The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

77: Black Is the Color

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Wash by Angela Taratuta. All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

"So, lad," Wash leaned against the rail on the back porch of the house, his stomach growling at the scent of cooking breakfast wafting through the air. He watched with amusement as Saint sprawled in the battered rocking chair, worrying the stub of a peppermint stick with his teeth. "So it's you and Miss Lily now, aye?" He was extremely relieved that Saint's skin was no longer an unhealthy gray, and the gaunt desperation had mostly left his face. He was also glad to see that the lad had replaced his customary quirly with a piece of candy. It's not hard to guess the reason he's given up smoking. And I'm not going to make fun of him doing it the exact same way Jesse has.

Saint snapped his attention to Wash's face, abandoning whatever spot on the horizon he had been staring at. His lip curled in a self-conscious half-smile and he gave a faint nod. "Guess she don't hate me after all."

Wash hitched his hip against the rail, settling on it. "The lass never hated you, you sodding tosser."

"A lot's happened," Saint muttered, almost to himself. His dark eyes went back to scanning the empty trail leading out of the station yard. "Too much. It's not going to be alright until Farm Boy gets his ass back here." He bit the end off the peppermint stick and crunched. "I'm sick over this, Ginger."

Wash nodded sympathetically. He was having a fair amount of guilt himself, unable to shake off the regret at not having gone along to Point of Rocks with them. He knew, logically, that if he hadn't been at the station when Hooper attacked them, the lads would likely be dead, and Rosie with them. Still, he illogically chastised himself for being unable to be everywhere at once. "I know, lad," he said. "But now he's out on his own by his own choice, so he is. And that's no one's fault. He's a grown man, sure. You can't forget that."

Saint looked down at the healing abrasions marring his wrists and hands, flexing his fingers. He sighed in resignation, running his fingers over the ugly laceration in the heel of his left thumb, where he'd tried to force his hand through the iron cuff back in Point of Rocks. "You're right. He ain't a kid. He could have come back with Hungerford."

"Aye. And stop picking at your scabs, lad, you'll have them festering"

Saint slouched into the rocker, kicking his legs out and resting his bootheels on the porch railing. "So you're learning to read eh?" he blurted, clearly wanting to change the subject and get his mind off his haunting self-reproach. "What prompted that?"

"Luis. We made a wager."

"Oh?"

"Aye. I'll learn if he will."

Saint smiled, the peppermint stick on his lip clicking against his teeth. Wash forced himself not to laugh at how identical the gesture was to Jesse's. "You meeting with Mrs. Plunkett?"

"Ah. No. Doc's bookkeeper. Did you know Doc's bookkeeper does a lot of the arithmetic at the school? See, I didn't know that. And it's a sodding tribulation, so it is."

"Why? I'd think an accountant would be a pretty good..."

"Because here this posh, sweet smelling, soft-handed lass who has buttons on her dress that are probably smarter than I am. And because here am I, the gormless tosser with no schooling. And every fecking time I show me sodding face, there's this one poxy little maggot who won't shut his gob about how I shot someone dead here in the sodding yard."

Saint was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, one eyebrow arched and an annoying smirk on his face.

Wash frowned. "What?"

"I don't guess you'd care about any of that if she wasn't posh and sweet-smellin', eh?"

Wash bit back the abusive retort that instantly formed on his lips. "Well..." he muttered.

Saint laughed derisively. "Ha!"

"It ain't that," Wash shot defensively, feeling his ears burn. "I just thought it would be dear old Mrs. Plunkett, who's already seen me at me worse."

"Would you rather it be dear old Mrs. Plunkett?"

Wash scowled, heat beginning to creep over his face in earnest, making it's way down the back of his neck."You're a sodding wanker, so you are."

"That's what I thought. You're so full of horseshit, Wash." Saint leaned back in his chair, his head thrown back and a big grin on his face. "You should see how red your ears are. Who is this woman?"

Wash opened his mouth and then closed it. "Miss Iris Sullivan. She's from back east, and works for the Plunketts as a bookkeeper. She thinks I'm an ignorant sodding beast, so she does."

"Wash, I doubt that." Saint scratched his head and roached his hair back, still chuckling. "You said she's smart. What's she look like? Merda, look at you. You're all red in the face."

"Jaysus, would you leave off about me face?" A flood of fresh heat flashed over his skin, and Saint's barely-contained expression of mirth triggered in Wash the urge to strangle him. "Uh...she's tall for a lady, holds herself like she's from money," he soldiered on. "She's a handsome lass, so she is." He hated how he was blushing at the thought of her, hated how thick and low-class he felt. Most of all, he hated the smirk on Saint's face. What he didn't hate, however, was the idea of going back for another lesson. In fact, he was looking forward to it. "She's got dark hair," he said. "Almost black..." Like secrets and magic...

Saint finished for him, his cheek dimpling. "And I'm guessing bonny brown eyes."

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