The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

God Rest You Merry (prequel)

This is an extra extra long post for you this week, and a holiday departure from our regular story. Sort of a little Christmas special for you. So Merry Christmas,  Happy Kwanzaa, or whatever you celebrate. Have a fun, peaceful, and safe holiday however you choose to spend it. God rest you merry!

-'gina

Wash Monahan scowled at his trail partner, irritated. 

Well, honestly, "irritated" was probably a more charitable word than either of them deserved. Truth be told, Wash Monahan had had just about enough of the man. 

The air was dry and windy and cold, biting into their exposed skin as it whistled through the buttes and rock pillars lining the trail. It was the sort of day Wash hated, with the sun a glaring, painful spearpoint, stabbing into his blue eyes no matter where he looked. His face itched, dried by the cold air. And Saint, the Italian coach driver he found himself working with these days, wasn't helping improve his mood. Fortunately, it was a short supply run in a mud coach, and they didn't expect to be gone for more than a day or two.

"Wash..." Saint said, not even trying to disguise the contempt in his voice. "You're sayin' you don't get why I might not want to spend Christmas Day out here on the trail, in the cold, on top of this damn wagon box. And with what is turning out to be really shitty company, no less. You're honestly saying that?"

Wash turned in his seat, trying to settle his butt into a more comfortable position as the coach lurched along the trail. Jaysus, me poor arse...a Concord coach this is not..."I'm sayin' what's the difference, is all I'm sayin'. It isna like you're going to Mass or even visiting with anyone that matters, does it?"

"That ain't the point." Saint spat.

"It's just another sodding day, lad." Wash pressed. "So what if we spend it here or back at the Green?"

"It ain't just another day, Wash." Saint's face twisted in frustration and he turned to face him. "And anyways, what the hell? I thought you were Catholic..."

"Aye, I was at one time. Another time." Wash's mind was skirting around a place he didn't want to go. He tried to haul it back, back to where it didn't consume him, feeling his anger flare. Another life. I'm someone else now. Unbidden memories flitted through his mind. Fire, darkness, despair. The end of his old life in a rush of steel and agony and blood swirling over the filthy cobbles of the street. A black-robed priest with a gun in his hand, sending him here to this life.

This life would do. God had forsaken the old one, and Wash could hardly blame him. In fact, Wash himself had forsaken it, so he could hardly blame God for turning his face away from that awful sodding mess. Wash could forgive Him that.

But he couldn't forgive Him turning from Dorcas. So he and God would just have to go their separate ways from here on out.

"I'm not anymore," he said finally. "And to me, it's just another day. But we're making good time, so we are, and not far from the Green. We'll be back in plenty of time for you to not go to Mass."

Saint grimaced, coughing and turning his attention back to driving the coach. "Cazzone," he muttered.

"Tosser."

A gust of wind hit them hard, slamming against his chest and making the coach shudder beneath them. His hat blew back off his head, the lanyard beneath his chin biting into his throat. For the first time since he and Saint had started arguing, he realized the sun was no longer hurting his eyes. He jammed his hat back onto his head and ducked so his brim shielded his face from the hail of tiny, stinging bits of driven ice. The weather had been clear and dry all week, and they hadn't counted on the sudden, razor-sharp wind bringing with it clouds the color of slate and air that sliced into the lungs like arrowheads made of ice.