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

109: Sinking Ship

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

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Thomasin." Fiona smiled at the fatherly owner of the Green River mercantile. "But that's not necessary. Wash and Luis are over at the smithy with the wagon, and will be along to load this for us."

Mr. Thomasin, a sturdy, middle aged man with thinning salt and pepper hair nodded and finished wrapping up the supplies Fiona had stacked up on his counter. "Got your kitchen back in working order, I reckon?" he asked conversationally. "You must be replacing everything that got lost in the fire."

"Yes, we are," she said, looking around at the homey wooden mercantile. It was probably her favorite building in Green River town. Certainly it seemed the most civilized. The timbers of the walls were rough, but had a wonderful scent of dry wood that blended with the comforting aromas of flour and coffee and cured meats. Sunlight streamed through the glass-paned windows and sparkled on the glass decanters and jars and on the virgin smoothness of new metal farming tools and cookware. She picked up an extra tin of sugar cubes and placed them on top of the stack, amused with the knowledge that Storm was stealing the cubes out of the kitchen and thought she didn't know it.

The light shafting through the front window dimmed, and she turned towards the open doorway, expecting Wash.

She clearly had worn her surprise on her face when she saw that it was Rob Yarl instead. He stepped back and whipped his battered brown hat from his head, his pale, blue gray eyes wide and worried.

"Look here, Yarl," Mr. Thomasin spat sternly. "I will not have you in here while she's here. You have some nerve coming in here speaking to her after..."

"Lemme talk," Yarl grunted, cutting him off. "Lemme say my piece and then I'll get out of here. Miss...Lewis-Smythe." His ruddy face turned even redder and his eyes went to the floor. He clutched his hat to his broad, coverall-clad chest with thick fingers.

Fire clawed its way through her insides and up her throat. "What..." she started, her throat tight with loathing. She'd publicly made her peace with this man, and didn't wish for even more bad blood between the Yarls and the station crew. She'd hoped this truce she'd made might keep the boys a little safer. Still, she hated him with a passion that threatened to consume her. She couldn't help it. Every time she looked at him, she remembered fear in her heart and Storm's blood on her hands. She forced her face to harden into a neutral mask. "I don't..."

"Yarl..." Tomasin growled warningly.

"Let me say I'm sorry, alright?" His words stumbled over each other, clumsy and embarrassed. "I didn't mean to get your beau in trouble. I wasn't even gonna say nothin' about it."

My...what?? Her indignation was replaced by an icy, heart-squeezing clutch of panic. He knows about...Storm? How can he possibly know about Storm?

He stumbled on, his voice hesitant, unsure of himself. "I didn't mean to get him locked up."

She was clamping her jaw down so hard her teeth ached. "Well...I suppose it all worked out."

"I don't like him, I ain't gonna lie to you. And I intended to rough him up a little...well, I reckon you know that...but I waddn't plannin' on him goin' to jail."

A red haze began to settle behind Fiona's eyes the more he talked. "You intended to..." The unbidden and unwelcome image of Storm collapsing from exhaustion and blood loss into Saint's arms screamed through her brain like a tornado. Rough him up... "A little..." she murmured faintly. You oversize jackass... Her mouth opened, the words catching on the jagged ball of rage in her throat. "He could have died!" she spat, stepping forward towards Yarl before she realized she was moving.

Tomasin had a hand on Yarl's beefy shoulder. "Now," he growled. "Out."

"Died?" Yarl cocked his head, unmoving as a tree rooted to the spot. "From what? Now, Miss...your beau don't look like much of a man to me, but I waddn't gonna do much else than pop him one in the face."

"Really?" Her voice had taken on that shrill, cracking fishwife quality that she hated when she heard herself do it. "A 'pop in the face' is how he ended up in the state he..." Her voice collided with the sudden realization that Yarl was talking about Jesse and stopped dead in her throat. My...my 'beau'. I'm thinking of Storm as my beau now, she admitted to herself with a start. I didn't even hesitate... The thought was terrifying, thrilling, and brought with it the memory of his arms around her and his mouth on hers. She'd often imagined what kissing him might be like, how it might feel to put her hands on him that way. When it had actually happened for real, she realized she hadn't even come close to imagining what it might be like.

And I know bloody well it's going to happen again. The thought brought heat to her face, made her collar cling heavily to the back of her neck. Bloody hell, I am going to have to learn to be careful with what I say...careless words could get him killed.

Both Yarl and Thomasin were staring at her in confusion.

"Oh," she said. Her heart was pounding and she felt light headed, her lungs heaving against the tight lacings of her corset and underpinnings. I need to just calm down. She took in deep breath, wishing she hadn't laced so tightly. "I...I see. Well," she said, forcing herself to regain her composure. "Thank you, Mr. Yarl. I hope you don't mind if I pass that on to...Mr. Hanson." She leaned against the front counter, hoping Yarl was too stupid to figure out what she'd almost said and knowing that while he probably was, Thomasin probably wasn't. I certainly was stupid enough to say what I almost said. Is it going to be this easy to mess up? Am I going to just accidentally create catastrophe? Have I already? She glanced at Thomasin's perplexed face and then back to Yarl's. I don't care what anyone thinks about me...but if it were to get out...Storm's life would get...complicated.

And probably very, very short.

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