Kate Logan learned a lesson when she was 15 that most people don't figure out until they're decades older: homes are really the people who inhabit them. She was in the same physical house she'd grown up in, but everything had changed. Although Kate had been meticulous in changing absolutely nothing, change had happened anyway. While she slept? While she went to the barn or worked with the horses? She could never tell. She just woke up one morning and felt like she was in a different house- that her mother's perfumed scent had left her forever. The singing of her mother had been replaced by the cursing of her father and, although she could tell he was making an effort, diplomacy had never been his strong suit. He wasn't that kind of criminal.

He'd been the gun toting, bank robbing kind, and she was still confused about what the hell he was doing here. He'd told her he'd teach her how to protect herself, but then spent three months doing nothing- just walking around the property and not going out of his way to be particularly nice or mean to her. There'd only been one conversation of any depth, and she'd ruined that fairly quickly.

He had walked into her room after knocking far too many times and had sat down on his bed. In his own gruff manner, he'd told her that she'd be welcome to take his name- his true surname of Bogan- if she wanted to, as long as she didn't mention it to the law. But she'd recoiled from him like a snake, shouting at him to leave. She'd tried to explain later that it wasn't him, at least not entirely; in her mind, if she changed her name then it's like her mother didn't matter, or something. But that'd been the end of it. Her father had walked out of her room and never mentioned it again.

In fact, he never mentioned much of anything until Kate woke up on her 16th birthday with a gun hitting her in the chest. She woke quickly, as one does when a gun is tossed at them from across the room, and sat up on her bed, holding the gun with two hands as her groggy mind tried to process the situation.

"Get up. I've been waiting for you to ask me to get started for months now, but if we wait any longer I'm going to drop dead of old age. Happy birthday. Get dressed."

After quickly tugging on some jeans, slipping on a large buttoned shirt that had belonged to her, and putting her long blond hair back in a ponytail, Kate met her father outside. Glaring at the rising sun, he was sitting on one horse and tossed the reins of a second to her as she soon as she approached him. About fifteen minutes of riding took them to a hill where they could see their ranch in the distance. They quickly dismounted and Dan Bogan set up a row of tin cans on a rock far away from her. He took out the gun again, which she'd sheepishly handed back to him before leaving, and gave it to her again. It felt strange in her hands. Cold. 

"Girl, I have extremely low expectations for you today. Disappointing me would be a monumental achievement."

She glared at him, pointed the gun at one of the tin cans, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. He simply looked at her for a moment before speaking. He didn't yell, but his voice stung nevertheless.

"Jesus tapdancing Christ on a pony- don't you ever do anything like that again or I will beat the everloving shit out of you, daughter of mine or not. This is a goddamn killing machine, and you should not do fucking ANYTHING with it unless I tell you. Is that clear?"

She said nothing, but nodded once- trying not to cry or yell in anger.

"Now I'm less mad than usual, because I figured you didn't know what the hell you were doing and didn't load the damned thing. But what you just taught me is that, no matter how many books you've read, you've got a strong streak of idiot in you. Resist that streak, girl."

The next three hours were spent monotonously learning how to assemble and disassemble the gun, then loading and unloading it, then holding it and aiming. She'd occasionally hear the voice of her father correcting her or, rarely, talking to her.

"This is not a crude weapon, like a shotgun. This is art. You're not using this gun like a hammer- you've got to be gentle, but firm. When you shoot, handle the trigger like a girl- squeeze her nice and gentle...

Realizing that he was speaking to his daughter, he abruptly abandoned his metaphor.

"Just try to be gentle. Don't fucking slam the trigger. This is a long barreled Colt Single Action Army, one of the old ones mind you, and the single greatest gun I ever had. I've killed more men with this gun than you've seen in your life. "

Her father's casual shift from awkward crude talk to murder threw her off. She suppressed a shudder and only hesitated for a moment as she loaded the final cartridge. 

"Now, girl, you're going to shoot this gun, just like we practiced. You have 6 shots."

Kate slid her right foot back as she'd practiced and held the gun with two trembling hands, reaching back with one thumb to cock the hammer. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled and pulled the trigger. Miss. She looked down the sight, aiming in between each shot. Miss. Miss. Miss. Miss.

The first time she pulled the trigger she thought she saw her father's grin from the corner of her eye. But by her fifth miss, he was no longer smiling. When he spoke next it was with a coldness that she'd rarely heard before.

"Girl, if you don't hit that can... or even the giant fucking rock that the cans are on, with this next shot.... then I am going to walk over there and give you a beating. I don't particularly want to, but that will happen. Do you understand me?"

She looked at his unblinking face for a long time before she turned her attention back to the tin cans in front of her. She closed her eyes for a moment, determined not to cry, and thought of her mother. But when her eyes opened there was rage there- not grief. 

Kate pulled the trigger and saw a can go flying off the hill, as her father walked up behind her, patted her once on the back, and took his gun.

"Good. Now pack up. We'll be back here tomorrow morning. And every day until you can shoot worth a damn. Maybe there's some of me in you after all, Kate. "

She didn't know whether to be elated or terrified.

Seven years later, Kate was looking at that same gun, although by now it was hers and hers alone. Currently, it was pointing at a quivering mass of fat and mustache that owned a convenience store in Corktown, Detroit. She wordlessly accepted the money from the register and walked outside, ducking down an alley and removing the bandanna from where it covered her face. Too romantic, perhaps. But she couldn't resist. She expertly returned her gun to its holster and began to walk back toward downtown Detroit, where she was trying to make a name for herself. Or at least some money. As she walked, she kept an eye out for pickpockets- and targets.