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

72: I Am Weary, Let Me Rest

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

NOTE: Having a little trouble with WP tonight, so if this chapter has formating problems or is missing anything, that's why. I can't see the title on my machine, for some reason. The title of this chapter is I Am Weary, Let Me Rest.

Lily had been worried about Saint all evening. He simply was not himself and had barely touched his food. She could tell he had forced himself to come along for supper, even though what he had really wanted to do was go into the bunkhouse and sleep.

So on the way back, it had been no surprise to her when he had abruptly ridden up to the back of the buckboard, deftly hitched Jersey to the rear post, and swung himself into the wagon bed without even halting the wagon. He had been fighting sleep in the saddle and had clearly had enough. He had leaned against the front wall of the wagon box, pulled his hat down over his face, and gone to sleep.

Fiona had been uncharacteristically quiet most of the evening, but when she returned from the jail, she had been utterly silent. Lily could tell she had been crying and didn't need to ask why. They sat together on the wagon seat as Mr. Lynch held the reins beside them, riding in silence.

The rest of the gents had taken horses, and were scattered up and down the road back to the station in a loose caravan. Lily could hear their voices, catching bits soft conversation as they went, barely audible above the creaking of the wagon and the crunching of trampled vegetation under the iron-shod wheels.

Every now and again, the wagon would lurch over a gully or a rock, and Saint's head would knock against the rough wood of the wagon box. Every time it happened, it made Lily cringe. She'd reached back and pulled him gently to the side a few times, but there he was again, fitfully banging his head as the wagon rocked. Why did we not take a coach? Both he and Jesse could have slept the whole way. She shook her head, annoyed. Men. Especially this one. So terrified someone might actually think they are human.

Fiona glanced back at Saint and gave Lily an unhappy look. Lily returned it and carefully swung her legs over the seatback, slipping back into the wagon box. She settled next to him, pulling his hat off and leaning him toward her. He stirred, startled, as she eased his head into her lap, awkward and groggy, and mumbling an unintelligible protest.

"Shhh. Lie down," she whispered. sweeping his hair from his brow. Let someone take care of you for once.

He didn't open his eyes, but he visibly relaxed, sighing softly as he succumbed to his exhaustion.

She pulled his coat closed against the chill, not knowing what to do with her hands for a clumsy moment before she settled one lightly on his shoulder. The light from the waxing crescent moon was faint, and she could barely see him. I feel like it's my fault you're in such rough shape. I' m sorry.

She thought about how close to dying the both of them had come. In fact, she'd barely thought of anything else since it had happened. How she'd woken up in the burning kitchen, and how he had nearly collapsed in the smoke when he'd gotten her out. She closed her eyes, steadying herself, finding comfort in the rise and fall of his breathing beneath her hand. I've been wrong about you, Mr. Saint. I reckon everyone has.

She felt with startling clarity why Fiona was half crazy with desperation. Friend or lover or whatever he was, Storm was her rock. Her safe place. She understood all too well now. She looked down at Saint's dim, moon-shadowed face and wondered how on earth she had managed before that day he had barged into the kitchen like a surly, marauding coyote.

How many hundreds of years ago had that been?

He shifted in his sleep, frowning, and she instinctively stroked his hair, soothing him, surprised at her boldness. We've just pulled each other out of a fire. She chastised herself. We got him through a bad breathing spell. He kissed me. On the lips. He can drop the tough act for a while and let someone else stay awake and keep watch. Just this once. If I'm improper here, we still are not even close to being even in that regard.

The softness of his hair against the back of her hand startled her, made her chest ache with wistful longing. His forehead was pale beneath the tousled strands and she had the sudden urge to kiss him there. She stopped herself. If it were Jesse...or anyone else, for that matter...I would have done it already and not even hesitated.

Be honest with yourself, girl. He's not anyone else. And that's why you can't. Because with him, it would matter.

She thought of the rouge she'd rubbed from his lip and found on his collar while she was laundering his shirt, and how irrational jealousy had nearly overwhelmed her. She desperately hoped that it was from some woman he was on the verge of marrying. It would be so much easier for her to stop thinking of him....well...that way...if it turned out that he had a sweetheart.

I hope you make him happy, Miss. Whoever you are. Mr. Saint's a good man

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