The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

94: The Mote and the Beam

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Iris made of found images by me. 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.

He knows. The acid roiling in Iris' stomach would not abate. She sat at her dressing table and wondered if it would be possible to simply slip out of town unnoticed. Staring reproachfully at herself in the mirror, she squinted at the tired-eyed, frightened woman looking back at her. You didn't really think this through, did you? Was it worth it?

"Yes," she whispered defiantly. "I'd do it again." She dropped her head into her hands and sighed, closing her eyes. The stage isn't going west because of the trouble right now. Going back eastward doesn't make sense.

It bothered her that the last time she'd Mr. Monahan, he'd been angry. But worse than that, he'd had been hurt. She didn't know what was going on with him, but she did know that seeing pain on his face cut her more deeply than it should. The law's not after me, lass, he'd said in his lilting brogue. His voice echoed in her memory, haunting her. The law's not after me. The statement had felt heavy, accusatory. He knows. He has to know.

The glass of the dressing table mirror in her rented room was old, the silver back worn to gray at the edges. Her reflection was dim and ghostly, the worry lines in her brow and around her eyes softened, and she had the feeling of looking into the past, at the woman she'd been back east. Back when everything was ledgers and numbers and formulas, all written out in plain black and white with no shades of gray.

She got up and walked over to the bed, bending to pull her suitcase from the dark space underneath. The feel of the worn leather handle in her grip sent a pang of regret through her. He wasn't lying about learning to read, she thought. That much is true. Think, Iris! It doesn't make any sense that he's here looking for you! He's been here in Green River too long for you to think that. Stop being so paranoid!

A June beetle was hurling itself against the glass outside of the dark window, rattling against the pane in sharp, vexing clicks and pops. But he knows now. And he's hiding...something. I can't risk it. I can't risk staying here.

"Ohh..." she groaned to herself, jerking the suitcase from beneath the bed and heaving it atop the coverlet. "I don't want to leave." She stopped, staring at the trunk and trying to will herself to start packing. The weight of defeat was heavy inside her, and the hurt in Mr. Monahan's deep blue eyes haunting her conscience like a murdered ghost.

The June bug outside rattled against the glass and she wondered how the impact didn't shatter the insect's armor. She turned to look, annoyed. A pebble skipped across the glass and fell away into the darkness. Her mouth dropped open.

She drew in a deep, breath, heart in her throat, and reluctantly approached the window, peering down into the yard of the boarding house.

Mr. Monahan stood in the dim pool of light spilling from one of the downstairs windows, the yellow light turning his boyishly tousled hair to copper. He was looking up at her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. She raised the sash and stuck her head out. "Mr. Monahan, what...?"

"I was a Roach Guard in Manhattan, so I was," he said, cutting her off, one blue eye crinkling as he winced at his own words. "Lived in the Five Points where there's a lot of trouble, so mostly kept criminals from making off with liquor shipments that belonged to other criminals. Got stabbed in a nasty brawl, so I did. Sodding miracle I made it out with me life. Me face isna on a poster, lass. I'm just another sod with a gun, and me crime is fighting more sods with guns, none of whom anyone gives a toss about. So, aye. I spent quite a bit of me time skirting the law, so I have."

He stood there, looking up at her, and gave her a shrug as she stared. "I'm a gormless eedjit, lass. I was embarrassed for you to know. Have you heard enough yet? I can show you me scar." He gave his shirtail a hard yank and flipped the loose end of it over up over his ribs. She caught a glimpse of a long white streak lancing across the taut, well-muscled ripple of his narrow waist, and felt heat instantly flood her face. "It was a dead wicked knife, so it was," he went on, dropping his shirtail back down so that it hung, lopsided, tangled in his suspenders. "So that's the truth of it, lass. Now you know."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. It was suddenly unbearably stuffy in her room. He was involved in criminal activity in...New York? That's what he's hiding? Her mind raced. He doesn't know about me. That's not what this was about at all. She didn't know what to say, and didn't think her tongue could form coherent words even if she did. He just bared his soul to me, she thought. I've been lying to him the whole time, and all the while thinking he was hiding his intentions. All this time, he simply didn't want me to think badly of him. How could I be such a hypocrite?

"Aye, then," he was saying, shoving back his tousled locks with one hand. "I'm back off to the Green, so I am. G'night, lass. See you in..."

"Wait," she said, heart in her throat. "Don't go yet."

She left him standing in the yard as she fumbled with her suitcase, her hands shaking on the buckles. Throwing it open, she carefully slid the sheet of frayed paper she kept hidden under the silk lining in the bottom of the case. She carried it to the window and stuck her head back out, anxiously looking around for him. "Mr. Monahan, are you still there?"

"Oh, aye, so I am."

She hesitated, feeling as though she were releasing the last piece of floating debris from a shattered ship. "I want to show you something." She released the paper, watching it flutter downwards, like a fledgling learning to fly. She was trembling.

He reached for it, snatching it out of the air. The world stopped spinning.

"Lass," he said, incredulously. "Is this...a wanted poster?"

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