The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

74: Dirt

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Rosie by Laura Hollingsworth. 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.

Rosie watched Luis as he smoothed the dirt beside the porch with his bare foot and stood looking at the blank spot, deep in thought. He gripped the long stick in his hand, then decisively drew an "L" in the sand at his feet.

"'L' is next," he said, tapping the stick on his foot. "'L' for 'Luis'."

"Good!" Rosie beamed at him. "You're getting it! See? I knew you would!"

He turned and looked at her, a lopsided smile dimpling his face. "Is a lot easier when the letters aren't jumping around on the page, Miz Rosie. I'm glad you and Tommy figured something out for me."

"I am, too," she said, and she was. He was making some progress, and knowing that was the happiest thing in her life at the moment.

That, and just being here. About a hundred times a day, Rosie would look around, realize where she was, and have to remind herself that she wasn't dreaming. Because as far as she was concerned, 'where she was' defied belief. And about as many times a day, she found herself wondering how long it would last, how long before she woke up and it was over.

But for the moment, there was Luis, her exciting friend, the Pony Express rider, looking at her in a way that made her light-headed. The dust from the yard cast a warm haze behind him, and he looked for all the world like a storybook character come to life.

He shook a shining back curl out of his eyes and tapped the stick again, thinking. "Sooo..." he went on in his adorable accent. "'M,' si?"

"Si!" she blurted, then laughed, catching herself. "Yes! That's right!"

How inappropriate, Rosemary. Her father's voice in her head was unexpected, and wholly unwelcome. You're too young for boys. And he's Mexican, no less. Are you speaking Spanish, now? People will talk.

"Miz Rosie?" The smile faded from Luis' face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, scowling and rubbing her temples. "He's not even here and he's criticizing me."

"Who?" Luis dropped his stick and sat down beside her on the kitchen stoop. "You thinking about your father?"

Rosie's good mood evaporated like steam on a hot day. "He hardly has any right to call himself that."

Luis nodded, saying nothing. "You're pretty angry with him right now, si?"

The words tumbled unbidden from her lips, rushing past the broken dam that had held them for years. "I've always been a bother to him. He's gone from woman to woman, from place to place. The whole time, he's barely spoken to me except to criticize. I don't even miss being home."

Luis' brown eyes were warm, comforting. He took her hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry about that, senorita."

"I don't mean to bring all this up..." She was embarrassed at herself for saying these things to Luis. For burdening him with her sorry, wrecked life.

"No, Miss Rosie, don't be sorry." He picked up a pebble and pitched it into the yard, watching it skip through the orange dust. "I don't miss being 'home', either. What I miss sometimes..." he gestured around at the barn and the bunkhouse and the main house. "Is this place. This is home."

"You don't have a family somewhere?"

"Just here," Luis said. "I never had anyone else. I lived in an orphanage until I could get away. Took up with a few people a couple times..." His face darkened, and he waved the thought away. "Never worked out, so...been mostly on my own until Mr. Lynch and Miz Fiona took me in."

"That's so sad, Luis." Rose stared into the dirt. She couldn't imagine living like that as a child. Even as oppressive as things had been in her own home, she'd at least had a parent. At least, when I was small, I thought Father cared. Maybe when I was small, he did. But to have never had anyone, to not even be able to to think that...

He shrugged, giving her hand another squeeze. "Pretty sad when you have a father, but he's worthless. If it helps, I'm glad you're here."

She turned to look at him. "I'm glad, too. I just wish I could stop imagining him talking to me. He doesn't ever have anything nice to say. And worse, he almost got you all killed!"

"But he didn't." Luis cocked an eye at her and smiled impishly. "So I guess we're too tough for him, eh? And you are, too. You saved us, you know. So don't listen to him."

"It's hard."

"Miz Rosie..." Luis threaded his long, brown fingers through hers and tossed another pebble into the yard. His hand was warm and sweet and strong around hers, and her heart had started to pound. "People say estúpido things, si? Your father, those estúpido girls at the school..." he shook his head, huffing in exasperation. "Wash, sometimes. Me." He looked directly at her, his gaze holding hers. "It doesn't mean what they say is right. You don't have to listen. And you sure don't have to believe them. Most of everything is lies or horseshit anyways. Comprende?"

Rosie looked at him dubiously. "You mean you don't ever trust anyone, Luis? There's nobody you believe to be honest or trustworthy?"

"I didn't say that, señorita," he said, holding her gaze a little too long. Her heart started to pound the way did every time he called her 'señorita' like that. "I trust...someone." He dropped his gaze and hauled himself to his feet. "Where were we?" He stooped down and grabbed his stick. "I think I have to do 'M' next, si?"

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