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

150: Lean On Me

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Lily by Liezl Buenaventura. All graphics by me.

Lily tried to settle herself against the wall in the narrow side tunnel they'd found. The hard floor pressed painfully against her tailbone, and her bones ground against the rock behind her, making it nearly impossible to relax. She was cold. She could hear Saint breathing faintly in the darkness beside her. It was pitch black, the candles snuffed to conserve their meager supply.

Is he asleep?

Weariness had overcome them like a relentless dust storm. Particularly Saint, who had been stumbling with fatigue. There was no way to know how long they'd been trapped, but Lily knew it had to be well into the next day, judging from the overwhelming tiredness and the rumbling in her belly she felt. And to compound it, she knew Saint hadn't even had time to recover at all since being injured.

She'd insisted they stop and rest a bit, and was both surprised and worried that Saint hadn't argued with her. He must feel awful.

As tired as she was, though, she knew the reason she couldn't sleep had nothing to do with how uncomfortable and frightened she was. No, what was keeping her mind spinning was the memory of Saint's warm breath on her skin and ruffling her hair as he had whispered in her ear. She had no idea what he'd said, and he had brushed off her question when she had asked him. "Something 'not angry'," he'd grunted, and then turned his attention back to the task at hand, dismissing her.

His voice had been a throaty breath of whisper that she'd felt more than heard. And while she had no idea what he'd uttered, she was consumed with how he'd uttered it. Whatever it was, it was sincere and desperate, full of longing and regret. It had made her tremble, made her breath catch in her throat. Something inside her knew that what he'd said had been terrifying and exhilarating and true.

She listened hard to the sound of his breathing, relieved that it was steady and untroubled. She shifted again, feeling rock pressing hard into her skull.

"C'mere, Little Miss," he said softly. She heard a rustle of oilcloth, his bootheel scraping on the floor as he stretched his legs out.

"What's wrong?" she said, scooting closer.

"Just..." His hand startled her, clumsily finding her shoulder and pulling her closer. "Right here. Lean on me."

"But..."

"You let me sleep once when I needed it," he muttered gruffly. "In the wagon that time. Lemme return the favor. You been tossing and flailing around over there since we stopped. And I know you're cold as I am."

She let him pull her against him, settling her head on his chest and sweeping the open side of his coat around her best he could. His warmth was like a balm, seeping into her skin. His gloved fingers wrapped comfortingly around her shoulder and he eased his back against the rock, his body shivering slightly as she settled against him. "You can pick up bein' mad at me when we get out of this." He sighed tiredly and fell silent.

She felt the pulse of his heart against her face, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath her. The scent of him pervaded her senses, leather and sweet tobacco and the heady, warm scent of his skin. She was almost afraid to breathe, and her mind went back to how he'd slept with his head in her lap in the wagon on the way home from Abigail's that one night, how he'd relaxed against her with a sigh of surrender and fallen into a deep slumber for the remainder of the trip. Her heart squeezed hard inside her and she tried not to think about it. To think about him.

"Your sweetheart probably won't much care for this," she ventured. She didn't really know what to do with her arm. I can't very well put it around him...

"My...sweetheart?"

She lifted her head. "Don't you have a girl in town?" She felt her face heat up. "Well...she wears pink lip rouge?"

He was silent for an excruciating moment that felt like it went on forever. Why did I ask that? Am I out of my mind?

He exhaled hard. "I don't have a sweetheart, Little Miss."

"Oh." Lily said, feeling small and now thoroughly embarrassed. "I just thought...well..."

"I know a lady in town. Her name's Honey," saint confessed. "We're just friends."

Lily felt a small, unwelcome twinge of anger. She'd scrubbed pink stains from Saint's shirts while doing laundry more than once. And he's flirting with Miss Lovelace and he's kissed me.

Does Miss Pink Lip Rouge know they're 'just friends?'

"She's..." Lily. You're trapped in a collapsed mine and this is what you're worried about? She chastised herself, annoyance making her foolhardy. "She gets a lot of pink on your shirts."

There was another pause. "We're...good friends, Sweetheart," he said awkwardly. "You might as well know, Little Miss. Honey's a sportin' girl."

Well. That would certainly explain everything. Lily didn't know whether this news made her feel better or worse. She supposed she should be scandalized at the idea of him keeping company with a prostitute. The idea certainly was not one of which she approved. But she wasn't inclined to judge it harshly, either. I reckon I ought not begrudge a person's loneliness. She remembered how alone and overwhelmed her Uncle had been, a lifetime bachelor trying to raise his niece and nephew by himself after they were thrust upon him. She'd seen Chet pay a saloon girl just to sit next to him for an hour while he drank. Loneliness and worry are powerful forces.

She nodded in the darkness, settling her cheek back onto the warm strength of his chest and wrapping her arm lightly around his waist.

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