Dustwater Creek
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 5: The Princess of Dustwater Creek
Days stretched on slowly in the small room above the Rusted Spur Saloon, each marked by pain, careful attention, and a strange, quiet rhythm. Lysandra Bale, once nimble and unshakable, now lay immobilized, every movement a calculated effort to keep her shattered pelvis stable. The crude splints and supports the men had fashioned were checked and corrected daily: blankets rolled beneath her sides, pillows stacked beneath her back and knees, and the broom-handle splint beneath her legs padded and reinforced with fresh cloth.
“Move slowly,” she instructed one morning, wincing as they adjusted the blankets around her hips. “One motion at a time. Don’t rush me.”
The men, awkward and anxious at first, had learned quickly. They fed her carefully: warm broth, small morsels of bread, sips of water, and even a little whiskey to dull the constant ache. They brushed her hair, washed her skin, and bathed her with painstaking caution, mindful of every strap, every splint. Even her feet, stiff and swollen from being immobilized so long, received attention.
“Your feet are tight,” Harlan Pike said quietly one afternoon, taking her limp feet in his hands. “If we don’t ... loosen them, you’ll be stiff for months.”
Lysandra gritted her teeth but allowed it. “Gently,” she warned. “Slow. Every movement counts. One wrong twist and it’ll be worse than the accident.”
Careful fingers massaged her arches, rubbed her calves, flexed her toes ever so slightly, coaxing circulation back into limbs that had long been trapped beneath the splints. She hissed occasionally, sharp and sudden, but guided them precisely. “A little more here ... not so much there ... yes, that’s it.”
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