Thorn in the West
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 8: The Cliff’s Edge
Mika Thorn guided Emberline to a cautious stop at the edge of a narrow, crumbling ridge, the mare pawing the dirt nervously. She slid from the saddle, boots hitting the hard ground with a thud that made dust rise like smoke, her left shoulder still tender, her lower back protesting every movement.
Her revolver gripped tightly in her right hand, she pressed her fingers to her bandaged shoulder, testing her strength. Every step along the rocky terrain sent jolts of pain through her body, but she forced herself to move with purpose, scanning the canyon ahead where the teacher had slipped through the shadows days before.
And then she saw him.
Calm, composed, glasses glinting in the sunlight, satchel slung over one shoulder. He tipped an imaginary hat, voice carrying lightly across the canyon. “Mika Thorn,” he said, teasing and infuriatingly serene. “Back again? I feared you might have decided to sulk in town forever.”
Mika’s teeth clenched. She raised her revolver, swinging it with her weak hand. Shots cracked sharply through the air, dust and pebbles exploding where her bullets struck too high, too low, too wide. Emberline shifted nervously, pawing the ground, as Mika forced herself to stay low and steady, breath ragged but determination blazing in her eyes.
He moved like a shadow, effortlessly between cover and sunlight, each dodge precise, each step teasingly predictable yet impossible to trap. A grazing shot tore across her left shoulder, and she staggered, pressing a hand to the wound. “Better,” he called, his voice carrying across the ridge. “But still not enough. Careful, Miss Thorn, or you’ll wear yourself out before the lesson is finished.”
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