“You are a Prewitt woman,” my aunt says to me as I’m snotting uncontrollably over her dining table. “You are strong. You are a descendant of Belle Starr, for goodness sake!”
I grab a paper towel to scrape the slick off my face.
“We have crossed deserts and climbed mountains. And when someone gives us trouble? Well, we shoot ‘em.”
I learned two things: Paper towels hurt and I’ve temporarily misplaced my gunslinging hand.
