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

103: Reckoning Day

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Storm by Melissa Zayas. All graphics by me. 

I had to be out of my mind to think this would work out in the end.

Storm closed his eyes and leaned his back against the warmth of the cottonwood tree behind him, drawing a knee up and resting his elbows on it. He supposed it had worked out, at least for a couple of good years. Hardly reason to complain now, or harbor regrets. The greening grass beneath him was damp and pleasantly cool. He sighed, trying to relax.

I'm sorry, Wash. I get what you're saying. He went over what his crewmate had said to him, berating him for his inaction with Fiona. But it's not the same. I've just...seen way too much.

Mr. Lynch had very graciously offered Storm comparable pay when he took the job with the company. But aside from that, the idea of being away from the army had appealed to him. The army job had been tolerable enough...though many of the officers and enlisted men treated the Crow scouts with the same humor that he supposed they treated the general's pet monkey. And if I'm sitting here taking inventory of my soul, I suppose I should consider that doing that job made me feel vaguely dirty. And not in a good way.

Erastus Lynch hadn't treated him like that. Lynch had looked him right in the eye and shook his hand without flinching and with no trace of irony. He offered him a small bunkhouse with a small crew, meals cooked by women, pay based on the job instead of how white or red his blood was.

However, when he'd ridden up to the guest quarters so long ago in Fort Bridger, he knew even then that the right thing to do would have been to turn around and ride back the way he'd come. Go right back and tell Mr. Lynch he'd changed his mind, that he'd agreed too hastily to take the job.

It's not like I'd never seen a beautiful woman before. He thought reproachfully, although truth be told, the alarm bells started going off in his head the moment he'd made eye contact with Lynch's niece. He remembered ignoring his own wisdom, the way young men do when confronted with bewitching eyes and masses of curls. Forcing himself to believe he could work with her without becoming smitten.

I actually believed that. He mopped his temples with the heels of his hands. "You stupid, stupid bastard," he muttered before he knew he was speaking. She had been a fire goddess that day, the afternoon sun blazing in her flaming hair like a prairie fire under an Autumn sunset, filling her green eyes with molten gold. He noticed her noticing him, and he'd foolishly opted to ignore that, too. 'Women like her view us 'savages' like we're trained dogs', he'd told himself. Pretty easy to ignore women like that, even beautiful ones. He'd certainly had plenty of practice doing exactly that. He told himself that she hadn't been looking at him the way she had been looking at him. That he'd imagined it. But he knew he was no stranger to that look, and he also knew his own extremely accurate intuition would not have let him mistake it. He'd seen it on many a woman's face, white and Indian. Hell, I've seen it on some men's faces.

I really am a deluded, lying sack of shit. How could I mess up this bad?

Mr. Lynch had conveniently failed to mention his niece's poor cooking skills. He'd also left out her bad temper and her fondness for off-color jokes. And he was sure his new employer didn't even know about how his niece made wise aleck comments in his new scout's ear and snuck sugar cubes into the pockets of said scout's laundry. And it frustrated both himself and Mr. Lynch equally the way she would stand up to anyone and everyone, both of them included.

But Storm knew could let his guard down with her, knowing there was no pretense in her when she was with him. He hadn't counted on that, with becoming so familiar and comfortable with her. Hadn't counted on the nights he spent lying awake, his head full of her laugh and the way her eyes flashed when she was angry. Hadn't counted on gasping awake on the nights he was exhausted enough to sleep, his body drenched in sweat and burning with fiery trails where she'd touched him in his dreams, all wandering hands and silky skin and hot breath.

He opened his heavy, burning eyes and gazed at the hard angles of the horizon, at the ruddy wall of Castle Rock rising above the Green in the noon sun. He could disappear into that bleak landscape, let the spring rains and cold wind blast the fire out of him, ride until he reached the Bighorn and stay in the village until his head cleared and he was no longer possessed.

I think you've fed yourself enough horseshit, Lights the Storm. Run as far and as fast as you want. You're never going to shake free of her. You'll shake yourself free of air and earth and your own spirit first.

And now she was telling him she was leaving, and he knew that the only thing worse than watching her go would be staying here after she'd gone. Here where the evidence of her touch and her scent and the remembered echo of her voice was everywhere and would turn the very air into torture he would not be able to bear.

He put a hand on the base of the cottonwood, the other pressing against his ribs as he carefully pushed himself to his feet. He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then he started the hike back to the station, his eyes feeling like hot, gritty lead in his eye sockets.

Most of the crew were gone into town to buy lumber to fix the kitchen roof, which suited him. He'd settle up with them later after it was done, and work out what to do about Luis. But running into the men and boys he'd come to regard as brothers now on his way to the house might shake his resolve to tell Mr. Lynch he was planning on leaving tomorrow and wouldn't be back.

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