"Oh, her brother eh?" Rather than look intimidated, this new information made the man's smile spread beneath his mustache like melting butter. Claire's expression didn't deviate from her constant, default smirk. "Well then, can I be your prize, darlin'?" He even waggled his brows at her. "You don't even hafta shoot."
Claire snorted under her breath, shooting a smirk at Rory and relieved him of the cheap, beat-up rifle. Without a word, she checked the balance, the straightness of the column, and the sight- by the time she hoisted it to her shoulder to aim, the carny had lost a little of that gleam in his eye.
"I like shootin'," she told the told the man, then took her turn. Her first shot missed the stationary bullseye by two inches because of the shoddy gun itself, but every shot afterward was dead-on, including the moving targets.