Five Dollar Mail

Gonna miss you, Adrian.

2012-02-02T10:40:00.000-08:00

Most people have horror stories about how awful their in-laws are. This is, apparently, prevailent thing. So much so, that when I say "I'm going to visit my inlaws", I get pitying looks and offers of condolences.

Then I have to explain that it's not like that at all, and I'm happy to go visit them. My in-laws rock.

So when Adrian, my father in law, passed away last Wednesday night, it made a great big loud "boom" in my life, the echoes of which will probably never fade away completely.

At the memorial service, a lot was said about his very large, full life. He started businesses. He was in the Air Force. He had five kids (the next to the youngest of which I married). He loved horses. The list goes on for pages.

But I'm not gonna talk about that. I want to talk about what mattered to me...how he always treated me like a daughter, how he loved to tell funny stories. How every visit with him was a special occasion, because he seemed to consider it as such. How he always took care of everyone. How he loved to remember humorous family events. How he never forgot any little thing anyone might be involved in and would always inquire how that was going. Even if it was something he didn't entirely get. And the little newspaper and magazine clippings we'd get in the mail when he found something he thought might be of interest.

He asked me often how this particular writing project of mine was going. Not entirely sure he really got what I was doing exactly, but he knew I was writing and throwing it out there, and always asked me how it was coming along.

Gonna miss his stories, and his laugh, and hearing my husband chatting with him on the phone in the evening. And I'm going to miss hearing him tell stories about "the old days" and his childhood.

Gonna miss him.

So, thanks Adrian. I have been so honored to be part of your family. I won't ever forget you, and I will make sure my daughter never does, either. I love you still.

-gina

Ask Wash Updated!

2012-01-31T14:24:00.001-08:00

I managed to update Ask Wash just now. The keyboard at my Mother in Law's house sucks so much I ended up having to use the voice function on my phone in tandem with Google Docs to crank out the update.

I will never leave town without my laptop again.

family emergency ....updates as I can manage

2012-01-30T18:25:00.001-08:00

Hi, all, sorry for the late and sloppy updates. I am out of town right now, helping out at my Mother In Law's house. My Father in Law passed away late last week and we are tag teaming taking care of my husband's mom for the time being. The husband and kidlet have gone home for now and I am sort of holding down the fort here.

So if I'm slow to respond to anything, that's why. Please be patient with me.

Chapter 141:I Know My Way Is Rough and Steep

2012-01-26T18:57:00.000-08:00

Jesse had never in his life experienced such pervasive and absolute darkness. It had reached a point that he had trouble telling if his eyes were even open or not. The floursack over his head had at least permitted a little light to pass through, but now with his captors and their torch gone, it didn’t even matter that he was still wearing it. It was too dark to see anyways, floursack or not. His entire body ached with bruises and muscle aches. He flexed his shoulders and shifted on the cool stone floor, feeling the rope bite painfully into his raw and throbbing wrists.

The first thing I gotta do is get loose. They hadn’t tied his feet. Galloway hadn’t seemed to be too concerned about him being able to get up and walk. Reckon he knows how dark this cave is. I dunno what the hell I’m gonna do. But right now...I gotta get my hands free.

He flexed his legs, feeling the rough fabric of his pants chafe uncomfortably over his bruised knee, and hauled himself to a sitting position. Although it was chilly in the cave, he found himself almost wishing he wasn’t wearing his coat. The heavy buckskin further constricted his movements, the fringe on his sleeves catching underneath him as he pulled himself upright.

Forcing himself to take a few deep, calming breaths, he tried to relax his arms, hoping it might give him some play in the rope. Not much. He sighed, slumping dejectedly.

Not being able to see was more unnerving than not being able to move. He eased himself down onto his side again and rolled his shoulders, scooting his bound hands under his butt, cursing the leather fringe as it caught and pulled.

“Dammit, c’mon...” he muttered, shoulders straining. He ignored the pain of the hemp digging into his already abused skin and worked his arms down the backs of his thighs. His bruised knee felt stiff and swollen, so he concentrated on pulling his other leg through.

I’m committed now, he mused as he lay in an awkward tangle of limbs, pausing to catch his breath. He braced himself, forcing his arms over his other leg and lying back on the rock floor, feeling his blood finally circulating through his arms again. Reaching up, he fumbled with the knot that held the mouth of the floursack around his throat and pulled the sack off. The gust of cool air across his skin and into his lungs was a welcome relief and he sighed, shaking the loose strands of static-stiff hair from his face. He still couldn’t see, but at least it was less stuffy and hard to breathe.

He raised his wrists and used his lips to feel around to where the knot lay, carefully tugging at it with his teeth when he found it. The rope had been shoved far down against the heels of his hands by the effort of pulling his body through his arms, so there was a bit more play in it, but not much. At least it’s not so tight it’s making my hands numb anymore.

He considered his situation. The last thing he wanted to be was here when they came back, but being unable to see, and not knowing where he was, he had no idea where he could go. The rope wasn’t budging. The hemp was too rough to slide against itself and he was only guessing what bit of it to tug at.

“Shit!” He snapped out loud, frustrated. “What the hell am I supposed to...” He fell silent, listening to the echoes of his voice reverberate though the blackness, hearing them bounce and fade away. Turning his head, he intoned a steady “Faaaaa”, as if he were warming up at yet another Sacred Harp sing Lily had browbeaten him to attending with her. This time, his voice was close to his ears, bouncing against what had to be a nearby wall and returning quickly to him. “Sooool.....Laaaaa.....” His voice echoed down the tunnel, becoming a ghost of himself, harmonizing with him far away.

Lord, get me out of this and I won’t complain next time she wants to go. I swear, I’ll sing the best Wayfaring Stranger anyone ever heard. He rolled over onto his knees and used his hands to gingerly feel around on the rock beneath him. Crawling forward towards the far away echo, he gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his contused leg and felt carefully along the floor with his hands as he went.

I dunno where I’m going, but I know I ain’t gonna be here when them sunsabitches get back.

Slight Change In Posting Schedule

2012-01-25T17:38:00.000-08:00

Howdy, all. Just a heads up to let you know that for the time being, I'll be updating on Fridays instead of Thursdays. (It's kind of ironic and funny to me that the Thursday Post used to be the Thursday Night Just Around Midnight Post for the sole reason of me wanting it up bright and early Friday morning. It slowly morphed into the Random Hour On Thursday Post that you are familiar with now. )

However, my schedule for the week has changed, putting me at music practice and/or playing in a pub on Tuesdays instead of Fridays. Tuesday was my day to have the first draft of the week's post at least thrown together so it could be worked on until Thursday. Because I'm tied up working on other things on Mondays as well, that is going to push my schedule forward one day so I am now going to aim at posting on Friday. Which I guess is okay, seeing as how that was my original plan anyways.

Ask Wash will remain on his current schedule of a Monday post.

See you on Friday!

-gina

Ask Wash Update

2012-01-23T07:43:00.000-08:00

Howdy!

Still kind of working out how to go about doing the "Ask Wash" column. The current plan is to update on Mondays, if he has questions to answer. It's updated today, by the way.

I may start building separate entries for individual questions, but for now, it's all on one big page under the "Ask Wash" picture to the right.

Have a good week! See you Thursday!

'gina

Chapter 140: The Deep and Savage Road

2012-01-19T06:18:00.000-08:00

Saint came instantly to his feet, shoving himself between Lily and the shadowy figure in the mine entrance. “Littlewolf.” He breathed. “Sonofabitch.”

He heard Hungerford cock his pistol, and placed a warning hand on his arm.

“No need for guns.” Littlewolf’’s Absaroka lilt echoed softly in the hollowness of the shaft. “I’m not here to fight. I need to take the lady to sign some papers.”

“Where’s my brother?” Lily blurted in trembling voice.“Where’s Jesse?”

“If he doesn’t do anything stupid, he should be fine.” Littlewolf said, shifting on his feet. “He’s not hurt.” The moonlight in the entrance silhouetted him in shades of gray and black and blue. In the shadows, his Hudson Bay coat gleamed with white stripes and his face was hidden in darkness. “Come with me and take care of some papers, and you can all go home.”

If we’re hopin’ Jesse don’t do something stupid...we might have a problem, here. Saint was silently pulling Lily back, deeper into the mine and the obscuring darkness. I can’t imagine this stronza doesn’t have a gun. He quickly plucked the softly glowing quirly from his lips and cupped it, hidden, in his palm. If he’s stupid enough to fire it in here, I don’t need him aiming at my head...

Hungerford was slipping silently forward, away from them. “She’s not going anywhere with you, mate...”

“I’ll go.” Lily said desperately, pushing against Saint’s restraining arm. She pushed at him, trying to get around him, and he gripped her arm. “Let go of me, Saint! I don’t care about any of this! I just want my brother!”

Saint stiffened, pushing her gently against the stone wall behind her, shielding her with his body. His skin prickled with apprehension, not knowing if Littlewolf was aiming a gun at them or not. God help us if anything goes off in here. This place ain’t exactly shored up with any sort of expertise. He gripped Lily’s shoulders with firm hands, trying to calm her. He ached all over, and felt far too weak and trapped. “That’s the man who had a knife to Jesse’s throat, Little Miss.” He said quietly, choosing his words carefully. “And they were going to …. murder me just to keep me quiet. Whatever’s going on here, they ain’t lettin’ us go when they get what they want. Don’t think you can trust anything they say.”

She bit back a sob, seeming to deflate.“What are we going to do?” She whispered, beaten. “What can we do?”

Littlewolf sounded bored. “You’re not helping things, Saint.”

Hungerford was edging closer to the mouth of the mine. “You can’t possibly think we’re letting her go off with you.”

“Just go with me back to the Rocks. I don’t care if you two come along. You don’t have much choice if you want Hanson back.”

“Where is he?” Lily’s voice was anguished.. “I want to see him.”

“I’d like that myself.” Saint muttered, watching the silhouettes of Hungerford and Littlewolf near the entrance. With the moonlight falling on Littlewolf, they could see him a lot more clearly than he could see them, he supposed. Which ain’t saying much, but it’s something, at least. I don’t think he realizes how close Hungerford is to him. “Where are you keeping him, Littlewolf?”

“That’s up to Galloway. Come with me back to town.”

And that’s when Hungerford made his move, diving out of the shadows onto Littlewolf like a cougar taking a deer. “I’ve a better idea, mate.” he said, tackling Littlewolf to the ground. “You take us to Jesse right buggering now..”

There was a blinding flash of light and an ear shattering crack, lead pellets and limestone chips bouncing through the tunnel like angry bees. Saint threw his arms around Lily, curling her to his chest and pressing her hard into the rock wall. Pain slammed through his ears and his own voice was muffled as though through wads of wool as he yelped in shock. That was a shotgun! Shit! “Don’t shoot, idiot!” He screamed through the muffling echoes.

Another blast tore along the roof of the tunnel, dank earth and rock sifting down on them from over their heads. His ears felt like awls had been jammed through them. He pulled Lily down to the floor with him, pushing her as far into the wall as he could. “Stay down!” He gasped, stumbling to his feet and looking wildly in the darkness for Hungerford and Littlewolf. He imagined them struggling, Littlewolf’s shotgun going off as they grappled.

“Hungerford!” He shouted, the echoes of his voice getting lost in the chaos of noise and ringing in his ears. There was a popping sound, a creaking, whining vibration that shuddered through the floor and then there was a roar of jumbled rock and earth and shattered timbers as the roof began to crumble down over the dim curtain of moonlight at the mine’s entrance.

Shit! No! Saint’s boots clattered and stumbled on the shifting stone as he turned and scrambed back to where Lily crouched, grabbing her arm and hauling her after him in the darkness. Nonononono.... His cramping shoulders screamed in protest, and threw his scarf over his face as he ran blindly, gasping as debris bounced off his hat and shoulders. The tunnel entrance was coming down. Near panic, he jerked Lily forward as hard as he could, diving and rolling with her far back into the inky blackness as the earth closed its jagged maw and swallowed them.

Chapter 139:Descent

2012-01-12T17:29:00.000-08:00

Bugger me with a broomstick, I haven’t been this knackered since...well...since I can’t remember since when. What time is it, couple hours before dawn, yeah? If that?

Bender swung down from Swagman’s back, his eyes warily searching the lightless maw of the mine opening in the dark ahead. He and Lily and Bari had stayed within the sparce vegetation, worried that at any moment they might be cut from their saddles by gunfire if they were spotted. He knew what lay ahead as they travelled to the mine, but his heart still squeezed with foreboding when he saw it in front of him, close and dark, like the constricting throat of a great reptile. He shivered, steeling himself. He’d never liked close places, never liked the feeling of being trapped, buried, suffocated. He gritted his teeth, tossing Swagman’s reigns over a gnarled pine bough.

“How you holdin’ up, mate?” He said softly over his shoulder, giving Lily a hand down from Mercury’s back as Saint tethered Jersey to what was left of a felled cottonwood. “How’s your head”

“Alright.” Saint grunted, pulling War Bonnet up behind and securing him with the others."Head doesn't hurt too much anymore. Shoulder’s worse...but I still don’t think any bones are broke.” He rotated his arm, grimacing.

Bender gave him a nod of sympathy. Once the fight’s over and the heat’s out of you, you really feel it. He hoped Saint was right about the extent of his injuries. The three of them were pretty much stretched as thin as possible at the moment. If any of them got badly injured, it might be the end of all of them. He knew if they were going to rescue Jesse and get out of this with all of them alive, he was going to need Saint.

Lily, still gripping the carbine, stepped close to him. He couldn’t see her face in the silver-edged shadows, but her shoulders were set, determined. He’d wondered if she’d be able to pull the trigger if she had to, but in her current state of desperation over her brother, he had begun to believe she would. Miss Lil’s stronger than anyone thinks. Stronger than she thinks.

“So...” Bender whispered, moving closer to Saint and speaking so both he and Lily could hear. “They’re likely waiting for us, yeah? I mean, wouldn’t you?”

Saint cocked his head. “Maybe. They have to know we’re gonna come after him.”

“We’re probably walking into a trap.” Lily breathed, her voice shaky. “They don’t even have to do this, I’ll do whatever they want...”

“They planned on killin’ me, Little Miss. And they already tried to kill you, back at the Green. There ain’t gonna be negotiating with them. We have to get Jesse and get out of here and to hell with everything else.”

I never thought I’d say this, but... “Bari’s right, Miss Lil. They mean us harm, and that’s the fair dinkum oil.”

Lily nodded tightly. “What happened to Miss Loveless? Does she know all this is going on?”

Saint shrugged. “She does if she went back to her saloon. It looked like a tornado went through there.” He turned and crept forwards towards the mine entrance. “Let’s go.”

They slunk around the edges of the rocks and sparce trees, keeping to the shadows in case anyone was looking for them. Bender watched the darkness swallow Bari as if the man was sinking into a giant vat of India ink. He took a deep breath the way he might if he were diving, pulled Lily closer to himself, and followed.

“We’re gonna have to strike a light eventually.” Saint whispered. “But I remember there were no chasms in this section. Believe me, I looked when we were here before.”

Once his eyes adjusted, Bender was surprised that he could at least see shapes outlined in the moonlight spilling through the entrance of the shaft. He gazed intently around, looking for signs of movement.

“How are we going to know where they took him?” Lily asked softly. “Even if we could see?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Saint said, his voice flat, impatient. Bender knew that what he said was just words, just a little comfort and hope that he clearly didn’t entirely believe but hoped the others would. I know exactly how you feel, mate.

There was a sharp click of flint on steel, and a tiny flame flared in the darkness, throwing shadows chaotically across the rough hewn rock surrounding them. Saint held the glowing charcloth against a bit of dried fiber, blowing it until it flared to life in the lid of his tinder box. He had stuck a quirly between his lips and caught a bit of the tiny fire on the end of it, coaxing it through the tobacco.

Bender scowled. “Mate...”

“Don’t start. If we need anything in here right now, it’s a live ember.” He held the glowing tin down near the floor, sweeping it back and forth. Bender gave him a glance and quickly returned to watching behind them. Well, it’s a good thought, I’ll give him that. It’s not like we have much else to go on.

“See here...” Saint muttered. “Those?” he gestured over the jumble of footprints he was illuminating. “That ain’t a workboot. That’s a man’s dress shoe.”

“Galloway.” Lily spat.

“Right.” Bender nodded, squinting in the darkness. “And that might be Jesse’s boot...the bloke’s got big feet...”

“That’s him, I recognize it.” Saint pointed. “See? He has a hole in one of them, and a cracked sole. I’m always tellin’ him to buy new boots. And there...got to be a leather Indian shoe.”

“Who’s that?”

“Crow we were playing poker with. He was wearing moccasins. Which considerin’ how rocky it is around here, surprised me.”

“You’re easy to surprise.” the soft male voice in the entrance to the cave said, amused. “And moccasins are quiet.”

Nothing new today, just thought I'd post this pic of Jesse

2012-01-10T10:42:00.000-08:00

I'm tidying up some stuff on here and doing some other things and figured I may has well post that colorized pic of Jesse while I was at it.

I'm trying to figure out why and how this new Facebook format thing is better than the old one. It kind of sucks. But evidently I don't have much choice here if I want a Facebook presence.

Did I mention Facebook sucks?

Maybe I just didn't get enought sleep last night/enough coffee/all of the above.

I have another piece of fan art on the way that was sent as what is my most favorite Christmas present, but I have to scan it and set it up. So watch this space.

Chapter 138: He Layed His Head On A Pillow Of Down, Kisses She Gave Him Three

2012-01-04T21:50:00.000-08:00

Hester hated waking up in her clothes in a chair. Especially when she’d only had a few hours of sleep and it was too late to go to bed properly and get some real rest. When Richard threw the door open, she jerked awake, disoriented and exhausted.

“I just got back.” He said, his voice hoarse and weary. “Where is she?”

Shit. That’s the last question I want to hear this morning. She shook her head. “I don’t know, Richard.” she muttered, her voice hoarse with sleep. She leaves town, our whole plan is screwed. “I was hoping you had her.”

“Dammit!” Richard slammed his palm into the wall. “What the hell have you been doing all this time?”

Hester felt her temper flare. “I’ve been scouring this sorry excuse for a town for her, that’s what I’ve been doing all night. She’s gone. If she were here, I’d have found her.”

“Well, we have to find her!” Richard paced, waving his arms. “What now? I have Hanson trapped in the caves so we can get her to sign the forms and convince the Union Pacific lawyers she’s happy about it!”

“Good damn thing you didn’t kill him, then.” Hester got up and flexed her back. “I doubt she’ll go far if she knows he’s alive. Speaking of which...what did you do with Saint?”

“I haven’t seen him or Roderiguez since I got back.” Richard’s lip curled smugly. “Roderiguez was supposed finish him and dump him in the stables like he got horse stomped. Which shouldn’t be too hard. I’m not sure you didn’t kill him with that chair. That was brutal. And hilarious.”

Hester shook her head. What a waste. I’m sorry, Gorgeous...you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t personal. She had felt a considerable twinge of regret when she’d hit him, but it couldn’t be helped. He had a gun in his hand and he knew too much. She didn’t know if he’d seen her or not when she had stepped on his wrist and kicked his gun away, but she could see that he was unconscious by the time she had checked him for a heartbeat. No getting around it. He had to disappear. Still...She thought about his long eyelashes and the broad span of his shoulders...damn. She sighed, feeling cheated. Not quite how I’d hoped to get him on his back. “This is getting too messy.”

“No, Hester. What would be messy would be if you screwed up this very serious deal with one of your little play sessions. You need to spend more time worrying about how to get this deed signed over free and clear and less time worrying about how to get some pretty-boy into your bed.”

Hester moved quickly and leaned into her brother’s face. “Like you and Blondie, eh? I think you just like putting your hands on Hanson, Richard, since you’ve done it every single time you’ve seen him.”

“Don’t turn this around on me, Hester.” Richard sneered. “I’m taking care of business. I suggest you do the same.”

Oh, you have no idea, Little Brother. It’s being taken care of, make no mistake. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t get sentimental about men. Even ones I’m related to. Sentiment can get you killed...isn’t that right, Gorgeous? She shook her head, remembering the wistful longing in Saint’s dark eyes when he looked at Lily. The idea that he’d been so hard to get because he was hung up on some mousy little girl annoyed her. And no way he'd have turned over on her for us anyways. Stupid lovesick sap. Your heart got you killed, Saint. Well,” she said mockingly. “Hanson is the prettier of the two of them, isn’t he? I know how you like blue eyes.”

“Actually, Hester, what I like is money. And I like it in large sums. So let’s not mess this up. We’re running out of time, here. I’m making damn sure that contract gets signed. Thanks to me, we now have leverage. She’ll do anything we ask as long as she thinks her brother will get out of this alive.” He gave her a tight, cold smile. “Let’s get some coffee, throw some cold water on our faces, and go find the homely sister, shall we?”

Chapter 137: The Dunnest Smoke Of Hell

2012-01-01T15:30:00.000-08:00

You know what's sad? Back when Liezl did this black and white pic of Jesse, I got a Bamboo tablet and used the picture to practice getting used to the stylus. So here I am sitting on a color pic of Jesse I never used. I'd forgotten I'd colored it. So yeah. Here's a never before seen color version of Liezl's Jesse.

-'gina

Jesse stumbled for what felt to him like about the hundreth time. He staggered forward on the uneven footing, his arms jerking involuntarily as he instinctively tried and failed to throw them in front of himself for balance. Someone grabbed his shoulder, roughly steadying him.

He was startled at how grateful he felt for that brief kindness. Up to this point, he'd either had to gain his balance as best he could himself, or simply fall down. And he was finding out that falling with his arms bound behind him and a bag over his head was a rough way to fall. Especially since on more than one occasion, someone...probably Galloway...had kicked him while he was down. His whole body ached from the licks he'd taken in the saloon, and adding more bruises and blows from simply losing his footing was adding insult to injury.

He tried to step carefully, his boots blindly shifting on the sometimes rocky, sometimes slippery terrain, but if he slowed his pace, he'd get a rough shove from behind that too frequently ended up knocking him down anyway.

His wrists were raw, abraded with hemp splinters from the rope binding them, and they itched and ached. He'd long since quit trying to slip free. And the fact that he couldn't tell where he'd been taken, couldn't see anything but the glare of a lantern through the rough fabric of the feedsack over his head increased his panic, turned his senses up to full volume.

He could tell a few things about his surroundings. He knew he was with Galloway and Littlewolf. He had heard them say they were headed out to the mine, and he was fairly certain they were walking through some dark, dank tunnel. He could tell when the sound of their footfalls and the feel of the air changed. And the last time he'd sprawled hard onto the ground, he could feel a stone floor covered with fine powder and sharp gravel that bit into his chest and shoulder, and crunched into his right knee so hard that for a few minutes he was glad to have a floursack covering his face.

Sometime back, they'd stopped briefly and he'd heard hinges creak and complain as a door was opened and then closed behind them as they passed through. The sound echoed and and resonated down a long, empty corridor.

They're draggin' me down here to kill me. his mind chattered at him, and he took a deep breath, calming himself. It hadn't taken him too long to figure out that any resistance he put up earned him abuse he couldn't defend against. No point fightin' now, Farm Boy. Can't see and you can't take a swing. Wait till you got something to work with. You don't wanna be so stove up ya can't fight when you get the chance... I can't die here. I can't leave Lily alone. Not like this...

He knew she'd do anything for him. Anything. She'll put herself in danger for me. I can't let it reach that point, I gotta get myself out of this. His stomach lurched when he thought about Saint lying on the saloon floor, and he wondered if his friend was even still alive. What if I got him killed? What if he's dead? The thought was too much. His eyes started to burn. What's going to happen to Lily? They're gonna go after her, if they ain't already. What the hell have we gotten ourselves into? Panic surged up his throat and he felt the burn of acid in his mouth. He'd never felt so helpless and desperate in his life. He flexed his wrists one more time to see if there was any play or weak spots that might have magically appeared in the rope.

There wasn't.

God...I know I ain't exactly been on the straight and narrow...but me and Lily and the fellas could use some help right now. If not for us...well...at least help Lily. She don't deserve any of this.

"You fall down one more time..." Galloway spat, his fingers digging painfully into Jesse's bicep as he jerked him back to what Jesse supposed was the center of the corridor.

"What the hell do you expect?" Jesse snapped, the sack making his own voice in his ears sound muffled. "I can't see where I'm..." He yelped as he was wheeled abruptly sideways and slammed hard into the rough rock wall. His chin struck the rock and and stars lit up the inside of the floursack. He tasted blood. Galloway grabbed his elbow and wrenched his arms up behind him, pinning him into the wall.

"Shut up." Galloway barked. "You don't talk. You listen."

The stars were rapidly being replaced with a red tinged haze of rage. "You chickenshit piece of..." Jesse twisted, trying to shove off the wall with his thighs and shoulder. "You know how this'd go if my hands were free..."

His arms were twisted harder and bolts of lightning exploded through his shoulders. He gasped, sagging helplessly in Galloway's grip.

"I want to kill you." Said Galloway matter of factly. "If it were up to me, you'd already be dead and so would your homely little white trash sister. So don't think you're still breathing on account of my wishes."

So why am I? What's the game? Fresh firebolts went through his shoulders as Galloway gave his arms another excruciating twist and he bit back a cry. His head was jerked back, Galloway grabbing a handfull of floursack and hair, pulling the fabric hard against his face. The cord holding it in place cut into his throat, catching under his jaw, making it hard to breathe.

"So shut up and listen if you don't want to die tonight." Galloway breathed close to his ear. "You're underground. You don't want to get lost. And some of the pits and chasms in here have Chinamen looking up the other end of them. You smart enough to understand me, hillbilly?"

Galloway suddenly snatched hard on the sack around Jesse's head, throwing him off balance, stopping the breath in his throat for a moment. He spun Jesse around and gave him a brutal shove, throwing him violently to the floor.

"So stay put and pray your sister likes you more than I do." The pair of footfalls died away with the retreating lamplight, leaving a silence as total as the darkness.

Gift Art: Wash and Rosie by Amy M.

2011-12-29T20:43:00.000-08:00

Here are a couple very cool pictures by Amy M. of Rosie Burgess and Wash Monahan. These two are particularly sweet, which really suits both the characters. I love the life she puts into the eyes!

I have a confession to make here. I didnt' realize it was Wednesday night until about midnight last night. It was like waking up with the house on fire or something.

I swear I don't know what happened to the week.

Between the holiday and a variety of family things going on right now, I am simply not ready to finish this week's post up. Out of time and mental resources, I guess. Sometimes life catches up with you and can suck all the creativity right out of your head. But I'm going to allow myself a few extra days on it and see if I can't get it out over the weekend. Sometimes it just helps if I just let myself take a mulligan every now and then, even though I dislike resorting to that. The husband's always saying "Just blow it off one week!" Well, I always feel like I've fallen on my face when I do that, so no. I have some airspace just ahead. Maybe. So I'm gonna try to use to get this week's post out. Watch this space.

Did it just turn Friday?

Good Lord.

Prequel: God Rest You Merry

2011-12-22T17:37:00.000-08:00

This is an extra extra long post for you this week. Sort of a little Christmas special for you. So Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Happy Solstice, Kwanzaa, or whatever. Have a fun, peaceful, and safe Sunday 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 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, bringing him back, casting him out, sending him 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.

“Ah, they don’t pay us enough for this shite.” He muttered, pulling his scarf up over his mouth more firmly, feeling snow cling to his stubbled face and bite into his cheeks.

“Merda.” Saint growled. “Where the hell did this come from?” He coughed again, doubling his scarf around his face and grimacing as the flying snow clung to his eyelashes and sifted into his hair. It was coming down nearly sideways, blowing underneath the brims of their hats.

“Dunno, lad, but it’ll slow us down, sure. How far are we from the station?”

“Not real far...but it’s comin’ down hard.” He clicked his tongue, quickening the pace of the team. Wash grabbed the seatback for balance as the coach jerked forward. “Shit.” Saint hissed, defeated. He was barely visible behind the sheets of stinging white that blasted them. The wheels of the coach had started to slow in the drifts of powder swirling over the trail.

“I’m thinkin’ to stop here, lad, against these buttes.” Wash looked around at the walls of stone that rose up along the trail. “This coach may be done if the snow gets deeper. at least it's sheltered over here.”
.
“I’m with you.” Saint said, slowing the coach and steering it close as he could to the leeward side of the sheltering rock walls. “We need to protect these horses. We may need to ride out of here on ‘em later.”

“Aye.” Wash swung himself onto the wagon box behind the seat and started pulling out canvas tarps and buffalo robes as Saint pulled the coach alongside the wall. The temperature had dropped like an anvil tossed out of a boat, and the wind howled as it scoured through the rocks.

“Wash, see if you can pull those tarps between the coach and the wall. We’ll put the horses in. Might be warmer.” Saint called as he jumped to the ground, his voice strained and tossed in the force of the blizzard. “Gonna unhitch.”

“Aye, lad, sure.” The rock wall offered considerable protection from the screaming wind. Wash bound the edges of the tarps into the railings at the top of the coach and wedged them against the rock wall with rocks and dead branches. It was sloppy and cramped, but it would be better than no protection at all. He dumped the robes in a pile out of the way.

Saint pulled the horses underneath, struggling as they protested entering the makeshift tent. “Glad we only got the two of ‘em.” He coughed violently, snow pouring off his hat and shoulders as he helped Wash pull the tarp back down over their rumps. “Sh...sh, no.” he murmured, his hands gently playing over the horse’s coats, brushing the snow off as quickly as he could before it melted. He was breathing hard, his breath whistling softly as he worked.

“Might blow over, lad.”

Saint nodded, saying nothing. His shoulders heaved with exertion and he straightened, giving the horse he’d been soothing one more gentle caress before opening the door to the wagon and sitting down hard on the sill.

Wash felt a twinge of guilt. His new trail partner was homesick. The fact they were nearing Christmas had been eating at him, kicking the loose lid off the yawning chasm of his longing. He’d been distant of late, short tempered and irritable. And if he had to be honest with himself, so had he himself. The lad’s got something to go back to, people thinking about him. Sometimes I dun’ know what’s worse. Knowing someone’s there that misses you, or knowin’ there isn’t. It was all good sport to chide him about his sentiment and soft spots, to give him a hard time when it seemed they’d end up getting back on schedule anyways and no harm would be done. But now that it seemed they might actually end up stuck here instead, Wash genuinely felt a little remorse for picking on his trail mate.

I guess there’s something to be said for having nothing behind you but a smouldering ruin and buggers who want to kill you. He scowled unhappily beneath his scarf. Sod it. It’s not like I miss the Five Points. I fecking well don’t. Sod the whole nasty lot.

Wash stuck his hat back on his head and shivered. It was still cold, but at least they were out of the wind. “Y’all right?”

Saint nodded, trying to catch his breath. He braced his hands on the top of the open doorway. “Fine.” he whispered. “Gimme a minute...”

Wash frowned. The younger man’s skin was pale, gleaming with sweat, and Wash’s alarm grew at the gray tinge of Saint’s lips. “Lad...”

Saint frowned, his hand shooting up in a halting motion. “Fine...” he mouthed, “Just...”

“Sweating in this cold can kill you, so it can.” Wash pushed past the man’s defensive gesture, grasping his shoulders and laying a hand on his forehead. “Come here to me, lad. Jaysus, you look like shite. How long ha’ you been like this?” Saint’s skin was soaked, icy. How did this come on so fecking quick?

Saint was wheezing, his shoulders heaving with the effort of breathing. “It’ll pass.” he croaked, his teeth starting to chatter. He started to sag sideways in the doorway and Wash pushed him backwards, catching his head so it didn’t hit the floor of the coach as he eased him back.

Saint struggled to his elbows, trying to pull away, shaking his head.

“Let me help you, lad. Stop fighting me!” He hauled himself into the coach and helped Saint pull himself up against the seat. “Tell me what to do!”

Saint shook his head, his breath whistling in his throat. “Can’t.” He let his head fall back onto the seat,helpless and shivering in the throes of whatever had him in its grip.

A gust of wind hit the side of the coach, making it lurch on its thoroughbraces. Icy wind slipped through the canvas window covering on the windward side, sharp and threatening. Wash swung out of the wagon and hauled the robes up, wrestling their musty bulk through the doorway of the coach. He was glad for the heat of the horses. It helped take some of the bite out of the chill, but with his partner struggling to breathe in a cold sweat, he knew he still had a deadly situation on his hands. In this cold, that thin layer of cloying moisture might as well be a funeral shroud. It would suck the warmth right out of a man’s body, and with it his life. .I might be riding home alone, sure. This is bad.

Saint was clawing open his coat, trying to free himself from the constriction around his chest, gasping painfully. Wash shed his own coat and dropped down to sit on the floor beside him, leaning his back against the seat. He pulled the robes around them both, hauling Saint close to his side and wrapping an arm around him. He shook the flask out of his boot and grabbed it with his free hand.

“Got whiskey, lad.” Wash unscrewed the top. “Good for everything, so it is.” He raised it to Saint’s lips. “Easy does it, now. Just enough so you can feel it.”

Saint took a bracing gulp, then tried to push away. Wash held him firmly against his side. “Stop, Saint. You’re soaked and shivering, lad, and I’d rather not have to tell Lynch I let you freeze to death.” He raised the flask to Saint’s lips. “A wee drop, now.”

Saint gasped, grimacing, taking another pull from the flask. His teeth clicked against the metal top as he shook with cold, coughing.

“Are you in pain?” Wash released his grip a bit, giving Saint some air. “What...”

“No.” He drew in a ragged, wheezing breath. “It’s passing.”

Wash could feel Saint’s skin warming up beneath his arm, the violent shuddering in his chest subsiding. He shifted and let Saint’s head roll onto his shoulder. The thought of his younger brother Connor came unnbidden to his mind and he inwardly cringed. Connor, with his angry drunkenness, his disrespect. Connor, with his arrogant entitlement and his violence and his out of control aggression.

He’d failed Connor so completely. Despite his efforts, despite his trying so hard, he couldn’t change who Connor was. He couldn’t save him.

Big brothers are supposed to be the protective ones. Why wouldn’t he let me be there for him?
Why was I not someone he could look up to? Jaysus, me only family left, so he was. Me own brother calls me enemy...

He pushed the thoughts back into the crowded, dark basement inside him, and composed his words, his voice unsteady and soft. “So. Laddie. what hideous pestilence can I look forward to catching from you?”

“Being beaten to death, if you ever tell anyone about this.”

Wash smirked, giving Saint’s arm a patronizing pat. “You’re hardly me type, lass. And there isna enough whiskey in that flask by half.”

Saint closed his eyes, breathing. Wash was relieved to see that while he still looked pale and ill, the bluish tinge of his skin was fading. “It’s from rock dust.” He inhaled as if he’d just been plucked from the sea after nearly drowning. “You can’t catch it. I worked in mines since almost before I can remember.”

Wash furrowed his brow, images of wee boys covered in black dust reeling through his mind. “I see.”

“Hey, Wash?”

“Aye?”

“Look...thanks. It...it ain’t usually this bad. I don’t think I could have...well...” He paused, taking a few labored breaths. “You got me through it. Thanks. I’m glad you were here.”

Wash nodded, listening to the wind howling. Occasionally a gust would catch the coach and rattle it ominously. Hell of a place to spend Christmas Eve. He gave Saint’s shoulder a brotherly squeeze.“Lad... I’m sorry we’re stuck here and I’m sorry we’re probably not going to make it back by tomorrow. I was a right sodding tosser to you, and I’m sorry for that, too.”

Saint’s eyes were still closed, his voice sleepy. “We both were. I’m sorry, too. It’s not important,”

“It’s important to you.”

“It’s important to not be alone tomorrow. I just wanted some friends around, maybe a day off. Maybe a friendly card game.”

“There’s cards in the box, lad. I think we can manage it.”

Saint was quiet a moment. Wash wondered if he’d fallen asleep, but he shifted under the robes, relaxing. “We work together day in and day out. I should have got you something.”

A bittesweet pang turned inside of Wash’s chest and he listened with satisfaction and relief to the slowing of Saint’s breathing as it steadied. “You did, lad. Go on to sleep with you now. I’ll keep watch.”

Chapter 136: Thin Line

2011-12-14T19:37:00.000-08:00

"I don't blame you for hatin' me." Saint's words echoed in Lily's mind as she walked away from him. She snatched her spectacles from her face, pressing her fingers to her water-filled eyes. She'd almost laughed in his face for even suggesting it. Hate you, Pete Bari? I could never hate you, Saint. Though not for lack of trying.

I knew he was dangerous, that he would be trouble. That he would lead Jesse to some dark place...how could I blame him for being who he is?

She stumbled around a rift in the rock walls that hid them, pressing her shoulder against the cold roughness of the limestone as she sagged against it, beaten. Wrapping her arms around herself, she sobbed as she sank to sit at the base of the wall.

Her worst fears had been realized in one horrifying moment. Saint still and ashen faced on the floor. She had been so sure that he was dead. Jesse gone and at the mercy of awful people. Maybe he is dead.

It's not Saint's fault. She told herself, and meant it. I let them talk me into it. We all agreed. I agreed.

I agreed because I trusted Saint.

She dropped her head into her hands, her fingers clutching at her scalp.

"How could I?" She whispered.

Because he almost died pulling you out of a fire, that's why. Because he was ready to risk his own life to save Storm's.

Because the man is a hero. Am I so ready to forget that?

She raised her head from her crossed arms, taking in a deep breath and letting it out, watching it curl in the moonlight like silver smoke. The moon was hard and white, caught in a jagged tear in the lightless clouds as if it had torn through like a dull knife. She was shaking, and it wasn't from the cold.

No. I'll never forget that. Ever. But I'm not so ready to see another man I love be killed by his own demons, either.

She was startled by the sharp intake of her own breath and she groaned aloud and shook her head. No. Fear was burning through her like a fever. I can't think like that. I can't love you, Pete. She desperately tried to conjure up how he'd made her feel when she first met him, hoping the memory would give her resolve, would solder and harden her shattering heart. She thought of how rude and frightening he'd been, how angry he had made her later on when he'd confronted Galloway in the kitchen. How nasty he could be to Jon and how that made her feel.

How many times had he come back to the Green from some trouble he'd been involved in? How many bruises had she seen on him? Bloodstains she'd washed out of his shirts? He wore a permanant souvenier of some forgotten brawl in the slight hitch of his otherwise perfectly sculpted nose. He's everything I don't want in my life, in Jesse's life. I know that And now, it may be too late.

I let Jesse go with him alone... It may have cost him his life. If I hate anyone, I hate me.

"He'll get Jesse back." she told herself. "He will." He'll go to hell for him. He'll die trying. Everything else aside, I know that about him.

I wouldn't blame me for hating him,either. But I don't. And I can't seem to force myself to.

He'd reached for her, tried to touch her, and she'd recoiled, slapping his hands away before she was even aware she'd been moving. From his reaction, it was almost as if she'd struck his face, and he'd looked shaken and lost. He had briefly met her gaze, a searing vulnerability in his dark, too-wet eyes and she suddenly realized that it had not been she who he had sought to comfort. She wasn't entirely sure he was not on the verge of tears himself.

She'd slapped his hands away because the one thing she wanted more than anything in the world in that moment was for him to hold her tight in his strong, warm arms. To feel the reassuring beating of his fierce heart against her cheek. And that would have been such catastrophe that she knew she'd never recover.

Gift Art: Fiona by Amy M.

2011-12-11T19:15:00.000-08:00

Here is another great piece of artwork of Fiona by Amy M. I love the colors in this, they are so vivid, just like the Fiona I see in my head.

She definitely does not look like someone who would put up with a lot of crap from anyone in this picture. She looks determined and capable.

Thanks, Amy, I love this. And I so appreciate you taking the time to do these pics. It really does put a smile on my face. :-)

Chapter 135: Broken

2011-12-07T07:24:00.001-08:00

The whole time I'm writing this, I'm thinking of one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite bands...that would be Sin Nombre, by The Refreshments, and from what I consider their best album, The Bottle And Fresh Horses. I don't know why. My brain decided it fit. Thinking about it, I have to agree.
This is a rough recording, but it's the best one I could find. Upon further reflection, though, the rough, unpolished performance of this song underscores the power of it.
Anyways, enjoy. Maybe you'll think it's fitting, too.

Saint couldn’t decide if he was so nauseous because he was half crazy with fear over what what was happening to Jesse, or if it was the after-effects of being coldcocked with a ladder-backed chair.

Either way, he felt sick.

The discovery that none of the blood all over his shirt and face was his had been a huge relief to all three of them. The fact that Hungerford hadn’t had to pull a bullet out of him had put the farrier into such a good mood that he’d actually staunched and taped Roderiguez’s broken nose after he’d tied the man to the tree.

His hands shook as he fumbled in the dark, fireless camp Hungerford and the Little Miss had made up in the cliffs, loading his Colt. Hungerford had retrieved the gun from Rodriguez, and then had securely tied the big Mexican to a piñon pine in their camp. The ache in his shoulder was worrying. He was pretty sure he wasn’t dangerously injured, but the deep bruises hampered his movement, made him suck in his breath through his teeth.

Bring it. Pour it on. I deserve it. The pain was like a penance. He wished it was worse. Maybe it would give me something other to think about than how bad I ballsed this up. If Jesse ends up dead...

Hungerford was getting their horses ready to go. He hadn’t said much, but from the look on his face, he felt as bad as Saint did. Evidently, he had plenty of guilt that he hadn’t argued when Saint and Jesse had decided to go on to the Rocks that night without them. In fact, he’d agreed it was probably the best way to get some information on the situation.

We both screwed up. But at the heart of it, was my damn idea...

“Saint.” Lily’s voice was hollow, wooden. Acid once again clawed its way up the back of his throat as he jerked his head around to look at her. Pain from his stiff neck muscles rocketed across his scalp.

Her eyes were swollen, red rimmed in the dark shadows of her face. “How do you feel?” She asked, her voice flat and hoarse from crying.

“I’ll live. Nothin’ important’s broken.” he muttered, spinning the barrel on the Colt and snapping it shut. “Little Miss...” He holstered the weapon and looked hard into her eyes. In the cold silver of the moonlight, they were his quiet center of the storm. The candle in the window he needed to guide him through this. To get me unlost. “Sweetheart...are you alright?”

“No.”

“Lily.” He took a few deep breaths, trying to collect his thoughts. He opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking. “Lily...”he tried again. “I”m sorry. I didn’t...” He reached for her shoulder and was surprised at the force with which she slapped his hand away.

“Don’t.” she said in a shaking whisper.

His guts twisted inside him, a palpable, wrenching ache. Words died on his lips and he realized he hadn’t the first idea what to say to her that wouldn’t sound pointless and stupid. All he knew was that the way she was looking at him hurt more than just about anything that had ever happened to him. He wanted to throw himself at her feet, beg her forgiveness, anything that’ll make her stop lookin’ at me the way she’s lookin’ at me right now.

It wasn’t the first time she’d looked at him with hurt in her eyes. But it was the worst. And he knew beyond a doubt it was going to be the last. A knife made of ice twisted inside him. She's done with me.

“I know it’s my fault.” he whispered, feeling desperate, like a man confessing for a torturer. “I don’t expect you to forgive me...but we’ll find him, Little Miss. I promise you.”

“I know you will.” She nodded. “I know that’s who you are. And it’s all our fault. We all did this.”

He flexed his hands, desperately wanting to pull her into his arms but not wanting to find out the hard way if she would rebuff him again. If she did, it would hurt too much, and at this very moment, he knew he was too weak to bear it. It would finish him. His eyes grew heavy and hot in his aching face. “We’ll...find him.”

Her face twisted, tears starting to once again course down her cheeks. “And I almost forgot who else you are, Pete.” She choked. “I guess I wanted to forget about it.” She was crying now, pulling off her silver spectacles and mopping her face with her apron. “About how the road ends just like...like this.” She gestured clumsily at his bruises and aching head. “And I knew better, too. If this is anybody’s fault, it’s mine. For...letting myself...” Pushing her glasses back onto her face, she paused and her voice trailed off. “For letting myself forget.” She decided to say.

“Little Miss..." His face burned and he took a deep, steadying breath. "I don’t blame you for hatin’ me.”

Her eyes narrowed, a look akin to disbelief etched across her features. “Hate you?” She uttered, the words both a sob and a laugh, bitter and mirthless and broken. She grimaced, shaking her head, turning her face from him.

He watched her walk away, feeling her drag his breath and his heart and his soul out and leave them torn and shattered on the rocks as she went.

His fingers went numbly to his pocket, falling on the tobacco pouch and he felt himself habitually falter, as he often cursed himself for doing in her presence. Cursed himself for not just being a grown man and doing what he wanted. For caring what she thought.

For not wanting to hurt her.

He realized with a start that the heat on his face was tears, and he leaned back against the rocks, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. His breath shuddered in his throat, silently convulsing against his attempts to get control of the agony he felt.

He had been wrong about so many things. He knew that now. And most of all, he knew he had been wrong when he’d said that nothing important was broken.

Gift Art by Amy M.

2011-12-05T06:24:00.001-08:00

Was having kind of a bad day Saturday and then someone really managed to salvage things for me.

Amy M. sent me a couple pieces of AWESOME arwork. There are few things that make a writer smile more than knowing someone is enjoying their stuff, much less enjoying it enough to want to make something like this.

And it's thrilling to see how readers interpret what I've written. I really do think the reading of it is the other half of writing. A person can write volumes, but until someone else is viewing it through the glass of their own imagination, it's somehow not complete. Storytelling is a team effort.

Well, anyways, this is just gorgeous and I love it. I'll be doling the rest of them out in the next couple weeks, so watch this space.

Thanks again, Amy M. For the artwork, the support, and the much needed boost!

Chapter 134: By The Pricking Of My Thumbs

2011-12-01T07:10:00.001-08:00

An ember had rolled across the hearthstone in Rosie’s bedroom and she pushed it back with her toe. She carefully placed another small log onto the low fire, but the unpleasant chill that had settled in with the evening air could not touch her.

I’ve spent the afternoon with Lynch’s Boys. They would have walked me home if I’d let them.

As much as being walked home on the arm of one of her exciting new friends would have utterly delighted her, the last thing she wanted was for her father to find out who she’d been keeping company with.

The conversations she’d had with them, the fun they’d all had together, the sweet way they’d treated her...all these memories blew through her thoughts like brightly colored leaves on a warm wind. And it had been fairly easy to ignore the sound of the real conversations going on below her in her father’s study in favor of them. But now, her father’s voice was growing louder, more angry. Harder to ignore.

“....well, what am I paying you for, then?” Her father’s voice, muffled by the polished wooden planks of the floor, cut through her reverie. “Maybe you wouldn’t have to keep such a low profile if you’d stuck to the job and not gone crazy. Maybe then you could find out what I’m paying you to find out!”

She sat down on her bed, pulling her dime novel from the bedside table with one hand and unlacing her shoes with the other.

“They aren’t there.” she heard an unfamiliar, gravel-throated male voice say. “They’re gone. Horses are gone, too. I don’t know where they are. I’m just telling you where they aren’t. All that’s there now is the Irishman, the Injun, and a pair of boys. That’s it.”

What? Rosie’s ears pricked up and she leaned over the worn wooden floor, suddenly paying attention. Her heart was in her throat. Oh! He knows! Why else...how....?

“Listen, I need to know where they went.” Her father snapped.

He needs to know where who went?

“And if they were in town, I’d tell you, Burgess. But they’re not. How the hell you expect me to...”

Who are they talking about? The rest of the crew? Jesse Hanson and the coach driver and the ladies and the rest?

She was leaning out so far she almost lost her balance, jerking herself back onto the bed before she fell.

Why would my father care about that?

“I suppose it might be fun to question one of them. Want me to do that, Burgess?”

“You try anything else like that, and I’ll call the sheriff myself.” Her father hissed.

“Like hell you will.” the strange voice sounded amused. “You know we both have tales to tell.”

“We don’t need more attention brought to this, Hooper. You’ve already made a mess of it.”

This has nothing to do with me. Rosie’s mind raced. On one hand, she was relieved. On the other, she now had a whole new set of things to fret about. This has to do with the trip Jesse Hanson made with his sister, wherever they went. The crew had told her they’d gone on a trip, but didn’t say where to or why. She heard the back door slam and quickly scrambled to her feet, stumbling towards the window.

A man in a long, heavy gray coat was untethering the unfamiliar white horse from the post out front. His face was hidden beneath a wide brimmed hat. She felt a sudden chill creep over her skin as she watched him, the room suddenly feeling cold and dismal. He was fairly tall, broad shouldered, and moved with the arthritic stiffness of someone who was injured and ached down in his bones. She could see his exhaled breath as he blew smoke from under his hat. Gooseflesh had inexplicably broken out on her skin and she shrank from the chilly panes of glass that stood between them.

She heard her father’s heavy footfalls coming up the steps and she scrambled back, falling onto the bed and grabbing her dime novel.

“Rosemary.” Her father’s knuckles rapped impatiently on the door.

“Yes?” she tried to keep her voice casual and inwardly cringed when she heard how shaky it sounded. She didn’t know why the sight of the man in the yard would unsettle her so, and her current case of nerves wasn't helping the situation.

The door opened. Her father was scowling. He leaned back on the doorframe, looking her over.

“I saw your friend Charlotte in the mercantile this evening before I came home.”

Rosie felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. If you bothered to ever talk to me...if you knew me...you’d know... “Charlotte and I aren’t really friends.”

Predictably, he didn’t react to this announcement. He never reacted to much of anything she said. He went on, his voice casual. “She says you spent the day in Abigail’s with Lynch’s crew.”

Rosie felt like a giant, invisible fist had just punched her in the stomach. Of course she would tell him. She’s angry it wasn’t her. She couldn’t stand to see them squiring me about. What a spiteful, nasty little shrew...

Her face had started to burn hotly. She didn’t know what to say, and even if she did, she doubted she’d be able to articulate it anyway. You’re going to tell me not to see them. Not to see Tommy and Luis or any of them. Her mind raced wildly, imagining herself sneaking around, imagining how she’d defy him.

And Charlotte and her cronies will be all too happy to report back to him. This town is not that big. What if he...says something to...them?

Her face began to feel tight and her eyes started to ache.

“So.” her father went on. He raised an eyebrow, watching her intently. “I’m glad you’re making some friends. Why don’t you tell me all about it over supper?”

Chapter 133: Déjà Vu

2011-11-23T18:02:00.001-08:00

However you celebrate it, have a peaceful and safe Thanksgiving Day. Thanks again for reading! I'm thankful for you all every day!
-'gina

“Jon!” Lily jumped, heart in her throat as the sound of a gunshot echoed off the surrounding bluffs. “That was the saloon!”

Bender had scrambled instantly to his feet, his own pistol at the ready. “Ah, that ain’t good.” He muttered, scanning the dark street from their vantage point high in the rocks overlooking the saloon.

The two of them had abandoned the rented room for the evening and had crouched in the sheltering darkness of one of the craggy outcroppings that shaded the street below and the Rocks Saloon. It was chilly, and they had not risked building a fire up in the bare cliffs, where the light would have shone like a beacon. Up here, they could see both the door to their room and the saloon where Jesse and Saint had gone.

“Stay here.” Bender picked up the carbine from where it lay and pressed it into Lily hands.

“Oh, no.” She said, pulling it from his grasp and getting to her feet. “No. Absolutely not. You aren’t going off alone without me.”

“You can’t...”

“We’re not talking about it, Jon! Let’s go!” She heading down the embankment ahead of him, terror making her bold. The pounding in her chest threatened to break her breastbone, panic exploding in her belly. Jesse’s down there. And Saint...Oh, dear God, is one of them shot? I knew this was an awful idea!

“Miz Lil...” Bender was scrambling after her. “Keep your head down, love! Don’t make yourself an easy target, right? We have to be smart about this!” He pulled her between the rocks, keeping to the shadows as he helped her climb down.

Lily’s hands were shaking, tears burning her eyes. The image of her murdered uncle hung before her like a mirage. And this time, she knew...she knew! It was Jesse. Or it was Saint. Crumpled dead on the floor like just another piece of broken debris.

Her breath had started gusting through her teeth in rapid gasps of panic. “Oh, God...” she whimpered, stumbling.

Bender’s strong, workworn paw closed around her wrist and he pulled her close to him, steadying her. “Miss Lil.” He said, softly, firmly. “We’re gonna go in there and sort it out. Hold it together. Gonna need you with that carbine, right?”

She drew in a deep breath and slapped the tears from her face.

“Good.” he breathed. “Alright. When people panic, people die. Don’t panic. Fair dinkum, love?”

She released her held breath in a staggering, unsteady stream of silver in the chilly night air and nodded her head. “Feha dinkum, Jon.” she whispered.

“Listen to me, now. We may have to fight out way out of there, understand? Good. Let’s go, then.”

He pulled her behind him, keeping her close as they crept up on the back of the saloon. It’s too quiet. Too quiet! Lily pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing the panic back. Vainly trying to banish the horrible thoughts that blasted rapid-fire through her brain. Jesse’s dead. Saint’s dead. Why did I let this happen? Why didn’t I put up more of a fight over it?

Why did we come here?

Pressing against the safety of Bender’s oil-cloth clad back, her eyes darted everywhere, searching for anyone that might be coming up behind them. She gripped the carbine, her fingers sweating. The street was eerily empty.

Bender stepped into the ragged spill of light from the half open saloon door, pistol at the ready. “Oh, balls.” she heard him mutter. She spun around just in time to see the big Mexican caught in the act of dragging Saint across the floor by his feet. Saint’s bootheels hit the hard packed floor with a dull thump as he sprawled, limp and ashen-faced and bloodied amid the wreckage of smashed and overturned chairs. The saloon was otherwise empty, and Jesse was nowhere to be seen. Blood pooled on the floor, coagulating in the trampled dirt.

Lily felt the breath leave her in a searing rush. Her knees started to buckle and she grabbed a table for support. No. Not this. I can't...

“See to him, Miss Lil.” Bender barked, his eyes never leaving Roderiguez’s face. “And keep an eye on the door. You, mate...who else is here?” He leveled the pistol at the startled man’s forehead.

Lily was shaking, tears blurring her vision as she dropped to her knees beside Saint’s sprawled, unmoving body. Pete...please... She dropped an unsteady hand to his blood splattered chest, a sob of relief escaping her throat when she felt his heart beating. “Pete...Pete!” She gripped his stubble-roughened jaw gave him a gentle shake. Is he shot?Pulling open his coat, she fumbled with his shirt, searching vainly for bullet wounds and finding instead angry purple bruises across his shoulder and collarbone.

To her vast relief, his eyelids fluttered open as he leaned his face into her hand and groaned. His eyes were unfocused, disoriented. “Little Miss...” he breathed and suddenly jerked awake, becoming more alert.“Jesse...” he slurred, “we gotta go get him...”

“Where is he?”

“The mine.” Saint’s forehead creased with pain as his senses cleared. “They took him to the mine. Merda, what the hell happened?”

Bender was still holding Roderiguez backed up against a wall with his pistol. “Somebody break a chair on you, mate? You got that look about you.”

Saint rolled over onto his elbows, his head hanging down as he tried and failed to sit up. “Somebody hit me with something.” Lily steadied him as he gasped in pain, his hand going to his bruised shoulder. “Didn’t see it. Felt like a steam train.”

“Pete...” Lily’s voice was a whisper. She was numb and filled with ice. “We have to get you out of here. Do you think you can get up?”

Saint nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah. Gimme a minute, so dizzy... Little Miss... " His voice was weak, thready. "Find my Colt. We’re gonna need it.”

Chapter 132: Check

2011-11-16T06:42:00.001-08:00

At this very moment, Saint had two lists in his head. The first one, the longest one, was titled Things I’m Not Sure About and it read:

Whether coming here tonight with Jesse was smart
Can anyone tell I’m not really drunk
How much Hester thinks we know
Do we currently have more luck than we have money to blow in this poker game
Whether or not Jesse has something higher than a pair of threes in his hand

The other list was much shorter and was titled Things I Am Sure About Beyond A Shadow Of A Doubt. It contained a lone entry, which Saint was pretty sure was written in red ink and large, angry letters:

Lily is never going to forgive me for taking Jesse into The Rocks and leaving her behind with Hungerford tonight.

I’m just doomed to have the Little Miss mad at me all the time. If she don’t hate me for some reason, something ain’t right. Its like destiny or something. He didn’t like splitting up the group any more than she did. In fact, he he would have felt better if Hungerford had been with them, as much as he hated to admit it to himself. Especially after what had happened last time. And he liked the idea of leaving Lily with just Hungerford to protect her even less. Still, he knew the two of them weren’t staying in the room, where everyone knew to look for them. And he also was counting on Hester keeping an eye on things here in the saloon.

If they could get some of the locals to let their guard down, maybe they could get some information on the mine from someone other than Hester. She’s hiding something. I don’t know what, but she hasn’t been entirely honest with us. Either that, or someone’s not being entirely honest with her. They simply had not counted on the situation being this suspicious and complicated. Even Hungerford was agreeing that at this point they were going to have to split up, at least for a couple of hours.

He glanced around at the few men hanging around the saloon. Rodriguez, the big Mexican Hester had slapped in the head with her pistol the night of the scuffle, sat beside him, glaring into his cards. Billy Littlewolf, a sullen-faced young man who Saint had to figure was mostly Crow fanned his cards out in front of him on the table, raising an eyebrow at Saint.

Three of a kind. Merda. Saint grimaced, tossing his cards down onto the stained and threadbare card table in front of him. He glanced hopefully across the table at Jesse. “You’re killin’ me over here.” He muttered to no one, picking up his glass and taking a deceptively small sip of whiskey. He remembered what Honey had said, the echoes of her sweet Creole drawl in his ears...Man drinks a soda different than he drinks whiskey....And you got enemies here. He watched Jesse fold his cards and toss them as well, shaking his head.

“I got nothin’.” Jesse said. “Luck ain’t with me tonight.”

There were a couple of men drinking at the bar, but there were far fewer patrons there than had been the night before. Hester came out of her office periodically, pouring drinks, smiling at him, and making her rounds before disappearing again. Once, she’d trailed a caressing hand across his shoulders as she passed behind him, giving him a bold glance when he looked up at her.

“So.” Saint said as Littlewolf took the deck from Jesse and starting sweeping the discarded cards back into a pile. “You two miners?” He reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch. “What do people do around here for work?”

Rodriguez and Littlewolf exchanged glances. “Yeah.” Rodriguez said, picking up cards as Littlewolf dealt.

Horseshit. Saint nodded agreeably, his eyes watching their hands on their cards, noting the absence of the telltale blue tattoos every miner he knew wore etched into their skin. “That pay any good?”

“Not so much, muchacho.” Roderiguez grinned, fanning his cards out in his big brown hand. “You don’t look much like that work would suit you.”

You’d be surprised. Saint stuck the newly rolled quirly to his lip and arranged his cards. “Well, might be something to think about if I need a job.” He said, feigning a slight, inebriated slur. “Might decide to stick around.”

Jesse glanced up and did a double take, his blue eyes startled and his face twisting into a fierce mask of rage. Saint spun in his chair to see what was behind him.

“‘Evening, gentlemen.” Richard Galloway, Esquire stood behind him, hands on his hips. “Glad to see you. Need to talk to Mr. Hanson here.”

Saint stood up, almost knocking his chair over. Jesse was on his feet, leaning aggressively forward with his hands on the card table.

“Yeah, I need to talk to you, too.” Saint growled, stepping forward. With the Little Miss not in the room, he felt bolder, less vulnerable. “I need to give you some friendly advice on how to treat women. Why don’t we step outside?”

“You and I will settle up later, if you insist, Mr. Bari.” Galloway sneered, his tone bored and dismissive. “Right now, my business is with Mr. Hanson and it dosen’t concern you.”

Jesse was advancing around the table, red splotches flaring in his cheeks. “My only business with you is to finish up the ass kickin’ you asked for when you came out to the Green. So unless you want to talk about that, you need to pound sand...”

Roderiguez and Littlewolf were on their feet, Roderiguez grabbing Jesse’s arm in his meaty paw as he rose. Saint ducked as Littlewolf launched himself at him, spinning away from a roundhouse punch that would have likely taken his head off.

Jesse was trapped, struggling in Roderiguez’s bear hug. The big Mexican had caught him off guard, and Jesse’s impressive reflexes were useless if he couldn’t move. Saint delivered a rib-cracking punch to Littlewolf’s chest, kicking a chair over between them, trying to buy a few seconds. Get free, Farm Boy, or we ain’t gonna win this...

Hespun towards Roderiguez just as Jesse slammed his head back into the man’s face. Blood sprayed all over the both of them as the man’s nose folded over and his grip loosened.

And that’s when Saint saw the knife in Littlewolf’s hand as the Crow threw himself forward onto Jesse.

Ah, shit! Shit! Saint’s pistol was in his hand and he brought it up, his finger tightening on the trigger as Littlewolf grabbed a handful of Jesse’s hair, jerking his head back, and that's when Saint's consciousness suddenly exploded with blinding white suns and juggernauts of red and black pain. He was barely aware of the recoil in his hand and the faraway popping sound of his Colt going off. Something big and flat and hard slammed into his body and he realized it was probably the floor. Agony pulsed in his shoulder and collarbone, and his head throbbed. Merda, what the hell was that? “Jesse...” He felt his mouth move, but didn’t hear anything more than a soft wordless mumble from his own lips. His vision was blurred, darkened.

Through a blurry haze he saw Jesse as he hung frozen in Roderiguez’s grip, Littlewolf pressing the knife to his friend’s throat. He watched helplessly as Galloway stepped over and threw a hard right hook into Jesse’s midsection.

Shit shit shit...Bari, get up. Get the hell up, dammit! Up! Now! He summoned everything he had to lift his head and the room lurched, reeling wildly. He groaned, his head thudding back onto the floor, light and darkness shuttering across his eyes.

Roderiguez let go of Jesse and let him crumple to his knees, doubled over and gasping for air through clenched teeth. Galloway jerked his head up by his hair again. “What was that you were saying about an ass kicking, you little backwater hick?” He and gave Jesse a hard kick to the side, letting him topple onto the floor. “Why don’t you two take our White Trash Hero here down to the mine and keep him there till this shit’s sorted out.” Galloway spat, his muffled voice echoing in Saint’s ears.

“What about him?” Littlewolf asked.

Saint tried desperately to swim out of the fog that held him. His vision had blurred into dark nothing and his hearing was swiftly following. He felt someone step hard on his wrist and kick the Colt out of his numbing grip.

"Oh, he's not getting up." Saint heard Galloway's amused voice as if it were far away. He felt an unseen boot prod him and heard a laugh. "I think the poor bastard's broken...take him to the stables. Looks to me like he maybe got drunk and his horse got spooked and stomped him to death. He’s got a damn big mouth, and the last thing we need is for anybody to start talking. I don't want it to look like it was us. So make sure he's not breathing when you leave.”

Where the hell... is Hester? The buzzing and ringing in his ears dimmed into silence.

Chapter 131: Idiots

2011-11-10T17:52:00.001-08:00

The door to the back room of the Rocks Saloon opened and Richard Galloway came in, an agitated look on his face. Hester looked him over and raised an eyebrow. He’d evidently put on his suit so he’d look respectable for the meeting he’d just come from. And now he just stood there in front of her in it, trying to look smart and important.

She prompted him with a tilt of her chin. “Well?”

He shook his head. “Their lawyer is not going to bend on this, Hester. It has to be done right or they’re not going to buy.”

“We’re trying to do it right, Richard.” Hester snapped.

“No.” he said, planting his hands on her desk. “Listen to me. She’s going to have to sign it over free and clear. If they think she’s not on board, or that we coerced her... then it’s not going to happen. They don’t want to get tangled up in any sort of legal shit on this. They don’t want her coming back contesting the sale.”

“Stupid little girl.” Hester breathed, letting her head fall back and staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe she’s stalling on this. She can’t possibly think at this point the deed is worth anything.”

“Maybe she thinks you’re lying.” Richard smirked. “You are, you know.”

“Well, she doesn’t know that.” Hester narrowed his eyes at him. “She doesn’t know that, does she?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know how she could. And you showed her the mine. It’s pretty obviously in bad repair.”

“Richard, that beautiful Italian of hers knows that the mine itself isn’t worth a damn thing. I’ve been paying close attention to him...”

“I bet you have.”

Hester ignored the barb. I’ve got more pressing matters than Richard and his sarcasm. “He’s been a coal miner at some point in his life,” she said tiredly. Since she’d come to this realization, Hester had thought of nothing else since returning to the Rocks. When she’d seen the flicker of recognition in Saint’s eyes, she knew things were getting way more complicated than she had wanted them to. In fact, as soon as she’d noticed the blue marks on his knuckles and palms, she’d begun piecing it together. To his credit, he hadn’t let on that he knew his way around a coal mine. But Hester knew her way around a man’s face and didn’t miss much. She knew Saint’s trip to the mine had given him more questions than answers. And they ain’t questions I’m inclined to answer, either, Gorgeous.

Now Richard’s eyebrows hitched skywards. “He told you he was a miner?”

“He didn’t have to. He’s got the marks on his hands. I watched them while we were out at the mine. He knew what he was seeing. He never let on, but you can bet he told them what he knew as soon as I was out of earshot.”

“Hm. I guess we aren’t the only ones playing the cards close to our chests.”

“No. We’re not. He’s not stupid. And now he knows a lawyer was involved in trying to get Lily to sell what we’re claiming is a worthless piece of land. And like a damn fool, you had to get nasty right up front, which made everyone suspicious and paranoid. This is your fault, you know.”

“What?” Richard spat. “How the hell is this my fault, Hester?” he held up his hands, exasperated. “You should have just killed her and her idiot brother before they came here asking questions and been done with it!”

“Oh, that wouldn’t have looked suspicious at all to Union Pacific at all. You’re telling me it has to be above board while in the same breath you’re telling me we should murder them?”

“Well, you’ve kind of missed your chance for that, Hester. I think Union Pacific would probably look askance at a string of murders right now, don’t you? And we’re running out of time here.”

Hester sat unhappily, elbows on her desk. A string of murders would also be pretty hard to cover up at this point, too. There’s people here I don’t trust.

Not to mention the waste of it. She scowled, shaking her head. I'm not inclined to want to end up dumping Saint's dead body down a mineshaft.

At least, not yet.

“And her brother can’t sign it over?

“Why do you ask, Hester?” Richard was pacing around the room, gesturing grandly as if he were presiding over a trial. “Planning on seducing him into it? I bet that’ll work about as well as your attempts to lure your “beautiful Italian” into your bed. You have to get the girl to sign. Her brother’s name is not on the deed, so trying to screw him into selling would be pretty pointless.” He gave her a mirthless, nasty smile. “Although watching you fail at seduction... again...would be fun, I admit.”

She rose, grabbing his collar and hissing into his face. “You’re an idiot, and you’ve always been an idiot. I knew you were an idiot back when you were two years old. One day, I'll be burying an idiot.”

“Judging from who you married, I’d think you liked idiots.”

Idiots have their uses, Little Brother. As you’re too much of an idiot to realize.

Chapter 130: The Sulton's Lands Are Broad And His Towers They Run High

2011-11-03T06:38:00.000-07:00

Fiona couldn’t help but wonder if her uncle would be sitting at the supper table in the Fort Bridger officer’s quarters if she hadn’t come along on this trip. They were being treated like honored guests at Captain Holloway’s table for supper, and considering the glances, long looks, and general attention she was getting from the officer, it wasn’t all that hard to figure out why.

She kept her eyes on her plate. She didn’t want to seem unappreciative of the man’s hospitality, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to encourage him, either. The man was smitten, and not hiding it well.

The dining hall, like most of the other structures here, was a neatly laid out building of wooden timbers and stacked logs. The officer’s quarters was off to the side, and Fiona was glad to be away from the brazenly staring eyes of some of the men. She hadn’t forgotten that she hated Fort Bridger, but she had forgotten just how much she hated it.

“I hope you’re finding our accommodations here to your liking.” Holloway said, pouring Uncle Erastus another shot of whiskey. “We don’t get a lot of ladies here.”

Captain Holloway was dashing and handsome, with the faintest streaks of premature silver at his temples. He was tall and confident, and Fiona wondered if he was the same army captain who had relieved Saint and Wash of their cargo last time they were through here.

At gunpoint, to hear them tell it.

And though she’d often thought of doing it herself on many, many occasions, the thought of someone else threatening to put a bullet into Saint didn’t do much to improve her mood.

“Thank you for your kindness, Captain.” she said, keeping her voice and manner formal.

“This place can be a little...uncivilized.” he went on. “Of course, you’ll let me know if you have any problems. Mr. Lynch, I’m a little surprised at your choice of interpreters, given the situation out here.”

And I’m a little surprised that given the number of Crow scouts out here, you haven’t noticed that not single one of them needs what’s in his pants in order to translate French or Sign into English. She took a sip of tea, watching her uncle with a mix of amusement and irritation.

“It wasn’t my choice, Captain, it was hers.” Uncle Erastus smirked unhappily. “My translator is laid up with broken ribs right now.”

Holloway smiled broadly at her. “Well, she certainly brightens a room.” he turned his attention back to her uncle, cocking his head. “Translator?”

“One of my riders is half Crow. Used to work as an Army scout.”

“Voyageur father, I take it?” Captain Holloway shook his head in baffled wonderment at Uncle Erastus’ affirmative. “They’re everywhere around here. Hudson Bay Company, you know.” he said. “I suppose when a man spends that much time away from civilization, he starts viewing these savages as acceptable companionship. Some of them end up marrying squaws. Can’t say I approve of that practice, but at least the mongrel offspring make good scouts. Not that you can entirely trust them, of course.”

Fiona put her teacup down a little too hard, anger surging through her in a boiling gust. Tea sloshed onto the fine white tablecloth. She clenched her jaw, staring at her buttered peas.

“Oh, of course.” Her muttered voice was icy and tinged with sarcasm.

Her uncle gave her a warning look, meeting the man’s gaze with an unwavering scowl of challenge. “My scout is probably the most trustworthy man on my payroll.”

“Oh, come now, Sir.” Holloway chuckled. “You surely must know even the other tribes don’t trust the Crow? I’ve been places the sight of a Crow scout will stir up a village faster than the sight of a blue coat will.” He gestured in Fiona’s direction. “You have reason to be cautious keeping such men around your station, Mr. Lynch. What with your beautiful niece and all.”

She took in a deep breath and let it out, arranging her face into a vacuous smile. And I suppose caution is not needed here, where civilized men are openly and rudely staring. And in some cases, leering and practically drooling.“It’s so good you lot are out here protecting us all,” she gushed, feeling wicked. I would have never agreed to come otherwise. Why, just this past month, the supplies we sent west got stolen. Can you imagine?”

Captain Holloway’s face froze. She watched him carefully, trying to detect if he knew what she was talking about. She took another sip of tea. “My hope is that with you here, we shan’t lose another shipment to what must have been Indian thievery. That would be simply dreadful, wouldn’t it?”

She raised an eyebrow. A faint flush appeared in the good Captain’s tanned, well-sculpted cheeks, but to his credit, he otherwise kept a poker face. She beamed at him, a fawning, hero-adoring smile.

He knows. It was him.

Ass.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, Miss Lewis-Smythe, you know we do have the best interests of your mail route in mind, of course. Mr...” He turned to Uncle Erastus. “Mr. Lynch, I would love to escort the young lady around the fort tomorrow to show her around...” he glanced back at Fiona, desperate to change the subject. “If she would permit me.”

“If she wishes. My niece speaks for herself.”

Bloody hell, Uncle Erastus. I can’t really get out of this gracefully. “That would be lovely.” she heard herself saying. That would be unbearable, actually. I wonder what he’d say if he knew I’d stood in a blanket with one of his lowly Crow scouts? I shall be sure to take his arm with the same hand that was inside Storm’s shirt.

The memory brought heat to her skin, made her heart flutter. She couldn’t wait to get away from here, to go back to the warm sanctuary of Storm’s embrace. Missing him was a palpable ache.

Holloway smiled, and it occurred to Fiona a blush had risen in her cheeks. She had the unwelcome realization that the he was mistakenly thinking the glow in her face was in response to his advances.

You don’t have a chance in hell, Captain Pillock.

Chapter 129: The Land Shadowing With Wings

2011-10-27T07:04:00.000-07:00

Y’all know I like to indulge in a little yarn spinning this time of year. So this is kind of a fun little chapter for ya. Don’t take it too seriously. ;-)
Eat lotsa candy and don't forget to look for the Great Pumpkin!

-gina

The sun had sunk below the jagged rocks of the horizon and the light inside the rented cabin was a purplish gray, filled with indistinct shadows and shapes. The scent of old smoke and caked soot reeked from the stove, and with the fading of the sun, the air had turned chilly. Saint stood watch in the open doorway, waiting for Jesse and Bender to return from the Rocks Saloon with some supper.

“We should have gone with them.” Lily said reproachfully to the back of his shaggy head, carefully trying to get the kindling in the stove to catch. The embers from the fire they'd had that morning still glowed dimly from inside their insulating blanket of white ash. “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t like it either, Little Miss.” He breathed absently without looking at her, his eyes scanning the darkening street. “And I like what happened last night even less.”

At least we agree on that, Mr. Bari. That fight about scared me to death. Thank God Jon didn’t get his arm broken. And thank God Saint recovered from his breathlessness quickly. A twig of dried pine had started to catch and sweet scent of pinion wafted from the glowing coals. She gently breathed on it, encouraging it.

“I’m listening out for ‘em, so don’t you...woah! Merda!” Lily jumped, startled as Saint suddenly swooped back in the doorway, his arm flailing wide. He gave a sharp gasp and held his fist carefully before him as if he was clutching something she couldn’t see.

“Saint! What...?” She scrambled to her feet, her heart in her throat, watching him.

He exhaled steadily, his dark, worried eyes regarding her. Cupping his other hand carefully over his fist, he turned and walked out through the doorway without a word,

His silence was more disturbing than his behavior. What on earth? What just happened? She fairly ran after him, reaching for him. “Pete! What did you...”

He held his cupped hands aloft in the twilight dimness of the empty street outside. A large moth the color of the moon spiraled out of them, cartwheeling away into the cooling night air. He turned abruptly, his long fingers gentle but firm on her shoulders. “”C’mon, Little Miss.” He muttered, wheeling her back inside and shutting the door firmly behind them.

“What was all that?” she said, turning towards him, at this point feeling downright frightened. “You’re trembling! Tell me what...”

He sighed, clearly frustrated, running his hands through his hair impatiently. “I don’t like...” he mumbled. “Those inside.”

“Insects?” She found it a little much to believe a man like Saint was afraid of a bug. But then, he was holding it barehanded, so it can’t be that.

“Moths.” he said, a little sheepishly. The dimming light had drained the color from him, rendering him in blacks and grays.

She cocked her head, genuinely puzzled.

He blew his breath across his upper lip, the gust riffling his messy forelock. “Look...It’s a habit. My Ma’s a little superstitious.” he said lamely.

Ma Bari’s apparently not the only one. Lily pulled a burning stick from the stove and used it to light the lamp. Long shadows flared through the gloom, shifting as the tiny flame writhed in the drafty air. “About moths?”

“It’s an Italian thing.” He said dismissively, his shoulders tensing in an involuntary shiver.

She raised an eyebrow at him quizzically, prompting him.

He rolled his eyes, clearly giving up the story unwillingly. “Moth in the house is looking for a soul to take away. Listen, Little Miss, this is a bunch of horse sh...” he stopped himself, taking a deep breath. It was easy to see that he was more worked up than this situation would call for. His dark eyes swam in his suddenly pale face.

Lily sat down near the fire, warming her fingers in the feeble heat of the growing fire. “The Good Book says you shouldn’t be holding truck with such things, Mr. Saint.”

“I don’t.” he said gruffly. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Like I said, Sweetheart, it’s a...habit. And it don’t help that ma says back in the old country the moths had pictures of skull on their backs. Look, do we hafta talk about this?” His hand went briefly to his breast pocket and then he just as unconsciously changed his mind about the smokes he was looking for. He mopped his face with his fingers, rubbing his eyes.

Lily was studying him hard. It wasn’t like him to be this unnerved. “Saint.” she said softly, an almost painful pang of sympathy going through her. “Why are you afraid? You don’t really think a moth inside a room...”

“No." he lied. "I don’t.”

The silence filling the cabin was more pervasive than the darkness had been. Saint was staring at the wall, his eyes seeing something only he could see, something seemingly heavy and burdensome. He took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “Back when we were livin’ in Pennsylvania...you know we were miners. Lily...” he said, looking right at her. His direct use of her name was uncharacteristic, startling.. “I ain’t never told anyone this.”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

“I saw...” His face had gone paler still, his eyes disappearing in shadow. “I dunno. Something. I woke up in the night once...I heard something. I thought some drunk stronzas were stumbling around the mining camp with lanterns while we were all sleepin’.” He moved closer to the stove, and his shoulders tensed again. “Couple of red lookin’ lights stopped by the door flaps of the tent. Two of ‘em. So I’m thinkin’ these idiots needs to knock it off, we’re tryin’ to sleep and we know we got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Working a mine ain’t a soft job.”

Her eyes went involuntarily to his hands, and the blue etchings marring them. The memory of seeing him bare chested flooded her mind, the tracings of scrapes and gouges scrawled indelibly across his body. She felt her skin prickle with foreboding, almost afraid of what he was going to tell her.

He glanced at her before staring into the open door of the stove. “So I got up and went outside. I saw what I though was a man in a tan...I dunno, cloak or something. Just shuffling through the camp. Looking into the tents as we slept. From the back, it looked like he was about my height, had great big shoulders and was hunched over.” He shook his head. “I know you’re gonna think I’m lyin’.”

“I don’t think you’re a liar, Pete.”

A mirthless twitch that might have been an attempt at a smile creased one corner of his mouth. “Well, just wait, Sweetheart. I ain't done, and I ain’t gonna hold you to that when I am. So I said, ‘hey!’, and he turned around to look at me and that’s when I saw that the lights I saw weren’t lanterns. They were eyes.”

He reached carefully into the stove and pulled out a chunk of charcoal. His hands had started tremble slightly as he quickly scratched the crumbling black shard against the rough-hewn wooden door, sketching an unnerving and inhuman apparition. Its head, if you could call it that, was sunk down into its chest, and monstrous shapes arched up and out over its body like the cocooning shroud of a moth's wings. Its only facial feature was its eyes, round and owl-like.

Lily had spoken honestly when she told Saint that she didn’t think he was a liar. She hadn't thought it when she had said it and she didn't think it now. I wish I did. She felt ice creep swiftly over her skin and crawl down into her spine. Her mouth fell open. "Saint...what are you showing me?"

“And then it...” He swallowed hard, tossing the charcoal back into the stove and wiping the soot from his fingers across his thigh. “It flew off.”

She found her voice. “Flew...off?”

Saint nodded, gesturing at the crude illustration he'd drawn. “Those are wings. It wasn't a man and that wasn't a cloak.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“You can imagine why I haven't told anyone. So you can think I’m a liar now, if you want.”

“I don’t.” Lily honestly didn’t know what to think, but she knew he wasn’t lying. He was clearly disturbed and burdened by the memory of whatever he saw. “Are you sure you didn’t...dream it?”

“No.” he said quickly. “No, I ain’t sure. I don’t know what happened that night, Little Miss. But I’ll tell you what happened the next day.” He looked at her and his eyes were bright in the flickering shadows on his face. “A swarm of moths came through the tunnel so thick they put out the lanterns. And while we were scramblin’ around wondering what the hell had just happened, and half my cousins were in a panic, it was like Hell itself opened up on us. Explosions, falling rock, poison air.” He turned away and Lily saw him mop his face again. When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady. “I don’t know how I lived through it. I don’t know...why...I lived through it.”

“You were badly hurt. Weren’t you.” It wasn't a question.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I was. It was a miracle I survived being in that tunnel. But...a lot of men didn't. A lot of men.” Lily could imagine what was going on behind the flickering firelight in Saint’s eyes. She could almost see what he was seeing, the fluttering of hundreds of pale wings swirling through darkness and chaos and lost souls.

“So no, Little Miss.” he said softly. “I ain’t afraid of moths. But I am afraid of...other things.”

The door opened abruptly and Lily jumped, gasping. Jesse and Bender shuffled into the room, carefully carrying an old crate they’d packed a pot and some bowls into.

“Miss Loveless packed us up some supper, mates.” Bender said, pulling borrowed silverware out of his coat pocket.

Lily glanced at Saint, sensing an understanding passing between them. She got up and carefully closed the door behind them, latching it tight.

Chapter 128: Summer Sang In Me A Little While

2011-10-20T08:16:00.000-07:00

It was unbelievable enough to Rosie that Tommy King and Luis Santana would be meeting with her after school at Abigail’s for the second day in a row. She’d been waiting for the inevitable moment when they abandoned her for her more exciting classmates. So far, it hadn’t happened.

Yet.

But she’d almost been able to relax enough to genuinely enjoy their company. To start to think that maybe...maybe...they genuinely enjoyed hers.

Tommy clearly hadn’t needed her help with his lessons. Though he seemed slightly scatterbrained, he was clearly whip smart and far more competent than his eccentric, distracted manner might suggest. He was coming here to meet people and spend a little time out of the mail station. That much was pretty easy to figure out. She was so glad to see him she'd nearly laughed with delight when he'd walked in today. And while Tommy had spoken at length to Charlotte and her hangers-on, and even engaged in a bit of good natured flirting, he’d left the schoolhouse with Rosie on his arm.

It was Luis she was having trouble figuring out. It had been very quickly obvious that Luis hated school. In fact, today he hadn’t even bothered going through the motions of sitting through class. And when she’d gone in this morning, she’d been deeply disappointed that he wasn’t there. It surprised her to realize she could miss someone that much after only having met him a day ago.

But sure enough, there he was when school had let out, leaning against the greening oak tree in the yard, hands in his pockets and a smoke dangling from the corner of his mouth. She was starting to actually believe yesterday’s claim that it had been she who he’d been waiting for.

She wondered what her father would think of her new friends and the fact she was sitting in Abigail’s with them again, drinking sarsaparilla. She knew he didn’t much care for Lynch’s Boys. The idea that his daughter was being squired about town by a couple of them would probably render him apoplectic. Would he be surprised to know how polite they are, and how kind? Would he care about that, or would he simply accuse me of unseemly behavior and keeping ‘inappropriate’ company with a Mormon and a Mexican? He likes that word a lot...’inappropriate’. Everything’s inappropriate, isn’t it?

She looked around the room, with its polished ladder-backed chairs and fresh, checkered curtains. Light streamed through what must have been expensive sheet glass windows and the smell of Mrs. Klaus’s famous beef stew wafted through the mostly empty dining room, making Rosie’s stomach growl. It would be time to head home for dinner soon. At this hour of the day, few patrons came here other than students. Most people seeking soda or stronger went to the Silver Star, which was just as well. There were plenty of folks in town who believed Mrs. Klaus was far too inclusive when it came to who she allowed in her dining room.

I imagine there’ll be plenty of talk soon enough...

The sound of jingling bells announced the opening of the door. A smooth, male voice with a distinctive Native lilt startled the three of them, and compelled Rosie to turn abruptly in her seat to look.

“Thought I might find you here, Little Brother.” A man who could have only been Mr. Lynch’s half Crow express rider, the one who’d been tried for attempted murder, strode casually over to the table. He smiled, his black eyes looking them over. “Hello, Miss. Tommy.” She'd never gotten a good look at "Lynch's injun", as he was called in town, but she had no doubt that it was him. Her mouth dropped open in surprise.

Close behind him, the tall Irish coach guard took a deep breath, savoring the scent of good cooking wafting through the air. “Aye, lads, we’re eating here today.” He quipped cheerfully in a sweet, heavily accented voice. “This ungrateful wretch is cribbin’ about me cooking. You should join us, because he’s the one paying.”

“Well,” Tommy said, kicking one of the empty chairs under the table so that it scooted out towards the newcomers. “If you’re paying... the smell of that stew is driving me crazy. Miss Rosie Burgess...” He gestured to the two men who were settling in at the table. “Lights the Storm Peltier and George Monahan.”

Remembering the night she’d come in here with her father and been so excited to see the entire crew at the next table, Rosie almost wondered if she was in the middle of pleasant and implausible dream.

“So pleased to meet you.” She heard herself say in a shy, unsteady voice as they nodded and smiled at her. She’d never been this close to an Indian before, much less had any sort of conversation with one. He was so handsome, and so exotic with his long, black hair and the band of white bone and silver beads at his throat. He was dressed no differently than anyone else, with his worn flannel shirt and work pants, but he still looked like someone from another world to her. She found it hard not to openly stare at him, and was suddenly struck with overwhelming relief that they hadn’t hanged him. And Mr.Monahan, with his tousled red hair and almost musical accent... She knew he was a professional gunman, though he hardly looked like one, with his sparkling blue eyes and smiling, lightly freckled face...why, last time I saw him, he was recovering from being shot and had his arm in a sling. These men are...well...they're kind of...scary.

It felt dangerous and exciting in the room and she felt her face starting to heat up and butterflies take off in her stomach.

“So, how’s things at school?” Mr.Monahan leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee. “Miss Burgess keepin’ the two of you in line, so she is.” He gave Rosie a teasing wink, and she felt her cheeks flush pink in a euphoric rush. “Lessons going well?”

Tommy and Luis exchanged sheepish looks. A brief, trapped look raced across Luis’ face, and Tommy glanced at her, saying, “Going great. Better than great, actually. Miss Rosie’s helping Luis with his reading.”

Rosie nodded, giving Luis a smile. She was doing her best at helping him, that part was true. However,Tommy charitably omitted the fact that so far, their reading lessons had, for the most part, gone nowhere.

“Tryin’ to,” Luis said casually, a sweet dimple appearing in his brown cheek. He gave her a conspiratorial look, his snapping brown eyes full of mischief. “She’s a better teacher than I am un estudiante, si, Seniorita?”

Rosie felt her heart skip a beat at his roguish glance, something akin to panic rising in her chest. Sooner or later...and most likely sooner rather than later...her father was going to find out who she was keeping company with and it would be over.

Somewhere inside her soul she had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed. And the thought of going back to how things were before the crossing seemed utterly desolate.

Chapter 127: Unease

2011-10-13T06:15:00.000-07:00

“So, laddie. D’ya think we should tell the boys?” Wash was picking apart the thick white sediment of what was meant to be a biscuit. Plaster-like crumbs littered the checkered kitchen tablecloth in front of him. Me biscuits didna exactly end up biscuits, did they? Off to Abigail's with us later, sure.

Storm’s dark eyes watched as yet another gritty, heavy lump fell onto the table. “I don’t know, Wash.” He folded a napkin into a point and started picking his teeth with it. Coffee grounds clotted along his gums. “It’s pretty bad when Fiona leaves and the cooking get worse around here.” he muttered, abandoning the napkin in favor of his fingernail.

"I dinna see you at the stove any, ya eedgit."

"And I didn't hear you thank me for that favor." Storm sighed, his brow furrowed. “The boys need to be on their guard if there’s trouble.”

“Aye, so they do.”

“It’s just that I didn’t actually see anything.”

“Laddie, I know you aren’ the the sort to get spooked for no good reason. When you woke me up, your hands were shaking. That ain’t somethin’ I see on you often.” He thought about how his crewmate had touched his shoulder in the night with unsteady fingers, how there was an uncharacteristic urgency in his whispered voice. Making his living among desperate, warring men back in Five Points, where intimidation, threats, and outright violence was a fact of life, Wash knew fear when he saw it. On the streets of Manhattan, fear was currency. And Storm, who was usually the most calm and unflappable of the lot of them, had been in a bit of a state with it..

After Storm had awakened him last night, Wash had shrugged into his pants and followed him out and they'd checked the station yard and buildings for intruders. They they'd gone to the low-hanging bunkhouse porch, where the two of them had crouched most of the night, listening and watching. As far as Wash was concerned, if his uncannily intuitive crewmate said something was wrong, then something was wrong. The eerie bugger always seems to know stuff he shouldn’t.

Storm nodded. “I could feel...something...there.” He rubbed the napkin over his teeth one last time, got up, and strode over to where the roof had been repaired. “the boards settled here, see the dirt that fell through?” He walked around the sifted layer of fine dust on the floor, looking up at the new work. “Like something was...”

“On the roof, aye.” Wash finished for him. his gaze following Storm’s to the ceiling.

“The beams creaked.” Storm breathed, looking at him. “And I smelled tobacco...and...I don’t know. Something sick. Something...bad.”

“You think it’s the Yarls, come back for revenge?”

“It crossed my mind.” He shook his head. “ But I don’t think so. If they were going to make a move, I was half dressed, with no weapon, and alone. And anyway, no.” He shook his head again, his jaw set. “It was watching me. Whatever or whoever it was...”

Wash could see him thinking, looking back into last night’s darkness. Storm Peltier was not given to nerves or fancy, and hearing him talking like this made gooseflesh rise on his own arms.

Storm continued. “Was...really bad. I could feel it.”

Something else that Wash knew about fear was that once the seed of it was planted, it could grow into an uncontrolled, strangling vine. It was one thing to be wary. But the last thing anyone needed was panic. “I’m worried about getting the young lads wound up...”

“Don’t baby them, Wash. They do a man’s job and then some. And besides.” Storm had moved to the doorway, his keen eyes searching for anything amiss. “Luis, at least, has seen scarier stuff than this.”

Wash nodded. “Aye.” he said softly. “You’re right, lad.” He thought about how he and Saint and Dev had nearly been killed that night out at Dev’s place, how a couple of random tossers had attacked the station simply to work off some frustrations. He remembered the massacre out at Williams Station, how the crew there had been tortured and mutilated. He suddenly felt cold go through him. “We’ll tell them when they get back. And when we go into town, we'll tell Holt and Blackie as well." He knew Luis had been through some harrowing experiences before he’d come here. And he also knew Tommy’s had been a pretty soft life. So between trying to shield Luis from more injury and coddling Tommy’s boyish naivete, Wash realized he wasn’t giving the boys the benefit of the doubt. I need to let them be men. Saint’s voice echoed in his mind, making him smile in spite of the gravity of the situation. How’d I end up on the trail with my motha? Wassamattah, Ma? You forget how ta brew coffee?

“We could have trouble on its way.” Storm said. “Or maybe we don’t and I’m going crazy. But either way, we need to be aware of what might be going on. All of us do.”

Chapter 126: Left Unsaid

2011-10-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

“Miss Lil?” Bender quietly stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Lily leaned against the rough, dust-stained stone wall, soaking up the last of the afternoon’s warmth. Her gray eyes, filled with amber light, were pale, almost colorless behind her silver spectacles and her face glowed with sleepy, yellow light. She sighed heavily and he was suddenly self-conscious and awkward, feeling as if he were intruding.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lil. Not trying to crowd you, love...but you know you can’t stay out here alone.”

Her wind-burnt lips curled in a comforting, slightly sad smile. “No, Jon...” She shook her head. “I don’t mind. I just...well...the walls were just closing in in there.”

He nodded, settling his shoulders against the wall beside her and feeling the radiant warmth spreading across his tired back. A sage grouse pecked at something way down at the end of the empty street, and he watched it absently. “Wha’s wrong, love?” he asked as if he didn’t know.

He knew, alright. He just wasn’t sure Miss Lil did.

She shrugged, gazing off at the shifting light over the broken, craggy hills. She was somewhere else.

Bender sighed, following her gaze out to the horizon. Bitterness crept up his throat, soured his mood. It was, unfortunately, beginning to feel familiar to him. If I ever had a reason to want to give that useless buggering drongo a kicking....were they together before I got assigned to the Green? Is she just plain sweet on him? Does he know? Is he playing with her? Why do women do this to themselves? Why do they fall for men who are going to hurt them?

Why do men sign up for heartbreak, for that matter?

He licked his lips. “Don’t much like Miss Loveless, then?”

Lily’s gaze snapped back to his face. “Oh, no.” She smiled, relaxing and looking embarrassed. “I like her fine. In fact...” She glanced away, shrugging. “I admit I kind of envy her.”

“Why’s that, love?”

“She says what she means.”

Pretty sure Miss Lil said exactly what she meant back there in the room. As fun as it was watching Bari squirm, it was far less enjoyable knowing that the Miss Lil was jealous of the attention Miss Loveless was giving Bari. He nodded. “Fair dinkum, that.” He drew in a breath. Here’s to saying what we mean. “Look here, love, you and Bari....are you...”

“No.” She said quickly, shaking her head. A flush of pink flared in her cheeks and she looked away. “I....I’m fond of him...but...no.”

“Were you?”

“No.” An amused smile began to tug on the corner of her mouth as she gave him a sidelong glance. “Bender, you get along with everyone.” she said, her tone uncharacteristically direct. What’s the problem between you and Saint? I’ve never seen two men more at each other’s throats than you two.”

The afternoon light turned the unkempt frizz around her face into a golden mist and he felt his heart leap. He couldn’t help but smile at her, sighing in amused exasperation. “Ah, love, the two of us go back a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“We had a disagreement some time back. One that resulted in Doc Plunkett visiting us both in jail.”

Somehow, Lily didn’t look nearly as surprised as Bender supposed she ought to have.

“Over what?”

“Well..” I can’t tell her. I couldn’t tell Bari and I can’t tell her. Abby doesn’t need everyone knowing her business...”It’s complicated. We...we got into a fight over whether or not to get into fight, love.”

She stared at him, eyebrows raised. “You got into a fight...” she said dubiously.

“Because we couldn’t agree on...”

“Fighting.”

He nodded. “Struth, love. It’s complicated.”

Bari had been livid that day. Bender had known exactly what he had been thinking, too, and there had no real choice but to let him think it. He could see it in Bari’s accusing eyes. Gutless. He had been thinking. Coward. Useless.

Looking back on the incident no longer brought the memory of anger with it. All he felt was frustration and, he realized, a measure of sadness. And suddenly he realized it was hardly Bari’s fault that he didn’t understand what he was seeing. All the poor drongo knows was that here was a man who had a history of roughing up immigrants and natives, on his way to rough up yet another one. And there I was, letting it happen.

Bari had had no way of knowing that having Yarl keep Klaus busy would give them the perfect opportunity to go see if Abby was alright. In the days following the incident, the suspicions Bender had that moved him to stand down were confirmed. Rob Yarl had gone into Abigail's, seen the bruise on Abby’s face, and had gone down to the Silver Star in a fit of rage.

When Rob Yarl had stood up in the church during Peltier’s trial, he’d told the judge the fair dinkum oil: he wasn’t the kind of man who hit women. And he evidently isn’t the sort to abide it, either.

Maybe I should have confided in Bari, but things got so ugly so quick we were both unconscious in the street before I would have had the chance.

I’m thinking there’s probably a lesson in all this somewhere...

Lily huffed, exasperated. “Everything’s complicated, Jon.” She reached over and grabbed his hand, holding it and gazing back at the horizon. Her voice was soft, tired. “I’m glad you came out here.”

He nodded, giving her hand a squeeze. Her fingers felt sweet in his weathered paw. A thought struck him, hard and bittersweet...that he should savor their warmth the way he savored the comforting, ephemeral heat of the sun-warmed wall behind him. The sun would soon slip away and it would be cold soon. "I'm glad, too, Miss Lil.”

Chapter125: Bad Air

2011-09-29T17:56:00.000-07:00

“That aint’ an active mine, Little Miss.”

Saint roached back his hair with frustrated fingers, pacing in awkwardly long strides in the cramped, too-warm rented room. He stopped when he faced the wall, and waved his arm at no one in particular. “Those rails ain’t been used in years.”

Lily watched him pace from her perch on the battered chair by the stove, shrugging. Dust motes swirled in the afternoon sunlight shafting through the cracks in the shuttered window, stirred up by Saint's restlessness. “Well," she said. "She did say it wasn’t a very productive mine.”

Saint turned and looked at her, his dusky face flushed from the warmth of the room and his agitated pacing. “It ain’t productive at all. That’s what I’m saying, Sweetheart. There ain’t nothing coming out of there but rust and bad air.”

The cot creaked as Bender sat down on it, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. He looked genuinely baffled. “Then why on earth is someone so keen to buy it, mate?”

“I don’t know.” Saint said, shaking his head. “But it ain’t because they’re gettin’ rich off it.”

“So why shouldn’t we just sell it and be done with it?” After the afternoon they’d had, Lily wanted more than ever to get back to the Green and put this whole affair behind them. She told herself she didn’t care about the land, that she disliked the town, and just wanted to leave. She wondered why this land was important to her uncle, and was as eager as anyone to find out why. But deep down, she knew why she had the sudden urge to pack up and go home. And the knowing of it unsettled her.

Seeing Saint obviously enjoying talking to Miss Loveless had brought an irrational sourness to the pit of her stomach. She liked Miss Loveless quite a bit, and was actually glad for her help. But every time Saint laughed while he was riding next to her, or leaned closer on his horse to hear something she said, Lily had to fight the urge to throw a rock at the back of his head.

“Because, Lily.” Jess picked burrs out of the fringe of his coat and flicked them into the stove. “Think about it, they want to buy a dead mine so bad they’re willin’ to get nasty about it right off. You know Uncle Chet didn’t just up and die. Somebody killed him. And then all this mess happens. Haven’t you thought of that?”

She hadn’t wanted to think about that. But the truth was that since the fire in the kitchen, she’d thought about it more than once. She nodded reluctantly.

He sighed, a trapped, frustrated look on his sweet face. “We got no idea why or how, but it’s worth a lot to somebody, Lily. And I ain’t gonna lie...I’m sick of being so damn poor. I’d sure like it to be a little easier on us, wouldn’t you?” He flicked more burrs into the stove. “You say you hate me doin’ this job, it’s dangerous. And you’re right, it is. But I ain’t about to turn down the money. And I ain’t about to turn down this money, either, if there’s any to be had. I remember what being hungry feels like. I hate it.”

Saint shrugged, holding his hands open in agreement. “It’s worth more than they’re saying it’s worth. That’s all I’m sayin’. Hester thinks it’s worthless, but it ain’t like she’d know any more than anyone else has been told about it.”

“Oh, it’s ‘Hester’ now, is it?” Lily blurted before she even realized the thought was forming in her head. Burning heat instantly flooded her face. Oh, dear Lord, did I say that out loud? And in front of Jon? She glanced involuntarily at Bender, cringing in embarrassment.

He was smirking at Saint, eyebrows raised.

Lily closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry.” she mumbled, mortified. What did I just say?

Saint’s mouth fell open and he drew himself up, tearing his equally embarrassed gaze from Lily and glaring at Bender. “Miss Loveless is...a forward lady. I ain’t encouraging her.”

“Why not?” Bender quipped.

And why not? Why shouldn’t he? Lily folded her arms across her chest, tension twisting her to the breaking point. “I didn’t...mean it that way.” she stammered. “I just meant...well....” they’re suited to each other. If anyone could handle the likes of Pete Bari, it would be Miss Loveless. “that it’s good she’s friendly towards us.” Lily knew how sorry the explanation sounded even as she uttered it. “I didn’t mean...” And anyway, what about the pink lip rouge he’s had on his collar? What about that? Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Sorry.”

It’s not like I can blame her.

“'Struth, mate,” Bender was saying, his tone serious. “It doesn’t hurt she fancies you. Let her make eyes if it makes her happy. We need her help, and that's the dinkum oil, yeah?”

Saint winced, glancing unhappily back at Lily.

I need some air. Her cheeks still burned with embarrassment and...she had to admit...hurt. Miss Loveless was a strong, confident women who wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted. And she clearly wanted Saint. It was inappropriate for Lily to feel as jealous as she did...but she couldn’t help it. Seeing them chatting and laughing this afternoon made her feel like a silly little girl. The room had gotten unbearably cramped and stuffy.

He’s not my beau. And if he’s someone else’s, well, I don’t envy Miss Pink Lip Rouge. Her beau’s been flirting with another woman all day.

Chapter 124: Scorch

2011-09-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

It took every bit of his willpower to not take the Indian.

But then, he’d likely not get paid if he did. The fire he’d started in the kitchen had not been well received. Scare her, he’d been told. Give her something to think about. Find out who’s there and what they’re doing. You weren’t supposed to try to kill her, they’d complained. He stepped on the remains of his quirly and ground it out into the dust.

If I’d tried to kill her, you soft pawed tinhorn, she’d be dead. You hired a man named Scorch to do your dirty work. The hell did you expect?

Lurking in the shadows outside, he listened to the Indian walking softly around inside the kitchen. He didn’t want to push his luck. So he’d wait. For a while.

Just until I get paid.

There’s four of them here, and the other three are asleep. When he’d seen the Irishman heading to the church for the Indian’s trial,the man had his coat buttoned down over his shoulder, which probably meant he had a broken arm. No sign of the old man or the red haired woman. So all that was left here alone was an injured Irishman, a tame Indian, and a couple of boys.

He licked his lips. He wanted to capture the Indian now. He closed his eyes, calming himself. Bucks were hard to break. They were loathe to show pain or cry out, and he liked the challenge.The Ute he’d gotten his hands on out at Carson Sink had had incredible endurance, even when Scorch had started burning him. He’d fainted a few times before he’d even uttered a sound. Tough as hell. But really, one of the most convenient things about Indian bucks was that nobody usually came looking for them when they went missing, and nobody much cared if they turned up dead.

Don’t be hasty. Play this hand right and not only will you get paid, but you can turn this place into another William’s Station.

He silently eased himself over to the rain barrel near the eaves of the stone building, carefully hooking his foot over the edge of it and boosting himself up. He felt the barrel staves flex slightly beneath his weight as he shifted himself soundlessly onto the sod covered roof. Nice repair job. The effort made his arms ache and his skin pinch over his scars. The pain was something he’d learned to live with, and he pushed his discomfort into the back of his mind. He lay down flat on the soft sod of the roof and caught his breath, thinking.

The urge was strong now. He was giddy from the success he’d had at William’s and then how effortless it had been starting a fire here, in this very building. He might have been able to ignore the impulse if not for remembering how that gal had fought him here, how the flames had shot up the wall so fast and bright, and how this smooth-skinned buck was now obliviously walking around right under his nose. Taunting him.

If I take him now, drag him down to the river and burn him, they’ll know. This one will be missed. And then they’ll be on their guard. I have to bide my time. Need a plan...

Unless he picked them off one by one, the Irishman would have to go first. They’d said in town the man was a sharpshooter. And probably in charge at the moment, so...capture him first, kill him last.

And paint what’s left of the kitchen with what’s left of him.

Women and young boys were soft. Not much use except as leverage or bait, and not much of a challenge. Still, he’d rather have them than not. Might be useful when getting control of Paddy.

That business at Sink of the Carson had whetted his appetite, made him feel bold and powerful. He’d shown up at the remote Pony Express station to water his horse and to see if there was anything to hold his interest there, and there had been. The two idiots at the station had captured a pair of Ute girls and were holding them captive. When a small contingent of Utes had shown up to rescue them...

Well, that’s when things got fun.

He’d managed to pick off a few Utes from his hiding place, while a few of the Utes grabbed the captives and fled. When the dust cleared and the shooting and screaming stopped, the girls were gone, the stock was gone, and the two stationkeepers were dead.

And one of the Ute warriors was still alive.

The Ute had actually managed to stay alive for a respectable amount of time, too. Scorch had been impressed. And when he realized the ground was covered with the prints of moccasined feet and unshod hoofprints, and there were a fair number of Ute arrows about the place, it occurred to him that he could do whatever he wanted to do here and nobody would even consider blaming him for it. This was the perfect situation.

When he was done with the Ute, he’d burned him enough nobody could tell who or what he was. He’d dragged the three sets of remains outside and torched the stationhouse. The memory of it made him tremble with excitement and he drew in a deep, careful breath. They’d sent the army out there after the Utes. He was nearly drunk on the thought.

The buck in the kitchen had gone silent and the light had gone out inside. Does he know I’m here? Is he afraid? He soundlessly slid over the roofline and behind the chimney, hunching down amid the grass. Don’t move. Not tonight. I can wait. I’m in complete control.

The Indian was standing beneath him, his dark eyes scanning the roof. Yes. Scorch smiled, the puckering scars on his face pulling tight. You’re afraid, aren’t you, Chief? The Indian was unarmed, his shirt open over his bare chest revealing a lack of any sort of weapons belt. He clutched a kitchen knife in in his hand. Abruptly, he ran for the bunkhouse like a startled rabbit, long hair and loose shirttails flying behind him.

Scorch suppressed the urge to laugh. You’re making this a little too easy, Chief. You and Paddy and the boys are in for a long night soon, so don’t tell me this is all the fight you have in you. Some old red Grandfather somewhere is rolling in his grave.

What happened at William’s Station in the May of 1860 will probably pretty much remain shrouded in mystery, since none of the white men who where there when it all went down survived, and none of the Paiutes were talking. What we do know is this: There were Paiute girls there against their will. The evidence against the two Williams brother who ran the station is damning. The third Williams brother rode in, saw his brothers and at least one other person mutilated and burned, and rode off screaming about a Paiute uprising. The army got sent in and things kind of went downhill from there.

Was there really a psychopath running around framing Natives for murder? Probably not. Could there have been? Uh, sure. But Occam's Razor would suggest that most likely what happened was that two young girls got assaulted by some slimebags. Their relatives rode in and rescued them, dealing out some pretty harsh justice along the way to send a message that maybe kidnapping and assaulting Paiute girls was a bad idea.

Either way, the army rode in to “put the Paiutes in their place” and caused a whole lot more damage than needed to be caused. If the kidnapping of the girls was the gasoline thrown on kindling, the added insult of the army attacking the Paiutes for defending their own was the lit match. By that point, the Paiutes had had enough, and even cooler heads among their own leaders was not enough to stave off the bloody explosion of outrage and frustration that culminated in the Pyramid Lake Massacre.

Chapter 123: Shadows

2011-09-15T10:30:00.000-07:00

As miserable as it was with Fiona gone from Green River Station, Storm Peltier could comfort himself with the epiphany he’d had while trying vainly to fall asleep inside the dark, half empty bunkhouse.

And that epiphany was the knowledge that anything he “nicked”...as Fiona liked to say...from the kitchen, he could do so freely without getting caught.

He’d never really had the time or the means to figure out where Fiona had the honey jar hidden. There had been no way to do it during the day without getting caught and interrogated. And the risk of her seeing a light in the kitchen in the dead of night would be even worse. He’d needed some uninterrupted time to come in here and methodically search. Fiona had gotten very, very clever at hiding the jar from him and this last time, he’d just been completely unable to defeat her at this game. The jar had remained hidden.

That’s going to change tonight. Oh, yes.

He’d haphazardly shrugged into his clothes without buttoning anything, slipped his feet into his well-worn leather moccasins without lacing them, and snuck out of the bunkhouse. His goal was to find the jar and not tell her he knew where she was hiding it. That way, he could quickly and easily raid it at will and she’d keep putting in the same vulnerable place.

And while I’m at it, I’m finding and taking all her vanilla-sugar, too. Whenshe comes back and finds that gone, she’s going to think that’s all I found and won’t get suspicious that I also know where the honey is.

He struck a spark to the lantern on the table and turned the wick down as low as he could. Making sure the curtains were closed, he turned and surveyed the dark kitchen. She could have hidden it in the walls or the floor. I’ll start the back and work my way forward....

He lifted the lamp carefully, inspecting the rafters in the ceiling for potential hiding places, watching the shadows play along the rough timbers. He could smell the sharp, pleasant tang of new lumber and the earthy sweetness of the new sod they’d installed. This current batch of honey smelled and tasted heavily of hawthorne, so he drew in a deep breath, sorting through the melange of scents, searching for the telltale warmth of last summer’s flowers and the memory of afternoon sunshine.

His nose twitched with the faint bittersweet of burning tobacco. He cocked his head, startled. Someone’s coming...

An uneasiness had begun to creep over him that had nothing to do with his reluctance to get caught raiding Fiona’s supplies. There’s only the four of us here...only Luis smokes...but Luis was sound asleep. He caught the faintest whiff of something sour, like the feverish scent of illness and pain and his skin prickled with sudden, unexplainable fear.

He turned the wick down on the lamp immediately, snuffing it. His hand went instinctively to his belt and the empty space where he usually wore a weapon.

Ah, baise moi... He silently cursed himself, stepping over the wall and leaning against it, listening. Idiot. Knife block is over near the sink, isn’t it?

He eased over to the nearest window, peering cautiously between the curtain panels without touching them. Shafts of dim silver light from the fattening half moon cut through the darkness and he stepped carefully around them, blending into the shadows. His eyes scanned the dark station yard between the kitchen and the bunkhouse.

Why am I spooked? Gooseflesh stood out on his arms, and he felt a chill. He padded silently to the sink on his leather-shod feet, hoping desperately he didn’t trip or knock something over. He was thankful the kitchen had a solid stone floor laid directly onto the earth, as he knew such a floor wouldn’t betray him by creaking under his footfall.

Marde. The Yarls have come back here to get even. And here I am in the kitchen with no weapons, no boots, my shirt unbuttoned, and my pants about fall down.

It’s not a particularly good day to die.

He closed his hand around a knife handle and froze, ears straining. He hated admitting it to himself, but he was afraid. The idea that the faint whiff of a common scent might put this level of fear into him shamed him. He didn’t understand it. He wasn’t afraid of fighting, and he wasn’t afraid of the Yarls. He wasn’t really even afraid of dying. But here he stood anyways, listening to his heart pound fiercely in his chest, banging loudly in his eardrums, dampness breaking across his skin.

I don’t even know for sure if anyone’s here, he lied to himself, clamping the blade between his teeth and buttoning his pants.

A soft breeze hissed across the yard, ruffling the sod on the roof. A little dry earth filtered down from the new repair job, the new lumber settling with a faint creak. Storm’s breath caught as he pressed his back against the wall, his entire body coiled like a spring. And I don’t even know if whoever it is knows I’m in here.

Wash and the boys are still asleep in the bunkhouse. I have to get to them.

He crept to the door, stood off to one side, and shoved it open with his foot. Cool air chilled his sweating face and his skin prickled, as if he expected at any moment to feel someone grab or strike him. He quickly scanned the yard, then gritted his teeth and stepped through moonlight-edged doorway, holding his knife at the ready and bracing himself in case he was leapt upon from the roof.

Nothing. Moonlight played among the waving grass growing on the sod above the door. .

The voice in his head was shouting at him, shoving him with frantic hands. He suddenly realized it wasn't only the extremely annoying and often mistaken Voice of Fear chattering at him. That voice had been joined by the Voice of Wisdom. Lights the Storm...run. Run now.

Out of the kitchen doorway and vulnerable in the open yard, he bolted, shirttails flying, pain lancing through his mending ribs. Stopping before the bunkhouse door, he breathed, aching, tasting the air and listening.

Wash’s muffled snoring grated softly from inside. Storm paused, relief washing over him. He suddenly beginning to feel foolish, and pushed open the door.

“Luis.” He said softly, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Wake up. Luis.” He was irritated at the slight trembling he felt in his legs. “Luis!”

Luis’ bunk creaked. “Brother?”

“Were you out there smoking?” He’s going to say he was and I’m going to be ashamed of being a scared child jumping at shadows...

“What? No. Why you wake me to ask me that, eh?” He rolled back over and pulled his pillow around his head, muttering.

Storm’s fear and foreboding rolled back over him, yawning like a chasm in the pit of his stomach. He was going to have to do it. Wake Wash up and tell him what happened and let the man think he’d gone skittish after that beating he’d taken. Because either he had lost his nerve, or someone was sneaking around the mostly empty property while they slept.

And Lights the Storm Peltier was pretty sure that he’d have to take a far worse beating than than the one he’d taken to rattle him enough to turn coward.

Chapter 122: Confesar

2011-09-08T07:21:00.000-07:00

“Hola, Miz Rosie.” Luis couldn’t help but notice the look of relieved surprise on Rosie Burgess’ face when she came out of the school building and saw him leaning against a tree. He quickly pinched out the quirly he’d been smoking and stuck it into his breast pocket as she quickened her pace and approached him, clearly surprised. “You thought I took off for good, eh?”

“Well,” she admitted, delight evident on her flushed face. “Honestly, I didn’t expect to see you out here after you’d snuck out. I guess...you’re waiting for Tommy?”

Luis had tried to get through the day. He’d tried to sit and pay attention. He knew in his heart he’d done his best. But he also knew in his heart sitting in a classroom all day was not for him. And this ain’ the first time I gave this a try, either. I shoulda never let Tommy talk me into this. He’d felt lost and stupid and self-conscious, and Mrs. Plunkett’s endless droning about things that were far beyond him had started to become unbearable. So he had waited until her back was turned to the chalkboard, and then had quickly and quietly slipped out the tall open window behind his back-row desk so she wouldn’t hear the door open.

It was a trick he’d become fairly practiced at in the past.

“Tommy knows the way home, Señorita. I’m waiting for you.”

He saw color flare in her cheeks and her blue eyes open wide. “You are?” She said dubiously. It was clear to him that she didn’t entirely believe him. Who wouldn’t wait for a pretty girl? Luis liked her sandy hair and her girlish softness and the way the backs of her delicate hands dimpled when she absently smoothed back the tendrils escaping her braids. I’d have to be out of my mind not to wait for her.

He shrugged. “We said we’d meet after, yes?”

A smile broke across her face, dimpling the peaches of her cheeks. She nodded.

“So, where’s Tommy, eh?” His eyes roved across the neat, greening yard in front of the whitewashed schoolhouse, watching the members of the sparce class taking their leave for the day. A few of them did double takes when they saw him talking to Rosie. He pulled his attention back to her face. “I think we need sarsaparilla before we do anything else.”

“He got trapped.” Rosie said, wincing and gesturing towards the schoolhouse. “Charlotte.”

“Hm.” Luis smirked. “Tha’ didn’t take long.”

“No, it didn’t. But he did say he was coming.”

Luis nodded. “He will be.”

“So. Tommy says you two want to work on your reading.”

Luis winced. He knew this was coming.Better to get it over with. “Tommy wanted to get out of taking over Bender’s chores, Senorita. And to meet some new...people.”

She cocked her head. “You don’t want to...”

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, embarrassed. Here’s where it all falls apart, muchacho. Here’s where I go from being some sort of hero to being the idiot she don’t want to be seen with. “Tommy reads fine, he don’ need practice. He reads all the time.”

“Well, if you just need practice...”

“He reads to me, Señorita.” He paused, his holding her gaze to watch her reaction. “Comprendes?”

She’s gonna find out anyways. Might as well send her off now instead of later. Hurts more if it’s later. He braced himself, waiting for her to laugh at his foolishness in coming here, waiting for her to say something unkind. To take back her offer.

She nodded, her face somber. “No shame in not knowing how to read, Luis.” She said simply. “Lotsa folks don’t know how. Doesn't mean you’re stupid.”

No, thought Luis, bitterness souring his mood. It don’t. For instance, Wash ain’t stupid, but I bet he could learn if he tried as hard as I have before. He shrugged, fumbling the quirly back out of his pocket. It wasn’t something that normally bothered him, but here, among people for whom reading was taken for granted, he felt terribly out of place. “Don’t mean I’m smart, either.” He muttered, striking a light on his tinder tube. “I can’t make sense of it, Miz Rosie. It was nice of you to offer, though. “

“Well...I don’t think your friend Tommy is so quick to give up on you.” She said. “And I’m not, either.”

He searched her face, trying to determine if her words were born of politeness, pity, or sincerity. “You’re a brave señorita, Miz Rosie, he said softly, deciding the latter. He wanted to believe she was that kind. And there was no guile or teasing in her honest blue eyes. “Ah, "Hablando del rey de Roma.” He smiled, glad to see Tommy arrive and divert some of the attention. “Sarsaparilla, yes?”

“Yes.” Tommy nodded, a look of relief on his face. “Yes. Excellent.” He extended his elbow towards Rosie. “You’re classmates are pretty...well, they’re...intense, aren’t they, Miss?”

She laughed, nodding. Her smile broadened as she threaded one hand through the crook of Tommy’s arm and the other through Luis’, and they headed off down the street.