My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Forcing a smile onto my face as I would for any passing stranger, I started to turn. I flicked my gaze up and down the street. The sheriff's office and jail was beyond the stage coach office. Maybe Sheriff Worth was there, or even a deputy. In any event, I had to get there without raising the suspicions of the stranger.

As it happened, his suspicions were already raised. His hand moved to his pistol and he was thumbing the loop away. He was going to shoot me? In front of everyone? In the middle of town? Did he imagine he could get away with such a thing?

All of those thoughts raced through my mind in a matter of seconds. Some instinct made me dodge toward the alley that was on my left. Something—a bullet?—sliced across my right cheek as I moved. All I knew was that I had to keep moving until I was out of sight.

After all, a moving target is more difficult to hit.

Not that it made any difference to a person who knew how to hit said moving target.

The wood wall on my left splintered and I ducked my head once again. There were two large crates ahead of me and I threw myself behind them, pressing against the wood.

My heart pounded in my chest and my both of my cheeks throbbed with pain. When I reached up, I discovered several splinters embedded in my left cheek and a long graze on my right.

I certainly hoped Remy didn't just like me for my looks.

From where I was, there was no way for me to tell if the man was still shooting unless I peeked around the boxes. I wasn't about to do so. Closing my eyes, I prayed some of the numerous men on the street had taken notice.

A hand on my shoulder made me jerk around and open my eyes. An unfamiliar man, his mouth hidden by his long beard, stood their. He held his hands up in the universal gesture for he meant me no harm. If he said anything, I wasn't able to tell for his beard covered his lips, making it impossible for me to read.

Concern was in his eyes though as he stared at my face.

"I'm alright," I managed to say. My knees felt weak and my hands shook as I pushed myself up. "Is he gone?"

The poor man flinched. Was my voice too loud?WIth my nerves in such a state, I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd been screeching, though I didn't have the energy for that.

As I faced the mouth of the alley, I could see men running past, right towards the stage office. All of them had guns in their hand and among them I recognized my father.

"Father!"

At my call, Father came to a halt and returned to the front of the alley. The kind miner followed me as I rushed out. Father grabbed my arms when I reached him, his eyes wide with horror.

"Ivy, what are you....You're bleeding!" His gaze slipped past me. "What happened?"

His hands gesturing, the man explained. Or that's what I assumed he was doing. My attention was on the crowd that had gathered in the street. Of the man who'd shot at me, I didn't see any trace. Had he run? How had he gotten away?

A slight shake of my shoulders brought my attention back to my father. "What happened?" he asked, his eyes on me.

Before I could work out where to even begin, Father's gaze shifted away from me again. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Sheriff Worth running toward us. The sheriff had his gun in his hand, no doubt in case anything happened.

He sent a nod at Father before focusing on me. "What happened?"

Paper. I needed paper. My hands were shaking too badly for me to expect any coherency in signing, and the sheriff wouldn't have understood me anyway. At the same time, I didn't trust myself to even attempt voicing. Would my voice tremble and be incomprehensible? I wouldn't know.