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Josie and Becky ignored him and climbed from the truck.
“Josie,” Ethan said, his voice heavy with warning.
“What?” Josie asked innocently, her eyes wide. Next to her, Becky stifled a laugh.
“Why’d you bring them?” Cutter asked, nodding toward Josie and Becky. Cutter had a first name, but no one called him by it. He was tall and broad chested with straw-colored hair and deeply tanned skin from his hours spent working outside on the family farm. He had round, full cheeks and an easy smile that at first glance made him appear mild tempered and jovial, but upon closer inspection, his eyes were hard and held more mean than mischief.
“We’re not kids,” Becky said.
Cutter gave a little laugh that matched his eyes and looked the girls up and down, pausing when his eyes landed on Becky’s chest. “Maybe one of you isn’t,” he said.
“Come on, I only have a few minutes,” Ethan said, pulling his shotgun from the gun rack.
“That the one your grandpa gave you?” Cutter asked.
“Yeah,” Ethan said and grabbed an old bucket from the truck’s bed and walked about fifty yards away. They watched as he flipped the bucket over and set it on an old stump, then walked back. “Now, stand back.”
Cutter stayed put, but Becky and Josie took three steps back while Ethan fished a shell from his pocket, slid it into the loading chamber, and gave it a pump. He raised the gun snugly to his shoulder, staggered his feet, pressed his cheek to the stock.
“Cover your ears,” Josie advised, and Becky clapped her hands to her head. There was a loud bang, and the clatter of metal against metal as the bucket was knocked to the ground.
They dropped their hands, and Ethan smiled triumphantly as he lowered the gun from his shoulder.
“Cool,” Becky exclaimed.
“Pretty good!” Cutter conceded, reaching for the gun. “My turn.” He pulled the weapon from Ethan’s hands.
“Come on,” Josie said, pulling Becky toward the truck, “this is boring.”
“No, I want to try it,” Becky said. A flash of jealousy rippled through Josie. Becky was her best friend. The idea that she would rather spend time with her brother and Cutter than with Josie sent a flood of envy through her.
“You can’t,” Josie said. “It’s dangerous.”
“Come on, Cutter,” Ethan said. “Go ahead and shoot. We have to go in a minute.”
“Yeah,” Cutter interjected. “Little girls shouldn’t be playing with such big weapons.” He held the shotgun at crotch level and waggled his tongue suggestively.
“Gross,” Becky said with a laugh.
“Yeah, gross,” Josie echoed.
“That’s okay, you’re scared.” Cutter said. “We should get you back home. It’s probably your bedtime.”
“I’m not scared,” Josie mumbled.
“Okay, then do it.” He held the gun, barrel down, toward her.
Josie was tempted. She wasn’t one to turn down a dare, but guns were different. Her dad had drilled into their brains how guns were not toys. How accidents happened by careless show-offs or novices who didn’t respect the power a firearm possessed.
“I don’t want to,” Josie said casually.
“You’re scared,” Cutter taunted.
“I’m not,” Becky piped up. “Can I try?”
“Sure, come here. I’ll show you,” Cutter beckoned Becky toward him. She took the gun from him and, surprised by its weight, nearly dropped it.
“Watch it,” Cutter cried. “You want to shoot somebody?”
