The Shy Ellen
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 5
Ellen Harper leaned heavily on her crutches. Her hips burned, her arms trembled, and her breaths came shallow and ragged.
Dry Wells awaited her. The saloon, the dusty street, the mocking stares—everything she had endured sharpened her focus.
The gang had not forgotten her either. They laughed as she approached, thinking her still broken, still weak.
“Look who’s crawling back,” one said, amusement dripping from his voice.
“Don’t fall on us, little mouse,” another added, pointing at her crutches.
Ellen’s hand slid beneath her coat. Hidden there, almost laughably small against her trembling grip, was a tiny revolver Brennan had insisted she keep close, practice with, and never underestimate. Her fingers tightened around it. Pain knifed through her hips as she lifted it, aiming with a precision that belied her weakened form.
The laughter faltered.
A single shot rang out, sharp and decisive. The tallest man—the one with the frayed rope—stumbled, clutching his chest, eyes wide in shock. Ellen fired again, her body swaying but controlled, each bullet finding its mark.
The others scrambled. Guns rose, hands shook, and Ellen, balancing on her crutches, moved as best she could, shooting with a calm that made the crowd freeze. The second man fell, the drawl escaping him in a strangled gasp. The third, trying to dive behind a barrel, did not move fast enough.