The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

71: Dance

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Iris Sullivan made of found images by me. All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

Sorry this is late! I thought it had posted, but evidently I hit the wrong button. Oops. 

The sun was going down, sending rosy-purple light glowing through the windows of Abigail's and bathing the dining room with a sleepy glow. One of Abigail's hired girls was lighting the lamps along the walls and on the tables, turning up the wicks against the approaching darkness.

The comforting scent of black German bread coming out of the oven assailed Iris's senses, and her stomach rumbled with hunger. She was glad she had agreed to meet Mr. Monahan at the restaurant tonight instead of the schoolhouse. It would give Mrs. Plunkett the night off, and allow Iris to have a leisurely supper. And also, she thought, there's the added benefit of Jeb Ward not being able to ask Mr. Monahan a thousand embarrassing and horrifying questions.

Mr. Monahan sat beside her, sharing her spelling book as they waited for their supper to arrive. She would have never guessed that he would have ever shown this level of determination at learning to read. But she had to admit, the man had obviously been working hard at it. He'd been a good student.

He was bent over the primer, the tousled copper of his hair gleaming in the golden lamplight. He closed his eyes and suddenly turned to her, wincing. "I canna think straight with the smell of that bread in me nose," he said, leaning back in his chair and opening his eyes. "It's been well and truly brutal out at the station. We're all a fair way to starving, so we are."

Iris raised an eyebrow. "Oh? No one is cooking for you out there?"

He looked almost serious, a dimple crinkling his freckled cheek. "I'm doing the cooking, lass. That's the problem."

Iris chuckled, shaking her head. "I see." She was finding that her initial worry about the stagecoach guard had been unfounded. She had been so intimidated by his reputation, so sure that attempting to teach him to read would be a waste of everyone's time. It had turned out that not only was he far more competent and dedicated than she'd initially thought, but he was gentle and considerate as well. She hadn't expected that from the man known as Erastus Lynch's hired gunman.

He shifted around in his chair to face her, and his knee bumped against her leg. Color instantly flooded his cheeks. "Begging your pardon, Miss..." he mumbled, clumsily pulling his long legs back under the table.

She pulled her feet closer to her chair, startled and suddenly self-conscious at his discomfiture. "It's alright, Mr. Monahan."

He forced his attention back to the primer, his big hands folding around the corners of the book, his fingers fidgeting nervously. She wouldn't have been all that surprised if steam had started pouring out of his ears.

"You really are doing wonderfully," she said, reaching over and gently taking the primer from his grasp. "I think you can afford to take a break. There is such a thing as concentrating too hard."

"Really?" Mr. Monahan's blue eyes were hopeful. "Are you saying you don't think I'm a thick-headed edjit?"

Iris chuckled again, shaking her head at the idea that a professional gunman might be worried about appearing unintelligent. "Certainly not, sir! I wish some of my students worked as hard as you. Are you sure you had no schooling at all in New York? How long have you been out here?"

His smile faltered, and she wondered what she might have said to so instantly put him on his guard. Perhaps he is embarrassed at not having attended school regularly...

"Oh..." he said, shrugging. "Good long many years...came out here soon as I was old enough to be on me own, so I did, and worked for the company farther east on the coach line, in Saint Jo."

Iris made an effort to keep her expression from changing, but she felt a cold pang of anxiety clutch at her insides. No, he didn't. There's no way that's true. She studied his face as though seeing it for the first time, wondering if she had seen it before. No, she thought, a measure of relief washing over her. I've never seen him before this. He wouldn't have worked for Russell, Majors and Waddell. I would know.

"But what I want to know," he went on in his adorable Irish lilt. "Is what such a fine lady as yourself is doing way out here."

"Oh." The air in the restaurant suddenly felt far too heavy. Iris took a sip of water and cleared her throat. "Well...it was hard to find work back east...money was scarce..." Her mind raced, and she wondered if she was blushing with nervousness. "I came out here to find work."

Wash held her gaze a little too long before nodding and reaching for his water glass. His eyes were searching and intense, and she fought the urge to flinch. "Aye,"he said softly. The smile had faded from his face, and she wondered if he knew he wasn't the only one lying.

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