Chapter 2
The wind pushed Nora’s hair across her cheek.
She did not step back.
She did not lower her eyes.
“It was good enough for a real Marine.”
The laughter faded.
Hollister’s smile disappeared.
“What did you say?”
Nora looked straight at him.
“You heard me.”
The Marines nearest the front shifted uncomfortably.
Hollister leaned closer, his voice low enough to sound dangerous but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Careful. That old museum piece and that mouth of yours are both about to embarrass you.”
Nora’s jaw tightened.
She turned the rifle slightly in her hands.
For the first time, the light caught the old carving along the wooden stock.
MARCUS O’YELLERIN.
The letters were faded.
Uneven.
Cut by hand.
Nora looked at the name like it was not just a name, but a door opening into a memory she had spent years trying not to drown in.
“My father made this shot before I ever did.”
The range went quiet.
Not completely.
But enough.
A few older Marines looked at each other.
Someone whispered, “O’Yellerin?”
Another shook his head like he wasn’t sure he had heard right.
Hollister noticed the shift and hated it even more.
He pointed toward the distant target.
“Your father isn’t taking the shot. You are.”
Nora nodded once.
“That’s the point.”
From the officers’ row, Colonel Drummond stood slowly.
His gaze locked onto the rifle.
Then onto the carved name.
He stepped out from the row of officers and walked across the dust toward Hollister.
Every Marine straightened as he passed.
Hollister turned.
“Sir.”
Drummond ignored the greeting.
His eyes never left the rifle.
“Gunny,” he said quietly, “if that’s Marcus O’Yellerin’s rifle, you just mocked the wrong shooter.”
May you like
Hollister went still.
Read Part 3 to learn why that old rifle meant more than anyone on the range understood.
