. You don’t want gunpowder on your hair.” Trish delivered the sentence with her usual morning calm, sitting barefoot at the breakfast table, lazily spooning oatmeal into her mouth. Mambo was sprawled beneath her chair like a rug with a pulse, and Sheila was mid-rant about someone using her unicorn mug again. Sally blinked. “Sounds serious.” Trish didn’t laugh. Instead, she set her spoon down, reached across the table, and gently held Sally’s forearm. Sally looked up, a little caught off guard. Trish’s face had changed—she wasn’t teasing. “It is serious,” Trish said softly, her voice even, eyes clear. “Listen to me. At the range, there’s one voice. One rule. That voice is the range master—and here, that’s my dad. But out there? He’s not Jeff. He’s not ‘dad.’ He’s the guy in charge. You disobey once? You joke, you play, you treat a weapon like a toy? You’re done. You don’t get a second try.” Sally swallowed, sobered by the weight in Trish’s voice. “It’s safety,” Trish continued, her fingers tightening just slightly. “It’s obedience. It’s discipline. It’s work. It’s paying attention. It’s respect—for the tool, for the people around you, for the power you’re holding in your hands.” Sally nodded slowly, processing. She hadn’t expected a speech like this. Certainly not while still in her fuzzy pajamas, her hair half-flattened on one side. But Trish’s voice softened again, and she let go of Sally’s arm with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “But once you get past that first shock, once you feel the kick of the rifle and see that first bullseye hit…” She gave a small, knowing nod. “You’ll get it. That rush. That satisfaction. That focus. It’s like nothing else.” Sally leaned back in her chair, her expression now halfway between awe and curiosity. “Wow.” “Exactly,” Trish said, picking up her spoon again like nothing had happened. “Now finish your oatmeal. We leave in an hour. And don’t wear white.” “Why not?” “You’ll see.” -- Sally ended up in the green and brown fitted camo t-shirt she and her dad had picked out weeks ago—a spontaneous little moment she now held dear. It clung just right, made her feel strong. Her regular tight jeans and solid sneakers finished the look. Before stepping out, she twisted her hair into a low ponytail, pulled it through the back of the navy-blue J. Marks Feed cap, and planted it firmly on her head. That was the final touch. Ready for battle. Or… at least, to try. The drive to the range in Trish’s now clean Bronco felt lighter this time. The windows were down, letting the breeze carry in the smell of oak and fresh pasture. Sheila sat in the back with Mambo, who was panting happily, tongue flapping, enjoying the ride like a king surveying his domain. “I hope they brought the Ruger,” Sheila said matter-of-factly, peeling a string of gum and popping it in her mouth. “That’s my favorite. It’s smooth. I hit the bullseye five times in a row last time.” Sally turned halfway in her seat. “Wait, you have a favorite gun?” “Duh,” Sheila said with a shrug. “Don’t you?” Sally blinked. “It’s… literally my first day.” “Well,” Sheila said, chewing, “pick the Ruger. You’ll thank me.” Sally glanced at Trish, who grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you something that doesn’t knock your shoulder out of place.” They pulled into the clearing—sunlight sifting through the trees, the makeshift range already half set up. Jeff’s pickup was parked close to the berm, the tailgate down, a rack of rifles gleaming in the morning light. Matt stood nearby, laying out targets, clipboard in hand, his baseball cap pulled low over his brow. “Look alive,” Trish said, shifting into park. “It’s game time.” As they walked up, Mambo leapt out and was promptly leashed to a metal post nearby. He looked mildly betrayed but accepted it with dignity. Jeff stood behind the firing bench, sleeves rolled, cap pulled down, setting a sleek bolt-action rifle on the table with deliberate care. The sun flashed off the barrel. “This is a controlled environment,” he said, voice calm, firm. “Nothing gets touched unless I say so. Even you two,” he added, pointing a finger at Trish and Sheila. Sheila raised her hands in mock innocence. “I know the rules!” Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Knowing the rules and following them are different things.” Trish smirked. “I taught her everything she knows.” “And I’m still recovering,” Jeff replied dryly, earning a laugh. Sally stood quietly between the sisters, her hands hanging awkwardly. She was trying not to look nervous. The air smelled like dust, gun oil, and cut grass. Something serious. Something ancient. Trish nudged her gently. “You’re fine. I cried the first time I shot a .22.” “She did,” Sheila confirmed proudly. Jeff didn’t even look up. “She also learned fast why we don’t wave guns around like glow sticks at a concert. That’s why she’s standing here now.” Sally let out a little laugh, easing up. Jeff turned to face her directly. His face was lined with sunlight and patience. “You forget everything else today, remember this one thing,” he said. “Never let the muzzle point at anything you don’t intend to destroy. Ever. Not the ground two feet in front of you. Not someone’s boots. Not Mambo, who’s now regretting this entire field trip.” Mambo woofed once, as if on cue, earning a ripple of chuckles. “You follow that one rule,” Jeff continued, “and we can fix any other mistake. You break it once, and you’re done for the day. Fair?” Sally nodded seriously, her hands finally deciding to clasp together. “Fair.” Matt handed over a pair of ear protectors and safety glasses. Sally looked at them, swallowed hard, and took them. The gear was oversized, the glasses too wide for her face, but somehow, it made it feel real. Heavy with meaning. Trish leaned in and whispered, “Welcome to Texas.” -- Jeff held out the rifle toward her, his hands steady, the bolt pulled open, chamber gleaming in the sun. “See that? Bolt open. Chamber empty. That’s the first thing you check. Always. Doesn’t matter who hands it to you—don’t take their word for it.” Sally stepped closer and squinted, unsure. “I… don’t actually know what I’m looking at.” Jeff gave a short nod, impressed. “That’s the smartest thing you could’ve said all day. Means you’re paying attention.” He guided her gently, never letting go of the rifle, showing her the chamber, the bolt, the safety. Letting her touch each part under his watchful hand. “Every gun has a story,” he said, low and serious. “You learn to read it before you ever let it speak.” Trish leaned against the wooden bench, arms crossed. “Dad thinks he’s a poet when he’s teaching gun safety.” Jeff didn’t rise to it. He was fully focused on Sally. “Alright. You’re starting with a .22. It’s gentle. Just enough pop to remind you it’s real. Sheila and Trish will show you how to stand. Remember: firm, not rigid. Feet like you’re ready to catch a basketball.” Sally positioned herself awkwardly, shifting weight between her feet. “Like this?” Matt stood just behind the bench, watching with quiet focus. “Not bad. You’re not trying to dominate the gun. You’re working with it. Think… cooperation, not confrontation.” Jeff nodded. “Exactly. The gun isn’t wild. It only does what you tell it. The danger,” he tapped the side of the stock gently, “is always on this side of the trigger. Not the other.” Sally took a steady breath. “What if I mess this up?” “Then we learn something,” Jeff said with calm conviction. “That’s why we’re out here. You’re not trying to prove anything. You’re learning to respect a tool that gives no second chances.” There was a silence then—respectful, still. Trish and Sheila were suddenly quiet, watching their friend with solemn support. Even Mambo lay still by the post, ears twitching but silent. Sally wrapped her hands around the stock, shoulders squaring up. Jeff stayed close, guiding her through the steps. “Sight picture. Breath in. Slow it down. Breath out. Squeeze—don’t yank—the trigger. Like opening a door slowly.” Sally’s finger tightened on the trigger. Crack. The shot startled her less than she expected. The sound rang sharp and clean, echoing off the trees. Downrange, a small hole appeared in the paper target—low and left, but there. Trish threw both arms in the air. “She hit the paper! First shot! Do you even know how rare that is?!” Jeff’s only reaction was a subtle nod. “Beginner’s luck,” he said gruffly. But there was pride in the way his eyes lingered on Sally. “Or good instruction. Either way, it counts.” Sally lowered the rifle, breathing hard. Her hands trembled slightly, but her grin was unstoppable. “I think… I get it. Why people do this. It’s not just noise and bullets. It’s… control.” Jeff adjusted his hat, eyes softening. “Good. But don’t ever like it too much.” Trish and Sheila looked at each other and smirked. They’d heard that warning more times than they could count. Sally nodded slowly, still looking downrange. “Can I do another?” “Check it first,” Jeff said, already moving to reset the rifle. “Then take your time.” Trish leaned in close to her with a smirk. “You’re officially in the family now.” The second shot came smoother. No flinch. No breath-holding. Just a crisp pull and a clean sound that echoed across the field like punctuation. It struck closer to center. Sally lowered the rifle with a breathless smile. “Okay. That was… amazing.” “Yeah,” Trish said, nudging her. “Next stop: Annie Oakley.” Sally scoffed. “Yeah, sure. Maybe Annie Oakley if she had shaky hands and beginner’s luck.” Jeff heard her. He always heard everything on the range. “Shaky hands mean you’re human,” he said, checking the rifle again. “Beginner’s luck… that’s God being polite.” Matt snorted. “Dad, even God has standards.” Jeff gave him a look that could sand a fence post smooth. “And He still puts up with you.” Sheila burst into laughter, nearly toppling off the ammo crate she was using as a stool. Mambo barked once in agreement. Jeff closed the bolt partway, then held the rifle toward Sally again. “Alright. Two shots in. You wanna keep going, or take a minute to breathe?” Sally rolled her shoulders back. “I’m good. I want to keep going.” Something in Jeff’s expression shifted — a small, approving weight, the kind a man carries when a guest starts becoming more than a guest. Someone who listens. Someone who tries. “Then let’s step it up one notch,” he said. “Matt, get the Henry.” Trish grinned wickedly. “Oh, now we’re talking.” Sally blinked. “The Henry?” “A lever-action,” Matt supplied. “Classic cowboy rifle.” “Looks good on Instagram,” Trish added. Jeff snapped his head toward her. “We do not take selfies with firearms.” Trish deflated instantly. “I know, Dad…” “You want a picture, take one with the goats,” Jeff said. “Least they won’t go off by accident.” Matt returned with the Henry resting against his shoulder — polished wood, brass accents gleaming, the kind of gun that looked like it had stories carved into the grain. Sally swallowed. “That is… beautiful.” Matt grinned. “She’s a sweetheart. And you’ll love the action. Satisfaction guaranteed.” She tossed the rifle lightly in her hands and caught it. Jeff’s eyebrows lifted. “Matt.” “Alright, alright,” he said, immediately gentling his grip. He set the rifle down like a precious heirloom. “Showtime.” Jeff positioned it on the bench. “This one has a little more kick — nothing crazy. You’ll feel it. That’s all.” His voice softened. “Doesn’t mean it owns you.” Sally stepped closer. Her pulse wasn’t racing this time — it was steady, curious, ready. Matt started adjusting the target pulley, sliding a fresh paper sheet forward. “I’ll set this one a little farther. She’s got range.” Sally shot him a sideways look. “You’re… oddly supportive today.” Matt shrugged. “Just don’t prove me wrong.” Trish pulled Sally gently into the right stance. “Same as before. Feet apart. Shoulders relaxed. Don’t stiffen your arms — you’re not fighting a bull.” Sheila hopped closer. “Think of it like giving a hug. Firm. Not tight.” Sally nodded, breathing in. This moment felt different — heavier but exciting. Like stepping through an invisible doorway into something new. Jeff stood beside her, calm as a summer morning. “Alright. Lever down… pull back… good. Safety on… good. Thumb ready, but mind even readier.” Sally settled into position. The world shrank — just her, the rifle, the target waiting patiently at the end of the lane. “Breath in,” Jeff said softly. She inhaled. “Let it go slow.” She did. “When you’re ready.” The trigger obeyed her finger with a clean, satisfying break. The rifle kicked — more of a firm push than a shock — and the report echoed off the distant cedar trees. A neat hole appeared just right of center. Trish blinked. “No way.” Matt leaned forward, shading his eyes. “She hit center mass first try?” Sheila hopped in place. “She’s a natural! Dad, she’s a natural!” Jeff said nothing at first. Just studied Sally’s stance, her eyes, the way she held the rifle like she’d been born with steady hands. Then his mouth tugged into a small, knowing smile. “Not bad, kid,” he said quietly. “Not bad at all.” Sally exhaled, breath finally shaking with adrenaline. Then a grin bloomed — unreserved, full, triumphant. “That,” she whispered, “felt incredible. It’s like Texas changed me” Trish slung an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “Told you. Texas’ll get in your blood.” Matt nodded once, a rare gesture of solemn approval. “Welcome to the line.” Even Mambo barked twice, tail beating the dirt. Jeff lifted the rifle off the bench and set it aside. “Alright. Water break. Then we’ll see if that wasn’t just luck.” Sally laughed. “Try me.” And the range answered with a warm silence — the kind that only comes when a newcomer finally feels like they belong. -- The pistol came out last — deliberately last — as if Jeff understood that its compact shape, its weight, its nearness to the body carried a different kind of gravity. Rifles felt like controlled instruments. Pistols felt like decisions. Jeff placed the hard plastic case on the bench and flipped the latches open with a practiced, quiet snap. Inside rested a small matte-black 9mm, compact and clean. No shine, no bravado. Just purpose. Sally drew in a slow breath. “That’s… different.” Jeff nodded. “Closer tool. Closer responsibility.” His tone shifted in a way she hadn’t heard before — deeper, more personal. “Rifles help you learn discipline. Pistols test it.” Trish stepped back a little. Sheila stilled. Even Matt stopped fiddling with targets. Something ceremonial was hovering in the air. Jeff removed the pistol, keeping it pointed safely toward the berm, slide locked open. “This is a Glock nineteen. Compact. Trustworthy. Accurate if you do your part. And before you even think about shooting, you’re going to learn to handle it.” He waited for her to nod before continuing. Sally swallowed. “Okay. I’m ready.” “You are,” he said, surprising her. “And you’re humble enough to know what you don’t know. That’s what makes you safe.” Matt muttered, half impressed, “She takes it more seriously than half the adults who shoot out here.” “She’s got that careful energy,” Trish added. “Like she’s rewiring her brain on purpose.” Jeff held the pistol toward Sally, still with the slide open. “Start by checking the chamber.” She hesitated — not frozen, but thoughtful — then leaned in and inspected exactly the way he’d taught her with the rifle. Eyes tracing metal, shape, absence. “Chamber empty,” she said quietly. “Good,” Jeff replied. “Now your grip. No limp wrists. No strangling it. Try this…” His hands hovered near hers but never touched unless she moved first. Sally adjusted, corrected herself, and settled into a grip that looked… natural. Balanced. Instinctive. Trish blinked. “That’s… unusually good for a first grab.” “Beginner’s luck?” Sally offered. “No,” Jeff said simply. “This is posture. You’re reading the tool.” He stepped back just enough to give her space. “Alright. You’re going to shoot from five yards. Close. Not about accuracy yet — about respect.” Sally didn’t move. He tilted his head. “You scared?” She considered. “No… not scared. Just… aware.” Jeff’s eyes softened. “Good answer.” He handed her a magazine with a single round. “Load it.” She followed each step slowly, precisely. Insert. Click. Tap. Rack. The motion was stiff but controlled — mechanical in the best way. There was nothing careless about her movements. She faced the target. Feet squared. Shoulders low. Grip solid. Nose over toes, just like Jeff taught Trish when she was barely taller than the pistol. Matt whispered, “She looks like she’s been doing this for months.” Trish whispered back, “She looks like an assassin.” “Hey,” Jeff warned without turning. The range went perfectly still. Sally took a breath — more grounded than earlier — raised the pistol, aligned the sights, and pressed the trigger the way Jeff described it. Slow pull, steady path, no anticipation. Pop. The shot snapped sharp and controlled, the recoil pushing her hands up only a fraction. She returned to alignment almost instantly. Downrange, the hole was nearly dead center. Not just on the paper — center. Trish blinked. “I didn’t hit that good my first time.” Matt whistled low. “I didn’t hit that good last week.” Sheila jumped. “That’s the Ruger talking! It trained you!” Even Jeff stepped forward, eyebrows raised. Not shock — recognition. The kind of look a man gives a horse that suddenly reveals it’s far more than a trail ride. “Natural,” he murmured, almost to himself. Sally lowered the pistol slowly, her arms steady, her breath calm. She didn’t smile. She didn’t celebrate. She simply evaluated the shot like a student, eyes narrowed in thought. “I think I pulled a little right,” she said. “No,” Jeff said firmly, stepping closer. “That was just right. That was perfect.” She finally allowed a tiny smile. “So… I can try again?” Jeff handed her another single-round magazine. “We’ll go one at a time. You’ve earned that kind of attention.” She took it gently, respectfully. “Thank you for trusting me.” He shook his head. “You trusted yourself. That’s why this works.” Sally loaded again — smoother this time. Sights aligned. Breath steady. Pop. Another perfect shot. This time, Trish threw her hands up. “Okay WHAT. No. Absolutely not. You are not allowed to be better than me at something I grew up doing!” Sheila hopped in place. “She’s Annie Oakley with a ponytail!” Matt just let out a long, low, impressed whistle. “Dad… she learns faster than we do.” Jeff didn’t deny it. He watched Sally with a quiet, steady awe, as if he were seeing a seedling that might one day break through stone. He touched the brim of his cap. “Sally… you ever want to take lessons, you’ve got a spot here every day. No charge.” Sally didn’t blush. She didn’t posture. She just nodded slowly, still analyzing the pistol in her hand. “I’d like that,” she said. “But… only if we go slow. I don’t want to get cocky.” Jeff’s smile, rare and warm, crinkled at the corners. “Kid… that line right there is why you’ll never be dangerous — only skilled.” He stepped back. “Alright. Let’s see what shot number three looks like.” And Sally — calm, steady, focused in a way she never expected of herself — reset her stance, breathed in, breathed out, and prepared to let the pistol speak again. -- The competition started the way all friendly trouble starts — with one teenager rolling her eyes and another refusing to let it go. It was Trish this time. “Alright, prodigy,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Two perfect shots don’t make you queen of the range. Let’s see how you do when the pressure’s on.” Sally blinked. “Pressure?” Sheila hopped in like a spark. “Competition! Competition! Dad, can we? Can we? Please?” Matt shrugged with a confident half-grin. “I’m in. But only if Dad sets the rules.” Jeff sighed the sigh of a man who had raised three spirited ranch kids. “Fine. But this stays safe, calm, and respectful.” He pointed at Sheila. “No gloating.” Sheila gasped, hand on her chest. “I would never—” “Rule one,” Jeff continued, ignoring her entirely. “One shot each per round. Rotating order. Closest to center wins the round. Three rounds total. No touching the line. No adjusting each other’s stance unless asked. No bragging about shots unless you can back them up.” Matt raised his hand. “What about loser chores?” “Absolutely not,” Jeff said immediately. Trish grinned. “Dad… you never said we couldn’t negotiate afterwards.” “Trish.” “Fine.” Sally held the pistol Jeff handed her, feeling its weight with new understanding — not fear, not naiveté. Respect. Responsibility. But also something else humming beneath the surface now: anticipation. “Alright,” Jeff said, pointing toward the closely-set paper targets. “Sally shoots first. Then Matt. Then Trish. Then Sheila.” “What about you?” Sally asked. “I’m the referee,” Jeff replied. “If I shoot, you all lose interest.” The siblings groaned. He wasn’t wrong. Sally raised her pistol. The world narrowed. Not fully — not like that first shot — but enough that her heartbeat steadied. She lined the sights, exhaled, pressed the trigger. Pop. The hole landed slightly right of center — close, but not perfect. Better than luck. Worse than a prodigy. “Respectable,” Jeff said. Matt fired next. His shot landed left of center. “Ha!” Trish barked. “Rusty!” Matt glared. “I was adjusting—” “No excuses,” Jeff cut in. Trish fired. Clean. Confident. A shot almost dead center — just a hair off perfect. Sheila took her stance seriously. More seriously than anyone expected from an eight-year-old wearing mismatched socks. She fired. Her shot landed low. But on the paper. And she beamed. Jeff announced, “Round one goes to Trish.” Trish bowed dramatically. “I accept the applause of my subjects.” “Get over yourself,” Matt muttered. Sally shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Okay. That was… humbling.” Trish grinned. “Good. Means you’re in the right sport.” For round two, Sally took a moment. A long one. Enough that everyone noticed, but no one rushed her. She felt her breath settle deeper in her chest. She adjusted her wrists, shifted her stance by half an inch, softened her shoulders. Pop. The shot landed closer to the center than her first round. Not perfect — but closer. Intentional. Earned. Matt nodded approvingly. “Better.” Trish arched an eyebrow. “Okay… maybe she is learning.” Matt took his turn — slightly right of center. Trish’s shot went wide this round — frustration flickering across her face, quickly masked. “Flinch,” Matt teased. “You flinch!” she shot back. “Both of you hush,” Jeff said. Sheila fired last and hit the target again — slightly better than before. She punched the air. “Progress!” Jeff announced, “Round two goes to… Sally.” Sally’s eyes went wide. “Wait — me?” “You,” Jeff said. “And not because anyone went easy on you.” Trish groaned dramatically, throwing her arms back. “Unacceptable. I demand a recount.” “Recount your attitude,” Jeff replied. -- Jeff clapped his hands once. “Last one. All on the line. Focus up.” Sally felt the shift inside her — not pressure, not nerves. Something quieter, steadier. A realization blooming: She liked this. She really, really liked this. Not because she wanted to win. But because something about the discipline, the silence, the precision — it clicked with her. Made sense. Made her feel grounded in her own skin. She raised the pistol. It fit her hands better now. Breath in. Breath out. Pop. The shot landed just left of center. Not perfect. Not dramatic. But consistent. Jeff nodded the way men nod when they’ve already made up their minds about a person. Matt fired — slightly high. Trish fired — clean, tight grouping, but just outside the ring Sally had hit. Sheila fired — and hit her personal best of the morning. Jeff stepped forward, hands on his hips, eyes on the targets. “Winner of round three… and therefore the match…” He tapped the center-left hole. “Sally.” Silence. Then— “What?!” Trish yelled. “No way!” Matt said. “I knew it!” Sheila cheered. Mambo barked triumphantly. Sally blinked, stunned. “But… I didn’t even— I wasn’t trying to—” “That,” Jeff interrupted gently, “is why you won.” He placed a hand on her shoulder — firm, fatherly, approving. “You stayed calm. Stayed safe. Stayed teachable. You didn’t rush. You didn’t show off. You listened to the gun instead of trying to dominate it.” Sally swallowed, breath catching for a moment. “I… really liked this.” Jeff’s smile deepened. “I noticed.” She looked at the pistol again, suddenly aware of the strange warmth in her chest. Not adrenaline. Not pride. Something like… calling. Or at least a new piece of herself, uncovered. Trish pointed at her. “Okay, but tomorrow? Rematch.” Matt nodded. “Absolutely.” Sheila jumped. “I wanna be on Sally’s team!” Sally laughed — a bright, free sound. “I’m not any good yet.” Trish nudged her. “Not yet. But you’ve got something. Dad’s right.” Jeff nodded once, slowly. “Gifted is easy to find. Responsible is rare.” Sally felt the words settle deep in her, like a seed rooting in fresh soil. She looked at the pistol. Then at the target. Then at the wide Texas sky stretching endless overhead. “I think,” she said softly, “I found something I didn’t know I was missing.” And the range — sunlit, silent, warm — seemed to agree.