Trixies’s Gamble
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 4
Trixie lay on the bed, pale, sweat-soaked, her hair matted to her forehead. Her leg throbbed relentlessly beneath the splint.
Dr. Hale arrived with his leather bag, calm and deliberate.
“Now then,” he said, briskly. “This will hurt.”
The deputy by the door chuckled softly. Someone else muttered under their breath. Polite tones, careful voices—but every word carried weight, as if the room itself was judging her.
They didn’t ease her leg. They didn’t ask. Hands gripped her thigh and ankle, firm and unyielding.
“No—wait—please—” she whispered. Panic had returned in full force, sharp and raw. Her nails dug into the mattress as they straightened her leg.
Pain exploded. She screamed, high and ragged, as the bone slid back into place. The room blurred. She vomited and shook, trembling uncontrollably.
“Strong constitution,” the doctor remarked, almost approvingly. “Not all survive that.”
The splint was bound with rough cloth, tight enough to make her wince with each turn. Every movement, every knot, was a fresh spike of agony. The deputy smirked.
“Careful,” he said. “Don’t want her runnin’ off.”
She wanted to vanish.
Then came the ledger.
Dr. Hale opened it on the washstand, writing with precise, cruel neatness: • Setting the bone
• Splint materials
• Bandages
• Doctor’s time
• Follow-up visits
• Laudanum
Sheriff Barrett leaned nearby, hands behind his back, watching every flinch she made.
“The door,” Barrett added. “Damaged.”
“And the bed,” the clerk said with a faint smile, stepping into the room. “Bloodstains ... and other damages.”
Trixie froze.
“Other damages?” she croaked.
“Accidents happen,” the clerk said cheerfully, almost innocent. “We’ll need to add it to the bill.”
Her stomach sank as she realized what he meant. Every motion, every uncontrolled shiver, every tiny mishap during her agony was being tallied. Every bit of humiliation—pain, trembling, mess—was money out of her pocket.
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