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

76: Condemned

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.

Fiona's hands were shaking. She tried to steady them, tried to fold them into her lap and will them to be still, but the effort made them tremble more irresistibly. She hoped nobody else would notice. The judge had not even come inside yet, and the day was already taking on the feel of carnival show.If she was this nervous before the trial even started, she wondered how she would endure her nerves once it got under way.

Warm fingers closed over hers, startling her. She glanced over at Lily and gave her hand a squeeze back, grateful.

"Fiona..." Lily's gray eyes were concerned and kind behind the silver ovals of her spectacles. "Are you holding up alright?"

The air inside the plain, whitewashed little church building was stuffy and smelled of sweat and wood and dust. And everyone had turned out to see the show. People were staring at her. Everyone wanted to hear all the lurid details of how Rob Yarl had beaten up a woman in broad daylight on the street and everyone wanted to hear all about how the Indian had filled up an outhouse with snakes.

And, of course, everyone wanted to be there when said Indian got sentenced to die for attempted murder. This same pack of ghouls and then some will surely turn out for...

Acid burned in her throat and she fumbled the paper fan from behind the seatback of the pew they were sitting on. "I don't know, Lily." She said honestly, fanning her burning face. Her collar felt tight and hot and her green jacket uncomfortably warm and stiff. The gathered back of her skirt formed a prickly nest of crinkly points and edges. She felt every single dig.

Jesse sat up straight beside her, looking nervous and alert. The stub of a well-chewed peppermint stick wandered across his lip and clicked against his teeth as his eyes darted around the room. "There's Yarl" he breathed, shifting in his seat. He favored Fiona with a sidelong glance.

She didn't have to ask or to look to know he had a Colt Navy pistol under his buckskin coat. It was possible he had two. And probably weapons even she hadn't thought of. He was scrubbed and respectable-looking and his hair shone like sunshine, slicked back and neatly braided. He looks like one of Raphael's angels outside his coat. Inside it, he's Aries God of War.

The big farmer made his way to the front pew on the other side of the center aisle. He, too, was cleaned up, shaved and wore clean workclothes. His eyes darted anxiously around the room and fell, as she knew they would, on her. She took in a deep breath, calming herself. Rearranging her face into a calming, reassuring mask, she nodded kindly at Yarl when their eyes met.

I am the biggest whore in this town.

She saw Jesse's gaze dart furtively to the back of the room where Saint and Wash loitered. Wash's coat was half on and half off, buttoned carelessly over his injured shoulder. I could have sworn that when we left the house, he had taken the sling off.

The Irishman narrowed his eyes back at Jesse and eased himself into the back pew, perched on the edge, and Fiona startled with the realization that he most likely was hiding his carbine under his coat. She knew his arm hurt, and was stiff, but she also knew he could use it. Like a bird faking a broken wing.

What if somebody gets killed? What if they all end up arrested or wanted or shot? Her breath quickened, her heart pounding in her ears. She felt her eyes start to burn and blinked, forcing her tears to retreat. What if they fail? What if they fail and they get sent off to prison or worse, and Storm ends up dead anyways, and maybe they all end up dead and...and...

She heard a murmur from the assembled crowd and there he was in the doorway, flanked by Blackie and Bender. Her heart was in her throat, pounding painfully.

His hair was brushed back into a neat braid and he was wearing Saint's good black suit. He even wore an ascot around his neck, and Fiona wondered what on earth Saint had had to promise him to get him to agree to that. He held his head up with a fierce dignity that took her breath. His eyes fell on hers and his stride nearly faltered, his heartache registering briefly on his face.

She tore her gaze away, scrambling to look at the buttons on his shirt, his belt, his hands, anything but the pain in his eyes. Is that...is he...

The iron cuffs peeked out from under the starched black sleeves of Saint's suit. They were heavy and left brownish dust on the sleeves of the white shirt as they locked his wrists together before him. Her stomach lurched and her vision swam. He was helpless, cruelly bound and trapped in a sea of people who wanted to watch him die. Something inside her was falling, panicking, scrambling wildly for something to grab onto. It was as if the earth had fallen out from under her. No...he'll never be at anyone's mercy...it's me trapped, me dying, not him...

"I have to get some air," she whispered, getting up on unsteady legs and bolting down the aisle, shouldering past the bewildered men. Her hand fell on Storm's arm for the briefest instant as she passed, the warmth and strength and presence of him searing into her like a brand.

She stumbled outside, around the side of the building and leaned against the clapboard siding, retching.

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