The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

59: Female Trouble

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Saint made of found images by me. All graphics by me.

All things considered, Saint probably should have seen it coming.

It was late and he was tired. And more than slightly inebriated. So when he came down the stairs from Honey's room on his way down to the saloon, it should have come to no surprise to anyone, least of all to Saint himself, when he was shoved hard into the wall at the stair landing and slapped so hard across the face that the force of it slammed his head painfully backwards into the wall behind him.

His hand instinctively went for his pistol but never made it that far. A tall woman with reddish, prematurely silver hair jammed her hip into his, pinning him. He managed to choke out "Good to see you, too, Fox...hey, take it easy..." before the straight razor suddenly pressing against his throat made talking risky.

"Uh-uh," she scolded, her voice clumsy with drink. "You don't want me to think you're pulling a gun, now do you, Saint?" She leaned forward, speaking softly into his ear. "And on a lady, no less. Shame on you."

He froze, his hands poised in empty surrender, angry at himself for so thoroughly dropping his guard like this. Unlike the other girls, Fox had never particularly liked him. If anything, their fondness for him made her dislike of him more intense. And she was clearly enjoying having the upper hand. Though in his defense, while he might have expected some sort of nastiness from her, her holding a razor to his throat in the hallway was a little much even for Fox.

She narrowed her brittle, heavily kohled eyes at him, her rouged lips pulled back in a reptilian smile. "Don't you be getting any ideas about Honey, you guinea son of a bitch," she slurred. "I saw you at the bar..." She pressed against him, and the scent of whiskey and cologne filled his nose.

Saint forced himself to stay calm. As far as he was concerned, drunk, armed, and mad at him was a bad combination of traits in a person who had him jacked up against a wall. He wondered if he could grab her wrist before the razor sliced into anything important. She was unpredictable even when she was sober, and the fear that she might actually kill him by accident was not farfetched. "Fox..." he said carefully, feeling his skin sting with each pulse where the blade pressed into his jugular. She's likin' this way too much. Ah merda, what a perfect ending...getting my throat cut by a liquored-up sportin' girl. "C'mon, you been drinking, sweetheart.."

"So've you." She moved in close enough to brush his collar with her cheek and inhaled. "Red wine. And her cologne."

"I ain't got ideas about Honey," he said, feeling her breath on his skin. This is the closest this woman has ever been to me and the most we've ever talked. Real sweetheart, this woman. Clearly, I been missin' out. "We're friends and that's all. You know how it is, I just went up for a drink."

"I don't care if you went up for a poke, I saw you kissing her. That ain't business." The blade pressed harder underneath his jaw, forcing his head back against the wall. "You could use a shave, handsome."

"Get offa me, Fox. You're drunk. I ain't moving in on your girl." Although I gotta figure I probably could with some success, considerin' you're ready to cut me over it...

Her elbow was jammed uncomfortably into his chest as she leaned unsteadily against him for balance. He felt a bite of pain as hot blood tricked down the side of his neck. Enough. His hand shot up and he jerked away, closing his fingers around her wrist and pulling her arm hard across the front of his body. He slammed her hand into the wall and she yelped, dropping the razor as he spun her around and threw an arm around her to restrain her. And just about that time was when a paw-like hand attached to the tree trunk-like arm slammed into Saint's head.

Saint was not sure if the blows he was feeling was Jack continuing to punch him or the impact of the risers as as he fell down the remaining stairs to the saloon floor. His vision had gone dark and hazy. Suns exploded behind his eyes. Somewhere above, he heard Honey's voice as he sprawled on the floor, his head throbbing.

Jack leaned down and grabbed him roughly by the front of his coat, hauling him upwards. "Since when do I hafta go after you, Saint?" he growled. "The hell did you do?"

Saint hung in Jack's grip, dizzy and weak, and said nothing. Apparently caused an insane. drunk prostitute to go into a jealous rage and try to cut my throat with a razor, Jack, what the hell did it look like to you? "I dunno, Jack." He lied, struggling to get his legs underneath him. Jack's hands loosened their grip and let him stand upright. He watched the big bartender's eyes flicker down to the cut on his neck and then back up to his face.

No tellin' if he's gonna be mad at me for causing trouble, or mad at Fox for attacking me. Could go either way. He knows me...and he also knows Fox is crazy. "Misunderstanding," he mumbled.

"Yours or hers?" Jack said skeptically.

Saint shrugged, rubbing at the itching slice under his jaw and inspected his bloody fingers. "We've both been drinking. Let's forget it."

Fox was smirking at Saint from the landing. Jack glanced her way and then back at Saint. He nodded and gave a tilt of his head towards the door.

"Saint! Saint!" Honey was making her way down the stairs to the landing. Saint gave her what he hoped was a reassuring nod and turned to go.

"Are you hurt?" she called out again.

"No," he said. "Forget it, Honey, it ain't anything." He waved her off and pushed the doors open, the cold night air clearing aching fog from his head.

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