Ignition: Day 2

Word Count: 12,018

Summary of Events:

Rebekka regained consciousness and found herself draped across a horse shortly before the horse came to a stop outside a building in what was clearly a small town. A man came out from the building and removed her from the horse, revealing himself to be the Deputy Marshal, whom she took an immediate dislike to, as he made it quite clear he was attracted to her, but locked her in a cell anyways. Keiller got up late the following morning, feeling a bit dizzy and sore, but intent to be about the day's work which involved going to get the doctor because his deputy hadn't removed his improvised handcuffs from Rebekka's wrists the day before, and she'd chafed herself to bleeding trying to get free of them. By the time they returned to the office, Keiller was feeling acutely that he'd been shot the day before, but refused to go lie down until Rebekka was tended to . . .

Excerpt of the Day:

The Marshal hung onto the iron bars as he and the other man approached her, and she had to say the Marshal looked nearly as white as the other man’s shirt, which was one of the whitest, cleanest shirts she’d ever seen.

On top of the man’s shirt was a green vest with gold pinstripes, topped by a simple grey suit coat. He was wearing pressed pants that matched the coat, as well as a gold tie, pinned neatly at his throat, and well-shined black shoes, that matched the black medical bag he was carrying.

He was shorter than the Marshal, but not by too much, and the golden hair atop his head faded into silver hairs along the edge of his forehead all the way to his ears, but around the back of his head still looked to be gold.

A matching gold moustache rested on his upper lip and was subtly curled upward on the ends, suggesting a friendly smile, even though his mouth itself wasn’t really curled at all.

Despite the fact that he didn’t have the same hair colour as Papa — nor was he as strongly-built — there was something about this man that made him look like a person she could trust, and she was certain it was more than just the medical bag he carried.

The man — who was clearly a doctor, as no one else carried bags that looked even remotely like the bags doctors carried — set his bag down and looked at her.

Before he could ask her to come she rose to her feet and approached the bars that separated her from the men, and were about all that seemed to be keeping the Marshal off the floor, as his knuckles were the same shade of white as his face from the tightness of his grip on the iron bars.

The gaps in the bars were wide enough that she could reach her hands through, and she did so, presenting the wounds to the doctor for examination.

“Hm,” the doctor said. “It would be better to see if I could wash it.”

Immediately the Marshal turned and made his way with seeming caution and feebleness toward the foot of the stairs.

“Cyril!” he called. “Dr. Carrigan needs warm water. Now!”

She heard feet on the floor overhead as the Marshal carefully made his way back, not letting himself stand without a hand clinging to the bars for long. She felt a little sick as she wondered if the reason the Marshal was so pale and feeble-looking was because of the shot she’d unintentionally fired the night before.

Since he wasn’t dead she felt that he had to be reasonably fine, but, at the same time, since he’d first been here and removed her ribbon, his condition had deteriorated, and she didn’t think it’d really been all that long. There were times when people didn’t die from being shot immediately.

“You don’t need to stay now Marshal,” the doctor said. “You can go lie down.”

“I’m fine,” the Marshal said, his gaze seeming fixed on her hands.

She looked toward the doctor — Dr. Carrigan — and she didn’t get the sense that he believed the Marshal any more than she did.