Asshole's Bride (Bad Boy Romance)

by Amy Faye

  Marie had plenty of experience coming home to an empty house, after her mother passed on. There was something unspeakably unpleasant about it. But it wasn't her place to step in. She'd have plenty of opportunity to speak to Jamie's parents when they came back.

  She could extend the offer to keep an eye on him when they had to go out of town. They might not mind so much, after all, and then she'd be able to make sure that the boy was taken care of without overstepping the boundary between a teacher and student.

  As he left, and the room was finally completely empty, she let herself deflate a little bit. What a long day. Some days were always going to be easier than others. That was just the way of the world. But the bad ones always felt bad.

  She looked up at the roof. What had seemed like a reasonably adequate construction before now seemed drastically under-built. She could just about see blue sky through some places where the patchwork hadn't managed to hold up.

  A trip to the carpenter's, then.

  Marie looked down at her blouse. It stuck to her in places where she would very decidedly rather that it didn't, but a few minutes in the sun should clear it up a little bit. That was what she hoped, anyways.

  The walk across town did a little bit to help. The heat wasn't quite what she'd hoped for, but it served. There was a young man behind the counter, perhaps fifteen. She hadn't seen him in any of her classes. He regarded her silently for a moment before greeting her.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but, could I ask—what would it cost to have a roof repaired? I'm the new teacher, and the school-house—"

  He nodded for a moment. "Sure, I could come look at it and make an estimate. The boss is working at the moment." He gestured towards a doorway. Through it, she could hear the sound of wood pounding on wood.

  "I'd like that very much."

  He went into the back, came back a minute later with a long, heavy-looking ladder slung over a shoulder. This was less painful than she'd expected, she thought, somewhat pleased.

  Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all.

  Six

  There had been a long-standing agreement between Chris and the owner of the little bar where he worked. Chris would do as he was told, make a little money, but most of his pay would be in room and board. In turn, Stanley would look the other way on his colorful past, as long as Chris didn't bring it along with him.

  That had seemed fair, at first. Hell, it seemed almost fair now. There was talk, of course. Always would be, when someone like him came around. Whether he managed to hide his past or not, they would spot an outsider right away and there would always be talk.

  His habit of wearing a pistol, in a quiet town like Applewood Junction, that was always going to draw attention, too. But just yesterday he'd shown exactly how useful that was. So really, if they were being completely honest, there wasn't a whole lot to be worried about. Not really.

  There was no reasonable criticism that anyone could make of him, not one that would stick.

  Unreasonable criticism, though? That had a unique way of sticking to his bones. A way of finding everything that he looked like and ignoring the years of reliable service he'd given. Maybe, all of a sudden out of nowhere, he'd become a mad dog. Nobody could be sure that he wouldn't, after all.

  So in spite of all his reassuring himself, it wasn't really much of a surprise when Stan came into the bar with his hat pressed on low. He had a habit of doing that when he was spoiling for a fight. Which meant that Chris had to be extra careful not to let him, in spite of himself.

  The bartender took a deep breath in.

  "Mornin', boss."

  "You want to tell me what the hell happened yesterday?"

  Chris kept his shoulders relaxed. That would be the first thing to go. When his shoulders got tight, he might as well walk right out the door, because at that point it was only a matter of time until voices got raised, and then it wasn't going to back down from there.

  "What do you mean, boss?"

  "You know full damn well what I mean." Something deep down in the bartender's belly didn't like being eyeballed like that. He swallowed that frustration. "Things go nuts, and I'm up to my neck in complaints—and what do I find but you're at the center of it. Walloped not one, but two customers? That right?"

  "Wasn't my intention to do anything of the sort, boss."

  "Don't talk to me about intentions."

  Chris raises his eyes. It's a mistake, and he realizes it a moment later, when he feels frustration starting to flare up, and for a tense moment he almost feels as if he's going to lose his temper.

  It's close, but he manages to get control of himself in spite of the strong urge to lash out. A little part of him relaxes. Maybe the years have had a positive effect on his demeanor after all.

  "You would have rather I let some kid get shot?"

  The boss looks at Chris with a flat expression. No, that wouldn't have been preferable, Chris knows. But couldn't someone else have done it? Someone who wasn't already the cause of all sorts of rumors spreading around the town?

  That would have been a thousand times better. Just next time make it so someone else is involved.

  "No," Stan finally concedes. "You're right."

  "I'm sorry that it happened. I keep thinking I should've had a better sense for the feeling in the room. But I did the best I could under the circumstances."

  Chris works to drop his shoulders. Keep them relaxed, don't let them hunch up. Don't get mad. Stay calm.

  His eyes are on Stan's body as he stands on the other side. It's a skill that Chris picked up in his old life. Something you need to know, how pissed the other guy is. You have to know all the time. No room for any doubt, not ever.

  If someone's about to pull a gun, you have to know before he knows it himself. And Chris watches his boss's body language for any signs of anger, growing or shrinking.

  His own shoulders sag a little. He closes his eyes longer than a moment. And then the anger slips off his shoulders. "Yeah. You're probably right."

  "So what should I do then?" Chris asks it in a conversational way. Like he's handing the reins over to Stan. The fact is, though, that there's no answer. What he's really doing, in the end, is dropping the problem right in Stan's lap. Another soft reminder that it was a difficult situation with no real answers.

  "Look—I don't—" He doesn't finish the sentence. The older man tenses up again. Time to massage him back into relaxing. Then he steps back and leans against the bar, his eyes on the floor. "Just don't worry about it."

  "And when Mickey comes back in, whenever Sheriff Roberts is done with him?"

  He makes a thoughtful face, and doesn't answer for a couple of minutes. "Just—don't start anything, alright?"

  "You got it, boss. Won't start anything at all."

  "If he decides he's got a problem, call Jim over. I'd much rather Jim dealt with it in that case."

  Chris bristles a little at the suggestion. "Yeah," he says finally.

  There was a time when a Broadmoor wouldn't dream of letting someone else fight his battles for him. That was a long time ago, though. For Chris, it might as well have been forever ago. Like a dream from a long time ago that he'd never exactly woken up from.

  Letting someone else deal with it in this case, he thought, might just be the right answer. Because all eyes would be on him for a while. It didn't change things, not really. Everyone's eyes were always on him, because he was the mad dog roughneck out-of-towner who had no accounting for his whereabouts or why he'd come into town.

  Which, in Chris's case, was probably better than knowing where he'd come from. They were less afraid of him this way.

  Seven

  There was a little time remaining before the children were going to be waking, which was going to have to be enough time for Marie to get all of this dealt with, regardless of the fact that there was simply no way that she was going to actually do it.

  There wasn't much choice, was there? No choice at all; the alternative was to cance
l classes in either case, and she wasn't going to let that happen. Not if she had any other choice.

  There would be talk, she knew, but it didn't stop her lifting her skirts and running through the middle of town. If she hurried, then she'd be able to get something started, at least. They'd understand her need, right?

  She stops a few steps short of the door and takes what little time that she can afford to get herself back together as she closes the last few steps at a walk. Heads are turning to see the wild woman running through town, but they'd understand, when they saw the school building.

  The boy looked up at her. It was the same one that she'd talked to yesterday, thankfully, which meant that there wouldn't be much explanation needed.

  "You have to help me," she said, hints of breathlessness touching her voice in spite of her.

  "I told you. It's going to run us twenty dollars in materials alone."

  She sets her jaw. "I have a hole in my roof big enough that a boulder might have fallen through. Almost a whole ton of debris landed all over my students' desks. I don't have time to get all that money together. I promise, you'll be paid, but I need you to come now, before they start arriving."

  He takes in a breath, and shakes his head. "I can't do that, ma'am."

  "No, you don't understand—"

  "If you could just give us ten, fifteen dollars—"

  The numbers ran through her head. She could almost pay it, if she didn't eat for a few days. They could just get started… at some point, would they reimburse her for that?

  Her lips pursed together as the numbers failed to add up several times, and she tried to turn them and make them fit some other way.

  If she saved—no, there's no saving. It needs to be today, and it needs to be right now.

  "How much do you need? Ten or fifteen?"

  His jaw shifts left and right, whether he tries to decide or to figure out how to deal with this woman who's being pushy while, she knew, offering nothing at all in terms of peaceful terms.

  "Fifteen up front would be doing you a favor," he says. "Ten would be a big favor. I know you're a teacher, 'n all, but I don't know you that well."

  She closed her eyes. She could have done eight. She could have pretended that ten could be done, almost. But fifteen was outside of the discussion. It wasn't that she couldn't afford it—it was that she didn't have fifteen dollars to her name, not in the bank here.

  If she wired back home, sure. But wiring back home meant closing the school for the day. She couldn't do that. She just…

  Marie let out a long breath. "Thank you, Mr Peters."

  "Sorry I couldn't be more help," he offers, as if it might change something. The only thing it changes is that he sounds sympathetic when he says 'no.'

  "No, I'm sorry," she offers, finally. "Good luck with your work here."

  "No hard feelings, ma'am. You have money to pay for our services, you're always welcome here."

  She's most of the way out the door before her mind registers that he's spoken. "Thank you," she says finally, before stepping out.

  It's only been a few moments, and the same folks who had stopped to watch her early-morning sprint are still standing around, hoping to see some satisfactory ending to the story. Marie ignores them as best she can and keeps her head up and straight ahead as she walks down the middle of the street back towards the schoolhouse.

  It's not exactly what she'd like, but the only answer that she's got left is the only answer she's got left, no matter what she wants it to be.

  She'll have to close the school, and that was all she could do. It stung more than a little. If she had a choice, maybe that would have made a difference. But she couldn't let anyone get hurt, and if the roof was falling in, she couldn't guarantee anyone's safety. It was as simple as that.

  She'd figure out what to do about the school building after she put up a sign that said they were closed. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. She stepped inside. The good news was, it hadn't gotten any worse in the ten minutes that she'd been out. She looked up uncertainly at the roof as she passed it by.

  With a little luck, maybe there wouldn't be any problem. She hoped. That didn't stop her from holding her breath as she crossed the room, certain that any minute, twenty pounds of debris would come crashing down on her head.

  She made the note with quick, smooth writing and tacked it up outside the door. It wasn't satisfying to have to cancel class. But it was necessary, and just this once, it was the right thing to do.

  The options that she had left open to her weren't as many as she'd like, and the ones that came to mind immediately weren't options that she liked.

  The church would be able to raise the money, no problem. The preacher would just get up on the pulpit and ask for donations. With it being for the school, it wouldn't be any trouble at all.

  That wasn't entirely true, though. Not even close to true. It wouldn't be any trouble at all for Mrs. Whittle. Or, for that matter, for anyone else.

  For a Catholic woman who'd wandered into town three months ago, and hadn't been going to a chapel outside the Church's grace… well, it was sufficient to say that she and the pastor weren't on good terms, and leave it at that.

  Marie looked at her options, and watched the list shrink. And then shrink a little more. And more still.

  Sure, literally speaking, she could wait a few weeks. Her wages would come in, and she'd be able to afford it, if she tightened her belt. But that would mean she had no place to teach the kids in the intervening weeks. So while it was perfectly doable, it wasn't perfectly practical.

  An idea flashed through her mind. She could do it, sure. It was just as believable as asking when the pastor passed his hat around. People would sympathize, right? Because it was the schoolhouse.

  The same people who had sent for her to come out from New Orleans would donate at least a little bit of money, no doubt about it. The idea, though…

  Well, it had its own downsides. She closed her eyes and let out the breath that she'd been holding. It had its own downsides without a doubt. But it wasn't about her, was it? She had to make the decision on the basis of the children.

  Eight

  Chris was beginning to feel, thankfully, that he wasn't going to run into that schoolteacher again. She had a pretty little face, and very much a woman's body. The coincidences had lined up for a few days to put them much closer together than he was used to finding himself.

  Worrying about the next coincidence that could come up, the next chance he'd get—it was a distraction, and one that he would have rather done without.

  If it were another time, a time when there weren't people pulling their pistols in the bar that he's supposed to be keeping watch over, maybe he'd have felt differently. But obviously he'd picked the wrong time to get a crush.

  Now, though—now, it seemed like there wasn't going to be another problem that arose. So it was with a little sense of self-satisfaction that he was standing, leaned with his back against the bar, rubbing a little shine into the thick-walled mugs they'd be serving beer out of later. Not that it would matter long.

  It faded when the door opened and he looked up. It seemed that fate had other plans for him, because there Marie Bainbridge was, as energetic as she'd ever been. And, it seemed, heading straight towards him. It was strange to see her in the bar, by itself. To see her there looking for him, well… it was all that much stranger.

  He watched her walk up. She must have noticed him watching her, but she walked up undeterred.

  "Mr. Broadmoor?"

  He set one glass down and picked up the next. "How can I help you, Miss Bainbridge? Drinks on the house, as long as the boss doesn't see me doing it."

  The look on her face was priceless. As if she hadn't even considered the notion of drinking, and now that she had, she wanted to walk out again immediately. Then she blinked and set herself straight again.

  "Not now, please. Thank you, though. That's very nice of you to offer."

  "If you don't wan
t a drink, you just have to say so," he answered, his voice even. "Now, what can I help you with?"

  She leaned against the bar and chewed the inside of her cheeks for a second before speaking. "I need some money."

  "I don't know how I'm supposed to help you with that, ma'am."

  "It's not for me," she says, apparently not realizing that it wasn't a moral judgment that he couldn't help her. "I need it for the schoolhouse. The children, you see, they're—"

  "What am I supposed to do about it?"

  She looks at him wild-eyed. Apparently, somehow, he'd stepped on a nerve. As if he's not listening, rather than her not explaining. Then, very slowly and then all at once, it dawns on her that she hasn't explained a single thing about whatever plan she might have.

  "There's a hole in the roof, you see," she says, as if that helps. "Big hole."

  "That sounds like you need a carpenter. Or at least, someone who's willing to go up on that high roof of yours."

  Chris took a minute to appreciate the look on her face. She's so pleased, with herself or with him he couldn't say.

  "So you understand, then."

  "Not really," says he. "I still don't know why you came to me with that information. Couldn't the preacher help you out? Feel like he's probably got a community fund 'n everything."

  The look that crossed her face told a very specific story, but it was one that Chris couldn't begin to explain. Schoolteacher like her, she seemed very right and proper. There was no way she wasn't right with the church, so why did she seem so uncomfortable with the idea?

  "I thought you might be able to put up a collection. Maybe just a little jar by the counter, with a sign?"

  Chris didn't like the way the conversation was going, because he didn't want to have to tell her no. But it wasn't going to happen.

  "You want to talk to the boss about something like that. Mr. Davis. He'd probably be at his house, right about now. I could get you an address."

  He could see the expression on her face. Deflated. There wasn't much that he could do, though. Stan came in and saw something like that, he'd be pretty unhappy about it, if he wasn't consulted. Nor was Chris in the sort of position to be making suggestions about now. There were a thousand other people who might be able to talk the guy into it. Chris wasn't one of them.