Dustwater Creek
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 9: Rising at Last
Months had passed since the chaos of the Rusted Spur Saloon. Dustwater Creek had settled into its usual rhythm, the streets quieter now, the wind carrying less threat. Inside the small room above the saloon, however, a far more personal storm had been endured—and finally, at last, it was coming to an end.
Lysandra Bale lay on the bed, the splints and blankets that had held her body rigid for weeks now ready to be removed. The process was slow and deliberate, each pillow lifted, each strap untied with care. Harlan Pike and the other men moved around her like careful attendants, tense and reverent, their hands steady but aware that one misstep could undo months of healing.
“Breathe slowly,” Lysandra winced slightly as the first straps were loosened. “Every motion counts. Patience.”
They began with her legs, untwisting the cloth bindings, lifting the broom-handle splint, and removing the pillows tucked on either side of her hips. She felt strange and light, yet fragile, as her muscles protested the freedom that had been withheld for so long. The men massaged her stiffened feet again, coaxing blood into toes and arches that had been cramped and tense for months.
Once clumsy and heavy-handed, Harlan now moved with precision and gentleness, his large hands steady enough to care for her fragile body without causing pain. His attentiveness had grown under her guidance.
“Good,” she whispered, eyes sharp despite the ache. “Keep going. Don’t rush. Step by step.”
Next came her torso. The strips of cloth securing her shoulders and back were loosened. She exhaled sharply, feeling a mix of relief and fear: her body had been bound for so long that even the idea of standing seemed daunting.
Once quick-tempered and impulsive, Tommy had learned patience. He now knelt quietly, holding her pillows steady with careful respect, his rashness replaced by thoughtful caution.
“Now ... let’s get on my feet,” she said, voice taut with anticipation. “Slowly. You support me, but I bear the weight. Ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harlan and Tommy murmured together, bracing their hands under her arms.
They lifted her gradually, supporting her back and hips. Pain shot through her pelvis with the first tentative weight-bearing, and she bit her lip, forcing a steadying breath. Harlan positioned a pair of crutches, sturdy and worn, under her arms.