Abbie knew the rifle was too heavy for her. Her dad had carried it to cliff edge, then handed it to her, but she still found it too heavy to lift standing up. She lay chest-down in the snow, and pressed the stock of the gun into her shoulder as he had told her. As she settled into her position, a beautiful doe tottered unsteadily over the frozen lake. This was her chance. Abbie rested her cheek on the rifle.

'Don't put your face on the stock, sweetheart,' her dad spoke in a low, excited whisper. He lay beside her, peaking over the embankment staring in awe at the delicious-looking creature blissfully unaware of their presence. 'The kickback could take your eye out.'

'Alright, sorry.' She loosened her grip and shut her left eye, trying her best to line up the front pin with the back sight, so that the silhouette formed a circle with an upraised point in its centre.

'Remember not to tug the trigger,' he said. 'Gently squeeze. Let the gun do the work.'

'I've got it,' Abbie hissed. Her heart leapt as the doe raised its head and scanned the world around with her onyx eyes and ticking ears. She panicked and snatched the trigger sharply. There was an almighty boom that echoed down the valley as the gun kicked back into her shoulder and a flurry of snow was rocketed into the air around her. She watched the bullet twirl and arc, then burrow itself in the ice at the doe's front hoof. The doe leapt twice its height into the air, then skittered across the cracked ice and disappeared into the treeline around the lake before Abbie had time to even cock the bolt and eject the empty shell.

She lifted her head from the rifle sights,  groaned loudly and beat her fist against a pile of snow. 'Shit!'

'Language, young lady.' Her dad nudged her, but at the sight of the disappointment on her face, he patted her on the shoulder and smiled sympathetically. 'Don't beat yourself up about it. None of us are born marksmen, except Robin Hood, maybe. But even he missed a few times every so often.'

'No he didn't,' Abbie snapped. 'He hit his target dead-centre every time!'

'Well, it's a good job he's just a legend, then,' her father smiled. He reached over and took the rifle from her, locked the bolt back and took out the magazine. 'Real people need practice, and it's early days.'

'I've been practising for six months, dad,' Abbie grumbled. 'I'm not getting any better.'

'You're better than I was at your age,' he said as he cocked the bolt back and caught the last bullet that it flew from the ejector port. 'Do you know how old I was when I first hit something?' Abbie shook her head. 'Eighteen, and even then I only clipped its ear.'

Abbie's eyes widened in disbelief. She's always known her dad as an amazing marksman, and would often show off for her by shooting a tossed coin in the centre, or hitting a passing crow with a homemade arrow as it zipped passed the cottage at lightning speed. She couldn't ever belief that such an impressive shooter could ever have missed anything in his life, even as a youngster.

Her dad grinned, the ice in his beard sparkling just like his silver hairs. 'So the way I see it, you've got three years to catch up, but in a few weeks, I'll have you shooting mice at four-hundred yards.'

'Three years from tomorrow,' Abbie corrected him. She beamed and blushed. Her dad hadn't the best memory, and she was worried that he had forgotten again.

'I'm not sure about that, I haven't kept count, sweetheart.' Her dad slung the rifle over his shoulder as he got to his feet, offered her his hand to lift her up then helped her brush the loose flecks of snow from her red curls and duffel-coat. 'I guess we won't be having venison for dinner tonight,' he chuckled and hugged her around her shoulder as they walked together down the snowy embankment, towards their pelt-stacked sled. 'Nevermind, though. There'll be something in the fishtraps, I'm sure. Let's check them, then I think we can call it a day.'