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

152: Men from Boys

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Jesse by Liezl Buenaventura and colored by me. All graphics by me.

Jesse bolted upright from the pile of moth-eaten blankets and musty furs piled in front of the fireplace. "Lily?" He looked wildly around the tiny, darkened cabin, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Are you alright?" The fire had died down to an orange glow and the cold air seeped through his damp union suit and over his skin like a bucket of icy water. He shivered, steadying himself as he drew himself up to his knees. His head swam. Fever and hunger had left him weak. "Lily?"

His sister rolled over in her pallet on the floor a few feet away. "Jesse? I'm here." Her voice was thin, unsteady, and she sat up in alarm. Jesse supposed that he'd never considered how thin and tiny a girl his sister was. He'd never thought about how young she looked, how young she really was, especially while she was bustling around taking on the role of the matron of the house. It had never really occurred to him that she was a child having to act as a grown woman. It had never occurred to him that he was a child himself. He realized with a start that before this moment, it had never really mattered.

"I heard you cryin'." He decided against trying to stand and crawled to her instead. He clambered over the piled blankets and spare clothing they'd dumped onto the floor in an effort to keep warm, feeling like he was climbing through a pillow fort. "You alright?"

"No." She folded her arms across her knees and hid her face in her crossed arms. "No. It's not ever going to be alright."

He was clumsy with dizziness, glad he was not on his feet. He threw his arms around her fragile shoulders, pulling her against him with as much strength as his depleted body could summon. "It is. We still got each other. As long as we got that..." She was like a hugging a stovepipe. Ah, hell. "Lily...you're burnin' up. You got the sickness. Ain't you."

Her face was wet against his shoulder, and he felt her nod. "How am I going to take care of you?" she whispered.

"You ain't. It's my turn to care for you."

"You're too sick..."

"Worst is passed. I'm alright now." Fear closed a fist over his insides, squeezing hard. Lily's father...the man he considered his father...had died from this. He had assumed he was to follow him as he had dug the grave and filled it back in, the whole time feeling the same illness kindling a fire inside him, draining his strength and twisting his insides with increasing pain. He'd managed to finish the job, but had no recollection of how he'd gotten back inside the cabin. He was a little surprised when he came out of his delirium to find himself weak but alive. He'd survived, but the thought of possibly losing Lily the way they'd lost their pa was the most terrifying idea he'd ever entertained.

He drew in a breath, stroking her hair and trying not to panic at the feel of the heat of her against him. God help us. I don't know what to do. "I'm gonna get you through it," he heard himself say, hearing his own voice in his ears as if for the first time, cracking and vulnerable and scared. He stopped, calming himself. He had understood back while he was digging that like it or not, able or not, he was a man now. He was going to have to be. He could do this. He would do this. "Just like you did for me. "

Lily clung to him. "You feel cold."

"My fever's broke, that's why. C'mon, lie back down." He leaned her back, cradling her like the child she was, comforting her as if he were the grown man he knew he wasn't, and tucked the blankets back around her. "Don't you worry, Lily. You just get better. Let me do the worrying, alright?" he sat back up and rocked back on his folded legs, brisking his fingers across his scalp. His close-cropped hair was damp and dirty, and his scalp itched with the salty, oily residue of fever-sweat. "I'll get you some water...you're gonna need to drink a lot...you know that." He pulled a blanket around his shivering shoulders and got unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself when the room rocked and spun. Food. I gotta find something to eat or I'm gonna have even more problems. He hauled his arms into his dead father's far-too large coat and grabbed the empty iron kettle off the stove. Water first. Mouth's so dry I can't hardly swallow. And Lily's gonna need it. Thank God we got a late spring snow outside, I'll never make it to the well.

I ain't gonna lose her. He swayed, gripping the edge of the table with determination. Gonna do this. Gonna be a man and get going. She's all I got.

He opened his eyes to darkness and ache and cold and groaned, stretching his arms and legs out. He'd slipped down the smooth rock in his sleep and lay against the wall of the tunnel on floor. The lower crosspiece on the iron grate that trapped him collided sharply against his bound hands, biting into his knuckles and releasing a gritty shower of rust.

"Ow! Dammit!" He jerked his hands away, sucking in his breath and pressing his lips to his lacerated knuckles, "Shit! Is one tiny bit of help too much to..."

I'm bleeding.

Thank God and Jesus, I'm bleeding... this thing has an edge on it.

He threw himself forward, pressed his hemp-bound wrists carefully against the crossbar, and started working the rope against the makeshift blade.

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