That'll be in part because her father recently got shot. I do this very rarely, but I feel like my "What Emily is up to" posts should represent what I'm actually up to, and although it's a rare day that my daily 2000 words don't include ANY sex or D/s, it happened today. So here you go.
Maggie realized that she had clutched her Winchester so tightly that her hands had begun to cramp. She forced herself to remain motionless until the outlaws' horses were out of sight, and then she sprang up and ran towards the house, fighting the urge to cry out "Pa!" as she ran.
Her father lay on his back in the front hallway. Her mother knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap. A pool of blood, a terribly big pool of blood, stretched out behind him, in the direction of the farmhouse's natural tilt, the tilt down which Pa had taught her to roll the little wheeled toys he made for her.
"Shh," Laura Hunter was saying, "Shh, Sonny. Shh. It'll be alright. Maggie will fetch the doctor."
Maggie closed her eyes. When she opened them, she'd be back in the field, about to shoot the jackrabbit. The last ten minutes would never have happened.
She swallowed the enormous lump in her throat, and opened her eyes, and gave a sob, because of course her father still lay there dead, eyes staring at the ceiling. Of course.