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

70: Supper At Abigail's

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Saint by Hector Barros All graphics by me.

The last thing Saint had wanted to do tonight was go into town. He was tired, and he hurt. His chest ached dully with every breath. He glanced across the table at Jesse, who was slouched against the Little Miss, staring at the tabletop in front of him with glazed eyes.

Saint felt genuinely sorry for him. He had ridden in not long before they had all planned to leave, and had argued desperately that he just wanted to lie down and get some rest. He'd actually begged. But both Miss Lily and The Old Man had insisted that he come along. After that business in the kitchen, Saint had to grudgingly agree with them. There was no way they were leaving Jesse, exhausted and heavily asleep, alone in the bunkhouse. Not after what had happened to Lily. And there was also no way they were going without any supper. So here they all were.

Saint liked eating at Abigail's. He regretted that he really wasn't able to really enjoy it tonight.

A sturdy, handsome woman with upswept blonde hair swirled out of the kitchen, smiling and clearly glad to see them all. Saint smiled back, nodding at her as she stopped beside Lynch's chair. He knew Abigail Klaus to be a strong, intelligent woman who didn't care what anyone else thought. She particularly didn't care what the gossipy hen party that comprised the respectable women in town thought, and that had made Saint regard her with immediate respect.

"I see you brought your whole crew out to see us, Erastus," she greeted them, her German roots evident in her crisp accent. Her blue eyes darted approvingly around the table at all of them. "We heard what happened. So glad no one was badly hurt."

"We were lucky, Miss Abigail," Lynch said, his voice still raspy from smoke. "Figured your kitchen still worked."

"Ja. Always." She reached over and gave Hungerford's arm a playful pinch. "Stew for our rakish adventurer, yes?"

"You know that's my favorite, Abby." Hungerford favored her with a smile.

"I do."

"How about stew all around and just keep it coming," Lynch said, gesturing around the table. "Boys? Good."

"Ja...and an extra bowl for you to take to Lights the Storm when you go." She turned and swept back into the kitchen. "And fresh black bread for you, Luis..." she called over her shoulder, winking at the blushing young girl sitting across the dining room.

Heh. Look at Luis. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Saint's mouth and he leaned his elbows on the table, stretching the weary ache out of his ribcage.

"Alright, boys." Lynch leaned forward in likewise fashion. "Listen up, there's a lot going on. About the kitchen accident...I think we all know that wasn't an accident." He kept his voice low, forcing them all to lean in conspiratorially. "Miss McMillian says her attacker threatened Jesse as well."

The look on Jesse's face had soured from blank exhaustion to simmering anger. He had been filled in on all the events that had occurred while he was gone, but bringing the details back into his immediate attention did little to improve his mood.

"So..." Tommy piped up. "Probably not any of the Yarls or their cronies, then. Which I guess is a good thing. Or a bad thing. Or...well..." he paused, cocking his head. "Huh. Now we have two problems."

"I can't help but think it has to do with this deed our Uncle left," Lily said, looking guilty and fretful. "First, that horrible lawyer, now this."

"'Fraid you're probably right, Miss Lil," said Hungerford. He turned to Jesse. "Look here, mate, you didn't have any trouble on the way back, did you?"

Jesse's eyes popped open and he glanced at Lily, a trapped look on his face. The table erupted into disbelieving and aggravated protestations and mild insults.

"Jesse Joe Hansen!" Lily whirled on her cringing brother, a look of panic growing on her face. "Why didn't you...?"

"T'undering Jaysus, lad." Wash was rubbing his brow and grimacing. "It didna occur to ye to maybe tell us about this?"

"It was nothing! I'm here, ain't I? I was gonna tell Mr. Lynch before I laid down to sleep, but then got caught up in all the mess and just...well...didn't."

Lynch exhaled a deep, long-suffering breath, and folded his gnarled hands on the table in front of him. "What happened?"

"Not much. Couple spooky lookin' men on the road. Got a bad feelin' about it and outran 'em."

"They chase ya?" Saint glanced at Lily, his brow furrowed.

"Well..." Jesse nodded slowly. "Yeah. Figured bushwhackers or some such. Didn't think much was odd about it."

Merda. That might have been nothing, but it also might have been a failed dry-gulching. "Jesse, that coulda been someone making an attempt on ya."

Jesse sighed heavily, nodding.

The kitchen door opened again and Abigail came out pushing a cart with a huge stewpot and a stack of bowls. "Alright, gents...and ladies." She gave Lily an appraising look, raising an eyebrow and smiling. "Soup's on." She started ladling out bowls and passing them around, starting with the girls. "Luis, schnucki, send the bread around for me, please."

Wha...what the hell...? Saint saw Abigail give Hungerford A Look. I know that look. That look says 'I can see why you like her.' He narrowed his eyes. Ma che stronzo...

Luis jumped up and grabbed the dark loaves off the cart, passing them around the table. "I don' wanna share them, Miss Klaus," he said, only half joking. "Nobody makes bread like this."

"Thank you, Abigail." Lynch turned his attention briefly to his host before turning back to his crew. "And I talked to our lawyer today. He's here. Trial will be in a day or two."

Jesse appeared to be making an effort to stay awake and pay attention. He sat up straighter and Saint caught his gaze.

He's thinking the same thing I'm thinking. We might have to get into a huge amount of bad trouble before this is over. Like 'face on a poster' kind of trouble.

He glanced over at Fiona, who had gone rigid and brittle, her hands in white knuckled knots as they worried the corner of her napkin. Her face was pinched and frightened as she looked helplessly at him. There ain't gonna be a hangin' here, England. Might be a shootin' and a brawl and maybe a posse gettin' put together, but you ain't got to worry about a hangin'...He gave her a grim, significant nod. "Gonna be alright, England," he said softly.

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