Trixies’s Gamble
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 3
The sheriff arrived first.
He always did.
The doorframe groaned as it was forced open the rest of the way, lantern light spilling into the ruined room. Voices crowded the hallway—men whispering, a woman gasping—but only one figure stepped inside.
Sheriff Cole Barrett took in the scene without changing expression.
Dead man on the floor. Blood darkening the boards. Splintered door. A woman crumpled against the bed, white-faced, shaking, her skirt twisted awkwardly around a leg that bent wrong.
His eyes lingered on Hank Miller’s body.
Then they moved to Trixie.
“Well,” he said calmly, too calmly. “This is a mess.”
She tried to speak. Nothing came out but a broken sound. Her throat felt locked tight, as if fear itself had wrapped fingers around it.
Barrett crouched and nudged Hank’s shoulder with his boot. No response. He checked the man’s neck, then straightened slowly.
“He’s dead.”
The word hit her like another blow.
Dead.
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head weakly. “He—he broke in,” she managed, voice barely a whisper. “He attacked me.”
Barrett looked at the door again. The wrecked lock. The split wood.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you shot a drunk man over a card game.”
Her eyes flew open. “No—”
“Easy,” he cut in. “You’ll get your say. Later.”
He stood and turned toward the hallway. “Get everyone back. I want space.”
A murmur of protest followed, but people obeyed. They always did. Barrett was a big man with a quiet voice, and that made him dangerous.
He knelt beside her now, close enough that she could smell dust and leather and cold night air on him.
“You armed?” he asked.
She nodded faintly, pointing weakly toward the pistol lying where it had fallen.
He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. Small. Two-barreled. His eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Concealed,” he said. Not a question.
She couldn’t stop shaking. “I didn’t— I didn’t plan—”
“Mm.” He rose again. “You don’t look like you planned much of anything.”
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