The Shy Ellen
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 3
Ellen found them sooner than she expected.
The town was called Dry Wells, a low, mean place crouched around a single street and a saloon that smelled of sour whiskey and old sweat. She knew she was close the moment she heard it—the laughter. Short, broken bursts. Like coughing.
Her hand went cold around the rifle stock.
She saw the rope first.
It dragged behind a tall rider’s saddle, frayed and stained, whispering against the dirt just as it had in Red Creek. Ellen’s breath caught. She followed the sound like a thread, each step tightening something inside her chest.
Inside the saloon, the men sat loud and careless. Boots on tables. Cards slapped down. Guns worn low.
The stitched grip.
There it was—dark leather, repaired instead of replaced.
Her vision tunneled.
Ellen took position behind the livery, heart pounding so hard she feared it would shake the sight off target. She lay prone, just as Brennan had taught her. The distance was clean. The angle was good.
She waited.
The man with the stitched grip stepped into the street, laughing, tipping his hat at a passing woman who flinched away. Ellen lined up the shot.
Her finger tightened.
Mary’s face filled her mind—but not as she died. As she lived. Laughing. Singing.
Ellen froze.
The moment stretched, then snapped.
“Hey!” someone shouted.
The man turned. Another laughed.
They saw her.
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