Trixies’s Gamble
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 7
Weeks passed. Trixie’s leg slowly regained strength under the careful guidance of the women, crutches becoming less a lifeline and more a tool of control over her own body. Pain still throbbed, but she learned to move with quiet determination.
The men watched from a distance. Their grudging respect simmered quietly beneath polite smiles. None dared to mock her openly anymore.
Then came the night of the poker game.
The men of the town had gathered at the saloon, whispering, uneasy. The women had been organizing quietly for days, planning, watching. Trixie arrived at the saloon leaning on her crutches, splint hidden beneath her skirt, calm and collected. Everyone expected her to be timid, weakened, fragile.
They were wrong.
She entered slowly, deliberately. The room fell silent. Coins clinked, drinks stopped mid-lift. Hank Miller’s absence left a shadow, but the memory of him—and of her struggle—hung heavier than any man in the room.
Trixie set her crutches against the table and placed a small stack of coins in front of her. She smiled, calm, almost casual.
“I hear some of you men are in the mood for a rematch,” she said, voice low but steady.
The men exchanged nervous glances.
The game began. And Trixie did something no one expected: she played a hand blindfolded, relying on instinct, memory, and sheer intuition. Bluffing flawlessly, reading every twitch, every hesitation.