A Weaver Beginning. Allison Leigh
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“We were pheasant hunting.” She added a split log to the fire and jabbed the embers before adjusting the screen.
“How old were you?”
She didn’t have to look at the photo to remind herself. “Seventeen.” She and her grandfather had gone out hunting only one more time after that. It hadn’t been the same without her grandmother coming along, but she hadn’t been healthy enough at that point to accompany them.
“You look about thirteen.”
And even more wet behind the ears, no doubt.
She pressed her hands against her flannel-covered thighs and straightened. “Maybe so,” she said, “but he taught me to shoot almost as well as he could.” She headed into the kitchen.
“You like hunting?”
“I liked going out with my grandparents. Without them?” She shrugged and filled a coffee cup. “I can’t really see myself going out again. I don’t think I have the heart for it.” She took a sip, watching him over the brim of the cup. Not even the width of the living room was enough to dim the sheer wattage of him. “I’ll get enough wood today to replace what I’ve used.”
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