Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Character sketch of Saint by Melissa Zayas. All graphics by yours truly. To see more of Melissa's work, check out her webfiction series, Three of Swords at http://threeofswords.melzayasart.com/
The rain had picked up a bit, but Saint didn't care. He was cold, and the black night air was heavy, but the light misting of water on his face felt surprisingly soothing. He tilted his head back and let the sparse vapor settle on his face, feeling a few drops roll off the back of his hat and spatter onto his oilcloth-clad shoulders. The coach rocked beneath him, plodding like some tired, clumsy beast through the softening wagon ruts striping the trail.
He wondered how Wash was faring inside the coach. He really wished they were not on the road. It wouldn't take much to dangerously strand them at this point. A broken axle, a cracked wheel, a lame horse, an attack of any sort. Hell, a bear, even. With no other traffic on the trail, trouble would find them helpless and on their own. Lack of carbine ammo and a wounded gunner be damned.
And, of course, Wash was mad at him now, the prideful idiot. Did he really think I was gonna let him ride up here on the wagon box? He's so unsteady on his feet he can barely stand up without holding onto something. He's just lucky we got robbed severe enough that we now have a free seat inside for him to lie down on.
He had wanted to stay at Dev's at least long enough for Wash to recover a little. The thought of travelling with him in this kind of shape, especially in light of the trouble, made him very, very uneasy. But Wash was desperate to get home, and Dev had insisted it was probably safer on the road than it was at the relay stations right now. Given the recent string of evidence, Saint could hardly argue that logic.
Isna far, lad. Not even a whole day's travel, Saint remembered Wash saying to him as they were getting ready to set out from Church Buttes. Saint had repeated it to himself countless times today and well into dusk as the rain had started to fall. And it's an easy jaunt from Church to the Green.
The last of the dozen or so times he'd stopped to check on Wash, the gunner was drowsing, sprawled on the worn leather seat inside the coach, his injured arm bound across his ribs with strips of torn feedsacks. Saint had been glad to see him finally asleep. None of them had got much the night before, and Saint himself was utterly exhausted.
Between the darkness of the cloudy night and the fog starting to collect in the bottoms and low places, Saint couldn't see anything. He figured the horses, accustomed to the route, were probably navigating the trail from force of habit. At least, I hope they are. Because I have completely lost my bearings on where we are exactly.
The misting spatters of moisture were turning into bona fide raindrops. Water dripped off his hat brim and rolled over his shoulders as he shivered and pulled his coat snug. At least the rain was keeping the agonizing, icy bite out of the cold air, and Saint was thankful for that, at least. Especially since his scarf was gone.
He shivered again, shifting on the seat. His lower back complained with every lurch of the coach. And his ass had really begun to ache. In earnest.
And then he saw it. A tiny pinprick of yellow light, piercing through the fog, straight up ahead in the distance.
The hell is that?
He frowned, focusing on the faint flicker. It was high off the ground, not moving, steady despite the rain. He considered stopping, thought about going on ahead on foot to investigate, then abandoned that idea. As Wash would say, sod it. We got nothing in reserve here. He kept his eyes on the light, getting a better grip on the reins and clicking his tongue. The horses picked up the pace a bit.
A soft yellow glow began to materialize a bit closer to the ground, not far from the point of light, growing brighter as the coach drew nearer. He caught a whiff of woodsmoke.
Saint's shoulders slumped with relief. The station. We made it back.
The coach rolled into the dark station yard, mud splattering beneath the wheels. Saint swung out of the seat, his eyes searching for the source of the bright pinpoint of light that had led him home.
A single flame glowed in an upstairs window. It was a vigil candle, burning in a glass chimney and set on the windowsill facing the trail. Someone had worried over the absent crew, had left a light to guide them home. Maybe said a prayer for them. Saint felt his vision blur, his eyes suddenly wet and burning. The black sky opened up and rain began pounding hard on his hat brim and shoulders as he squinted in the water-slashed darkness at the piercing light, counting the panes to figure who's room held the beacon.
Lily.
****
Lily heard the wagon rattle into the yard and was surprised that it had pulled up so close to the kitchen. She frowned, wondering why they would park so far away from the barn when they had yet to unhitch the horses. Odd. Maybe they managed to bring Mr. Storm back already and don't want him to get soaked. She hurried over to the door, jerked it open, and gave a startled gasp.
She hadn't expected to see Saint standing like a dark shadow right in the doorway, his sopping, gloved hand poised over the door handle and streams of water draining off his hat and coat.
He had a desperation about him, a look of equally startled surprise on his face. Unkempt black stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair hung over his eyes in a dripping mess. A streak of what may have been crusted blood snaked down the side of his throat and disappeared into his coat collar. He was shivering. His dark eyes focused on hers, holding her gaze. Drinking her in.
Truth be told, she had never seen a man look so relieved in her entire life. He looks like someone who had gotten a reprieve just as the noose was dropped over his head.
She found a scrap of what was left of her voice. "M...Mister...Saint?"
There was a flash of a smile on his face, a lopsided hitch in his eyebrow. He leaned suddenly toward her, quick as thought, and for the briefest moment his lips were gentle and warm on hers. She grabbed his shoulders to shove him away and somehow couldn't quite get around to the shoving part. She gasped, feeling the heat of him radiating from beneath the icy dampness of his clothes, feeling the strength in his tensing muscles. Water from his hat trickled down the side of her face, making her jump, shaking her back to reality. She jerked away.
"Mister Bari!" Her hand came up of it's own accord, poised to slap him. She'd been so desperately afraid for him, so afraid that news would come that he and Wash were missing...or worse, not missing....that seeing him standing here, soaked and scruffy but alive, had sent her heart leaping into her throat. She was deliriously relieved he wasn't dead ...and now, not three seconds later, she was ready to kill him herself.
He looked slightly embarrassed, then gave her a wincing smile, grimacing in anticipation of the blow. Expecting it...ready for it...but clearly not in the least bit sorry.
"Glad to see you, Little Miss," he quipped, the dimple showing in his cheek. "Didja miss me?" He glanced warily at her upraised palm, but made no move to stop her or even dodge.
She narrowed her eyes at him, fighting the urge to rub her lips. She could still feel the warm softness of his mouth on them, and the rough stubble of his cheek on her face. It was, in all honesty, just a brief peck and nothing more...why did it feel like it had gone on forever? She felt fire coursing across her skin and sizzling at her ears and knew she must be absolutely beet red. The thought made her face burn even hotter.
Her upraised hand dropped impotently to her side and she knew there was no way she was going to strike him...although to her horror, she realized she would like very much to touch him again. Her anger and embarrassment flared again with the unbidden, unwanted thought. I can't believe I...that he...I...the...the cad! She snatched her rapidly fogging glasses from her face and began rubbing them furiously with her apron.
"I...uh..." Saint was gesturing out at the coach parked beyond the open doorway. The moment was over. "We need some help...Wash is asleep out here...we took a bullet out of him last night."
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