Longest Night by Kara Braden

incredibly strong.
    As soon as she’d left, Ian had checked the page Cecily had discarded from her typewriter. It was more of the same fantasy writing but lacked the vivid imagery of the other pages. He went back to his book, dismissing her behavior as a symptom of a bad night, until he’d heard the first gunshot.
    Adrenaline slammed into his veins. He snatched up his coat and ran to her without even thinking, caught up in the fear that he’d assessed the situation wrongly. He had the terrible mental image of Cecily lying dead in the yard, starlight turning her blood to shadowy, liquid black, and he’d never been so glad to be wrong.
    Her impromptu lesson in marksmanship was unnecessary but seemed to amuse her, so he didn’t bother to correct her assumptions that he was a novice. Instead, he enjoyed having her close beside him, cold hands guiding his fingers over the weapon. When he’d fired the first shot, Cecily stayed close, though she’d carefully moved out of the path of the ejected cartridges. When all ten rounds were spent, she showed him the release button and caught the magazine as it fell free.
    She crouched beside him, shoulder-to-knee, and began reloading the magazine. “We can do this in daylight, if you’d actually like to see what you’re hitting,” she offered.
    Supporting the rifle with his left hand, he found it natural and comfortable to drop his right hand to brush against her hair, thinking this wasn’t so bad after all. “It’s not fishing, so yes.”
    â€œI’ll also show you how to butcher whatever you hit, so you might want to rethink that,” she threatened with a laugh.
    Surprised, he went tense, silently scolding his rusty, unused mind for not having anticipated this facet of Cecily’s lifestyle. Of course she hunted. She was living across the continent from the nearest grocery store. Just days earlier, Ian had watched her butcher live chickens.
    Cecily rose, resting a hand on his arm. “Or not,” she said uncertainly. “It’s fine. It’s nothing—I mean, you don’t—”
    â€œNo,” Ian interrupted just as uncertainly, wondering how he’d so unexpectedly ended up in this new territory. Preston and Amelia had been the hunters in the family, along with their father.
    A few seconds later, she said, “Well, whatever you’re comfortable with.” She gave Ian’s arm a brief squeeze and then ran her hand down to find his. She pressed the loaded magazine to his palm. “Did you want to keep shooting? It’s freezing out.”
    Actually, he did—but while he was wearing his overcoat, she was wearing the jacket she threw on when she had to run out to grab more firewood, a battered windbreaker that would do little to keep out the cold. Her fingers were like ice against his palm.
    â€œLet’s go inside,” he said instead.
    Her fingers twitched against his hand as she reclaimed the magazine. “All right. One minute,” she said, easing the rifle from his grasp.
    She stepped ahead of Ian, raised the weapon, and fired all ten rounds with a quick, precise rhythm, filling the air with the sharp smell of gun smoke. Then she slung the rifle over her shoulder, bent to pick up the ammunition box at her feet, and said, “I’m going to make coffee, if you want some. Or are you going to bed?”
    â€œI probably should,” he admitted as they started toward the house. “It’s late—not that the time matters very much here.” He glanced at her in the faint light bleeding through the kitchen window and wondered if he should suggest she try to sleep. It seemed like she lived on catnaps of two or three hours, which couldn’t be healthy, and for a moment he was tempted to suggest that they share the bed, even just to give her the warmth and safety of someone beside her.
    He knew himself, though; he’d been attracted to her since the