Goddess Rising Read online

  Would it be her day or would it be his? Alejandro remained the horse to beat.

  Sasser handed her the magazine. Sam lifted the heavy rifle, gently clicking it into place.

  The pressure was stifling. Sam felt like every muscle in her neck was locked up tight and tense as she slowly opened the rifle’s bipod legs. She felt the individual weight of every eye on her, and she didn’t like it. She’d never had an audience like this. Not at the ranch. Not during other training exercises. But then, the stakes had never been so high either.

  Jack rabbits and rattlesnakes, she reminded herself. Just another day out at the ranch, shooting with Uncle Grant. Sam lay down on the mat next to the rifle.

  “Shit, that rifle’s nearly bigger than she is,” someone whispered loudly.

  A snicker in the background, rippling through the group. Murmurs.

  “Quiet,” Sasser told the group, stern.

  Sam eased her cheek against the stock, put her eye about an inch behind the scope. She stared hard at the target, a black-and-white silhouette of a man’s head and torso through the fine data lines. She’d been watching the wind while the other cadets were firing. She saw the wind coming in slow and steady from the west just by looking at the trees. She aimed high like her Uncle had taught her, accounting for the curvature of the projectile over the distance, the rifle aimed high and slightly to the left to counteract the drag from the wind.

  “The only thing that travels in a straight line is light, Sammy.”

  “Yes, Uncle Grant.”

  “Imagine that bullet traveling over the distance. You’ve got to give it time to get there. Two to three seconds of drag, gusts and the curve of the earth. Imagine you’re the bullet.”

  Sam took a deep breath, released it and pulled the trigger.

  The stock kicked so hard against her shoulder, she had to clench her teeth to keep from making a sound. She’d have a bruise there the size of a baseball within hours. The sound of the shot clapped and rolled back across the range like distant thunder. Sam struggled not to wince as she heard the murmurs. She couldn’t hear the words as she waited for the dust to settle around the scope, but she could hear the tone. She knew from the tenor of the comments she’d missed the shot.

  Shit. Embarrassment and self-recrimination made her cheeks pink. She was better than this. She’d been shooting for years now, training tirelessly to get better and better. And now, when she needed to prove it, she was biting it. Badly. And in front of everybody. Shit.

  When the target finally became visible through the settling dust, pristine and unmarked, Sam forced herself to take another deep breath and calm the hell down.

  Focus, Sammy. Calm down and focus. She imagined Uncle Grant’s kind blue eyes, his weathered face with the crinkles at the corners from squinting too much under the hot Texas sun.

  Good shooting’s about being calm enough to make the shot with accuracy. If you’re being charged by a bull, you don’t flip out. You breathe, focus, and take the right shot at the right time—cause you probably only get the one, Sammy. So make it good.

  Sam closed her eyes and counted her heartbeats until they slowed, until she could hear nothing else but her own internal metronome. Everyone behind and around her melted away.

  Jackrabbits and rattlesnakes—just another day at the ranch.

  Sam opened her eyes and zeroed in.

  Chapter 14

  September—Saturday Morning

  Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas

  W E S L E Y

  The anticipation permeating the range was so thick, you could cut the hot, dry air with a knife.

  Wes stood in the back of the group and to the side, eyes on Samantha as she lay prone on the ground—her lithe, slim body snugged close to the cannon they called a rifle. He’d dropped his camera after she missed the first shot, angry at the group for snickering. The whispered I-told-you-so’s and conceited smirks made his hands curl into fists.

  He knew better than to take any photos while she was shooting, sure that the whir and click of the camera would only be distracting. He felt like the only person in her corner about now. And now that he was there, listening to the whispers and seeing the eye-rolls for himself, Wes was starting to realize what she’d meant when she’d said he’d only be putting a target on her back by doing this story on her.

  Samantha was the only female who’d made it into the final round of the rifle marksmanship test. No one else had even come close. He’d wanted to whoop and cheer for her, but instead had remained silent, invisible in the background, photographing and celebrating her triumph from a safe distance. But when she missed the first shot of the final round, he started to truly worry. Wes worried he was witnessing her getting knocked out of the trials. A public shaming. One he’d have to document at length.

  Sam waited for what felt like ten minutes, utterly still on the mat. Wes felt the restlessness of the cadets around him, saw them shift on their feet as they wondered why the hell she was taking so long.

  Wes lifted his camera, focusing in on her through the viewfinder. She was breathing slowly—very slowly—body loose and relaxed, almost like she was resting. He realized then she was calming herself down, filtering out the noise and the agita. It was just her, the cannon, and the distant target, barely visible in the distance—a perfect, lethal trinity.

  Samantha pulled the trigger suddenly, and the heavy blast of the shot seemed to thump right off of her, ricocheting from her body across the heat-scorched landscape and rebounding in a heavy echo.

  While the group’s attention snapped to the target, Wes’s lens stayed on Samantha. He zoomed in. Took a shot of her precision focus even as the cadets murmured, clearly impressed with her hit. Wes watched her breathe slowly. One, two, steady… Her body relaxed against the earth, her hands still, eye narrowed and focused.

  Sam fired again.

  The crowd twittered, murmuring.

  Wes didn’t need to look at the target to know she’d made the third shot.

  He watched her take a long slow breath again before taking the fourth shot.

  By now he’d caught onto her rhythm, watched her breathing. In and out. Smooth like a cylinder. As soon as she released the breath, she fired, the buck from the massive rifle absorbed by her body, the swirl of dust cloaking her as she waited for the perfect moment to fire again, taking her time, even as the murmurs grew louder, then dropped off again.

  Everyone was aware she was in the zone, the tide of approval turning in her favor, a silent acquiescence that spoke volumes as cadets stepped back, instinctively giving her space.

  Samantha breathed steadily and fired again.

  The crowd stared, too stunned to whisper, but Wes concentrated only on her, willing her to nail this last and final shot. He held his breath even as she released hers.

  The thundering boom of her sixth shot seemed to ricochet off the trees surrounding the range, with a massive, sonic ripple. Wes swung his lens toward the target even as Samantha sat up smoothly, popping the empty magazine out before pushing the bolt home, waiting for the verdict while Sasser stared out at the target through his binoculars.

  Wes shifted the lens, pressed down on the shutter as the camera focused in on the incredible distance, and he realized exactly what he was staring at after a few swift adjustments of his telephoto lens.

  “Holy shit.” The words were out of his mouth as he took it in.

  Two shots to the head, three to center mass. A performance worthy of a seasoned military sharpshooter, out of a nineteen-year-old girl from the middle of nowhere, Texas.

  Wes’s heart felt near full to bursting with pride. He immediately snapped off a few shots, caught an excellent one of Samantha looking up at the hot blue sky with the relaxed posture of someone who was just enjoying the weather. He captured Sasser’s split-second expression of admiration and surprise, with Alejandro standing beside him, trying hard not to look angry.

  A sudden smattering of applause erupted before the whole group joined in. Sam
was enveloped in back pats and atta girls! until Sasser quieted the group with the swipe of his hand. He turned and looked at the final cadet as his lieutenant handed him his rifle.

  “Good luck beating that,” Sasser told him, irony tingeing his tone.

  Wes felt himself grinning.

  Ain’t no good luck to it. Sammy had this one in the bag.

  *

  September—Saturday Afternoon

  Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  “¡Órale, jaina! You crushed it out there!” Rita exclaimed as she squeezed Sam’s neck again for like the tenth time.

  “You didn’t do so bad out there yourself, girl,” Sam replied, grinning. “You nailed the pistol marksmanship.”

  “I’m from the hood in Chicago,” Rita reminded her as they walked toward the chow hall for lunch. “Of course I was going to nail the pistol marksmanship.”

  “Either way, you and I have definitely made it into the next round.” Sammy high-fived her.

  “Man, I wish we had some tequila,” Rita sighed as they got into the lineup. “We should celebrate.”

  “Come with me to Chris’s game tonight,” Sam suggested. “We’re going out afterwards. Maybe we could make a thing of it.”

  “I’d love to, but not tonight, chica,” Rita replied. “Alejo’s mom and sister are in town.”

  “That asshole has a mother?” Sam joked as they picked sandwiches and salads from the cafeteria line.

  Rita shot her a bemused look. “You betta believe it. My Auntie Lupe is as tough as they come. Day after her husband got shot, that woman went to work. Unbelievable. She’s like a South Side legend.”

  Sam felt contrite immediately. She had no idea Alejandro’s father had been killed. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  Rita shot her a look of surprise. Then she shrugged. “Ain’t no thing when you grow up in the hood,” she said, nonchalant. But Sam knew her better. She’d seen the hurt in Rita’s eyes before they’d shuttered behind a mask of blithe indifference. “Anyway, they just got in today, so we’re taking them to dinner.”

  She and Rita sat down at a table near the cadets, but far enough away that they could talk unencumbered. Sam spotted Wes interviewing a few of the guys while they ate, and from what she could tell, they were lapping the attention up. Each was vying for Wes’s attention as he jotted down some notes while he asked his questions. Sam turned away, picking up her sandwich.

  “Is that why you grew up close to Alejo?” she asked instead. Alejandro sat a few tables away, surrounded by his posse, like one of the cool kids in school.

  “It’s one of the reasons,” Rita admitted with a nod. “When Alejo’s papa died, we chipped in to help out at the restaurant, so we all grew up together—tighter than we probably would have otherwise. When Alejo got into college on ROTC, he encouraged me to follow him.” Rita paused, picking at her salad. “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to go to school. It just seemed really unlikely, you know?”

  “You’re smart as a whip, Rita,” Sam countered. “I have no doubt you would have made it anywhere you wanted to be.”

  “Maybe, but growing up Chicano in Little Village, it just didn’t seem realistic—more like a pipe dream,” Rita replied, toying with her water bottle. “But when I saw him do it, I felt like anything was possible, you know?” She bit her lip, her typical don’t-mess-with-me demeanor shifted to reveal a side uncharacteristically vulnerable.

  For all the time they spent together, Sam realized she’d only scratched the surface with Rita. They were a lot alike in that way—both private, both intensely focused on their individual goals. But where Sam was standoffish, Rita was so over the top, and at times, it was difficult to see past that bold brashness. She supposed it was Rita’s own particular brand of self-protection. Get out in front of people before they had a chance to get to you.

  “I know you two don’t like each other, and he’s an asshole to you a lot of the time, but Alejo’s been a good cousin to me—like an older brother, really.”

  Sam chewed on her sandwich, considering Rita. “So are you trying out for the Challenge because of Alejo?”

  “No—this is for me,” Rita replied without hesitation. “To be honest, I never thought I’d make it into the top fifty when I joined up. Had it not been for you, I probably wouldn’t have pushed myself so hard, but now I see I’m good at this,” she confessed. “I could have a real career in the military, you know? Something I could be proud of.” Rita shrugged.

  Sam reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand gently. “You’re killing it out there, girl. I’m seriously worried you’re going to knock me out of the running.”

  “No way, jaina,” Rita replied, smirking. “It’s you and me on this. We’re going to show those culeros8 how it’s done.”

  Sam smiled as she finished her lunch, glancing back at Alejandro’s table, and Wes not far from it. No way was she backing down now. Alejandro could keep trying to knock her out of the running, and Wes could write any story he wanted. Sam was taking a page from Rita’s book on this one. This may have started in a bid for independence, a way to spite her father, but now she wanted this for her. Because she could see all the possibilities opening up in front of her—a world of options beyond the ranch and Wyatt Petroleum.

  “Uh-oh, I know that look,” Rita murmured, her brow lifting in amusement.

  Sam glanced back at her. “What look?”

  “It’s the look you get when you’ve made up your mind.”

  Sam smiled slowly. “You got that right.”

  Chapter 15

  September—Saturday Night

  Kyle Field, Texas A&M

  S A M A N T H A

  Kyle Field stadium was jam-packed and riotous with thunderous applause by the time Sam managed to get there, just in time for the second half. The cadets had gotten back late after bussing from Fort Hood, and Sam had taken her time with a long, hot shower. She’d rubbed some ointment on her sore shoulder, the welt there already dark from the rifle’s recoil. She considered calling Uncle Grant and telling him about the win, but decided to save it for her regular Sunday night call back to the ranch, when she typically caught up with Ryland. Sam smiled as she imagined him whooping and cheering with excitement over the phone as he told everyone within earshot, bragging about his sister. The visual warmed her, and pride in her own accomplishment made the deep bruise forming on her shoulder all the more worth it.

  Now, standing in the bright lights of Kyle Field, Sam felt another kind of pride as she looked up at the scoreboard—school pride. A&M was up against Ole Miss, easily the nation’s top-scoring offense for the year. Ole Miss was ahead, but barely. Emotions ran high and the air felt electric—Sam wondered briefly if this was what the inside of the Coliseum had felt like, all those years ago, the Romans cheering on their gladiators through battles and feats of strength and bravery. She watched breathlessly from the ground gates as A&M blocked Ole Miss’s field goal, setting up an impressive drive toward closing up the deficit, amidst the shouts and cheers from the ever-faithful Aggies. Revved up by the noise and the atmosphere, Sam was just about to push her way up the packed bleachers when a hand came out of nowhere and pulled her sideways.

  “What the—”

  “You made it! Come with me!” Wes shouted as he pulled her along, waving his press pass around his neck as he hustled her along the sidelines. The mayhem was incredible. It was amazing she could hear him over the din.

  “Damn, you’re everywhere,” she muttered, staring at his back as he practically dragged her through the throng. Off-campus, ROTC, football games, in her head—Wes had become so omnipresent in her life in such a short period of time, it was uncanny.

  “What?!” he shouted over his shoulder as he dragged her down the sidelines, eyes on the field.

  Sam yanked his shoulder down so she could shout into his ear: “You’re freaking everywhere!” but Wes turned his head just enough that her mouth grazed his warm che
ek, making her lips tingle. Wes smiled at her, his face so close, she could see the flecks in his amber eyes.

  “Only where you are, darlin’,” he said in her ear before drawing back, making her feel hot and a little befuddled.

  Wes saved her some embarrassment by turning and leading the way as he cut a swath through the crowd of reporters, photographers, and VIP fans lucky enough to get floor-level visuals of the players. They were so close to the player’s bench, Sam could almost reach out and pet them. She shifted her gaze, trying to spot Chris on the field.

  “What’s Chris’s number?” she asked.

  “He’s 76—over there,” Wes pointed.

  Chris stood almost a head taller than most of the players on the field—an absolute behemoth in his helmet and pads.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Good,” Wes nodded. “Ole Miss is tough, but we’re coming back hard.”

  The Aggie’s quarterback snapped and the football landed into the waiting hands of the wide receiver. He shot down the field in a fast-weaving, remarkable fifty-yard run that got A&M in the end zone.

  “Stay here,” Wes told her before jogging off with the other photographers, getting as close as possible to the action.

  Samantha watched Wes maneuver the sidelines, working his camera and the large zoom lens all the sports photographers were using. He took fast action shots in succession as the players moved and huddled, repositioning on the line of scrimmage. She admired Wes’s focus and agility, the utter concentration as he worked, the big camera in his hands almost an extension of his arms. The lights in the stadium bounced off his hair, setting off the gold like a burnish. He looked like a wild, rogue angel—utterly entrancing; breathtakingly beautiful.

  “Stop mooning over him,” Sam muttered to herself, forcing her attention back onto the field. But her traitorous eyes kept finding him between plays, and when Wes finally made his way back to her, she found herself straightening, the undercurrent between them making her feel wound up and alert.