Calista
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 2: The Long Days
The doctor arrived before midnight, carrying a worn leather case that had accompanied him through more emergencies than he cared to remember, and by then the Silver Spur had become almost completely silent. The men who had remained in the saloon stood back while he examined Calista, speaking to her in a calm voice that seemed strangely ordinary amid the confusion that had followed the shooting. He asked her where the pain was strongest, whether she could feel his fingers when he touched her feet, and whether she could move her toes. Calista answered every question as steadily as she could, although tears continued to slip silently down her cheeks whenever the doctor examined her knees. He worked carefully and without unnecessary movement, understanding that the slightest shift of her legs caused terrible pain, and when he finally finished his examination he told the men that she was fortunate in one respect: the bullets had caused severe injuries, but the damage could be treated, and there was no immediate indication that her life was in danger. It was the first genuinely hopeful thing anyone had said to her since Jake Mercer had fired the second shot, yet Calista found that she was unable to feel relieved. All she could think about was the fact that she could no longer stand.
The doctor explained that both knees would have to be kept completely still while the wounds healed. He brought out long, rigid wooden splints, padded them generously with folded cloth and positioned them along either side of each injured leg. He then wrapped broad bandages firmly around the supports, securing them from above the knees down toward the ankles while leaving her feet uncovered so he could continue checking their circulation. Additional padding was placed around the wounded joints, and when he had finished, both of Calista’s legs were held straight and immobile. He carefully examined her toes once more, satisfied that they remained warm and responsive, and told her that the arrangement would have to remain in place for some time. There could be no bending of the knees, no sudden movements and no attempt to stand. The healing would have to be allowed to happen slowly.
She was carried to the small room behind the saloon that served as Calista’s quarters, although the doctor quickly decided that she needed to remain there rather than being transported elsewhere during the night. The room was modest, with a narrow bed, a wooden dresser, a small washstand and a window overlooking the back alley, but it was familiar to her, and under ordinary circumstances she had always regarded it as a private refuge after long evenings behind the bar. Now it seemed strangely unfamiliar. The doctor and two of the men carefully lifted her onto the bed, supporting her injured legs so that they would not shift, while Calista gripped the sheets and bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Once she was settled, the doctor arranged several firm pillows beneath her calves and ankles, raising both legs well above the level of the mattress. Because her knees could not bend, her legs rested in a straight line beneath the blankets, elevated and supported from beneath. More folded blankets were placed around her legs to keep her comfortable and prevent the supports from shifting during the night. Calista stared at the arrangement in silence. Her legs seemed strangely distant from her, transformed from something she had never needed to think about into something that required constant attention from other people.
The doctor checked her feet once more before covering her with a blanket. He warned her that she must not attempt to lower her legs herself or interfere with the dressings, even if she became uncomfortable. The elevation was necessary to reduce the swelling, while keeping the knees still would give the injured structures the best possible chance to heal. She would have to remain in bed for a long time, he explained, and although he was careful not to make promises, he believed that the medical care she had received gave her a reasonable chance of recovering useful movement in both legs. The words should have comforted her. Instead, the phrase remain in bed for a long time echoed through her mind until it seemed almost as frightening as the memory of the gunshots.
By morning, the room was filled with pale gray light, and Calista had barely slept. She lay on her back, her legs still raised on the pillows, unable to find a position that felt natural. The medicine had dulled the sharpest pain, but there was still a deep ache in both knees, accompanied by occasional flashes of sharper discomfort that made her tense instinctively. She could not turn naturally, could not draw her knees upward, and could not shift her legs when they began to feel stiff and heavy. She had never imagined that something as ordinary as turning onto her side or sitting up would one day require another person to help her.
When she finally looked toward the foot of the bed, she saw the outline of her legs beneath the blankets and remembered the doctor’s instructions. She stared at them for a long time, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with the memory of herself walking through the streets of Briar’s Hollow only days earlier.
Those had been her legs.
They had carried her across dusty roads, up wooden stairs, through fields and along the hills surrounding the town. They had carried her behind the bar for countless hours, had allowed her to ride horses and walk home alone after midnight without fear. Now they lay completely still because a man she had rejected had decided that her refusal deserved punishment.
Calista turned her face toward the wall.
She began to cry again.
The depression did not come all at once. It settled over her slowly, almost invisibly, during the first several days, as though someone were gradually lowering a heavy curtain over the room. At first she had expected to recover quickly. The doctor had told her that she had received good care and that there was reason to hope, and Calista clung to those words during the first morning. She asked questions about how long the bandages would remain, when she could sit up, when she could begin moving her legs and whether she would eventually be able to walk again. The doctor answered honestly, refusing to promise anything he could not guarantee, and that uncertainty frightened her more than a definite answer might have done. He explained that the wounds would need time to heal, that the joints had suffered considerable trauma and that rehabilitation would be necessary later, perhaps for many months. For now, however, she needed rest, careful observation and patience.
Patience.
Calista hated that word.
She had never been patient with helplessness.
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