Martha C. Lawrence
The hot Santa Ana swept across the open desert, hissing through the bone-dry cheatgrass and shaking the stiff sagebrush. I did my best to ignore it. There was a red and white bull’s-eye target tacked to a hay bale ten yards away. I was trying to keep my attention focused there.
Willpower, girl. Mind over matter. You can do it.
I locked an unblinking stare onto the target, drew back the bow string, and let the arrow fly. The slim, feathered spear shot forward but caught the breeze and veered left, missing the hay bale entirely. I sighed in exasperation.