by Amy Faye
"'Scuse me," the man said. "But I'd like it if you'd come down here, a minute."
Chris did so. The climb down the ladder wasn't much trouble, and the break would be worthwhile. So long as things didn't get too unpleasant, anyways.
"Is there a problem?"
The woman spoke, then. "Of course there's a problem. Harold—"
She cut herself off, then, and stared at the man beside her, as if he ought to have said something sooner. He pulled his face into a grimace before he spoke.
"My wife, well, my wife and I, we heard, I don't want to start any gossip, but—"
His wife evidently didn't like the way that he tip-toed around whatever problem she had, and elbowed him again in the ribs. Her prodigious bust swayed as she did it, and Chris had to turn his head to avert his eyes from it.
"I don't see what you're getting at, sir."
"Well, we came by to talk to the teacher, but I thought we ought to see you first, on account of the talk."
"What talk would that be?"
"It's all over town, the way you and her been gallivanting around," the woman cut in.
"We don't put no stock in rumors, sir, so I thought we'd come and put it to rest."
Chris took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"There's nothing to hear."
"That's not what the padre was sayin', and I wanted to hear it straight from you," the man said. He looked remarkably like he was going to be sick.
"But if you say there ain't nothing to the talk, then there ain't nothing to the talk."
"Talk is cheap," Chris said flatly. "If the preacher wants to know what's going on in my life, or in Miss Bainbridges, then he ought to come and speak to us directly about it. But since you came all this way, I'll put it real blunt for you: there's nothing to talk about. Now, class is in session, so if y'all don't mind, could you just keep on movin?"
The woman looked like she'd never been spoken to like that in her life. Well, if that was the case, Chris thought, then she ought to get used to it.
Twenty-One
Marie usually took note of anything that was going on. She wrote it down in a little notebook that she kept on the corner of her desk, if something happened during the day that needed to be addressed after classes ended.
The two outside, the ones that Chris had gone to speak with, didn't make the list. There wouldn't be any need to write it down, she knew, because she couldn't stop wondering about them long enough to forget to find out what they'd been there for.
Most of the time, she still didn't recognize everyone's face. The folks who she knew well, she knew well. But even in a small town like Applewood Junction, there were still faces she didn't recognize, from social circles she didn't move in. From circles she didn't particularly want to move in.
Marie may not have known the woman outside, or the man beside her, obviously her husband, but it didn't take a mind-reader to know how they were feeling. Even in New Orleans, people got angry. Out west was no different, and the people getting angry tended towards certain patterns. For example, most of the time when folks you didn't know showed up angry, they were angry over something stupid. And stupid or not, they usually had gotten themselves worked up to a fit without any sort of reasonable cause.
But they hadn't come in. In fact, after a few words with Chris, they'd left, and now that the big hole in the roof was patched over, aside from the rapping of the hammer above them, they couldn't hear quite so easily what was being said.
So all she had to go on was body language and the sure knowledge that they didn't come around to welcome her into town with open arms.
When the kids left, she checked the notebook. Nothing for the day. Nothing, because the only thing that she'd noticed, she knew she wasn't going to forget. She stepped outside into the afternoon sun, and as the door closed behind her, Chris pushed himself off of where he'd been standing by the door.
He made a habit, most days, of telling her what sort of progress he'd made that day, what was left to do, and how well things were going. It was a comfort, because the truth was that Marie hadn't the foggiest idea about carpentry, and being in the dark about the entire process wasn't her idea of a good time.
Beggars can't be choosers, of course, so if he was going to do the work for nothing, then she was going to take the status updates that she could get without complaint. That it happened to be daily was a bonus, but it wasn't a bonus that she deserved or even required. It was just something that she appreciated.
"The shingles are up. As far as it goes, the job is pretty much finished, at this point," he told her. "Unless there's something else needs doing."
"Oh, I couldn't ask you—"
"But there is something, then."
"Nothing really," she answered, trying to give him the hint that she wasn't interested in discussing it. Mr. Broadmoor had already done far too much for her, and she knew it would be some time before she could even imagine having the money to pay him for any of the work he was doing.
"Well, if you say so, then fine. I'm gonna go get ready for work. It's been fun, in a way, doing work like this again. I didn't know how much I'd missed it."
"Well, I'm glad you could find some enjoyment in it." She didn't realize until he'd stepped off the boardwalk and into the grass that she'd lost herself in manners and completely forgotten to ask about the ruckus outside. She stepped off and followed behind. "What was that thing about earlier?"
He didn't stop to answer. "Thing? I'm not sure what you mean."
"That couple. You talked to them for a few minutes, and they walked off all in a huff."
"Oh. That thing. Nothing, really. I dealt with it myself."
"What do you mean, nothing? Were they looking for you?"
"They were looking for you, I guess, but they settled for me. Had some questions, and I answered them."
"What about?"
Marie didn't like being ignored. She could stand being condescended to, if the need arose. She could deal with false praise, or neglect, or disbelief, or even disrespect, but being ignored was simply a bridge too far. And yet, the more Chris didn't stop to talk to her, the more that she dug in her heels.
"Not a big deal. You really oughtn't worry, Miss Bainbridge. You got enough on your plate right now, you don't need some country bumpkins getting you down."
"So they were there for me, then. I'm not a child, Mr. Broadmoor, I can deal with problems as they arise just as well as you."
He stopped, then, all of a sudden, and Marie near walked past him in her hurry to keep up. He turned easily and quickly on his heel, his jaw jutting out in defiance, and he looked her up and down with a mix of anger and blatant sex that sent a shock down her spine.
"No, I suppose you aren't," he growled, his eyes lingering for a moment. She knew that he shouldn't look at her that way. She knew that if she chastised him for it, he'd apologize, and he wouldn't do it again. So she didn't.
"So tell me what happened."
"There is some talk, around." He started moving again, turning into an alley headed around to the back of the bar.
"What sort of talk is that?"
"The sort you get when a man stays in your hotel room until midnight," he says with an air of resignation. "But I set them straight."
The alley was short, but provided enough seclusion that suddenly, Marie realized exactly how alone they were. She stopped. A few moments later, Chris realized she wasn't behind him any more and turned.
"What did you tell them," she asked idly. She leaned against the wall, hoping that he'd look at her again the way he just had a moment before.
"I told them it wasn't going to happen," he growled. "And I'm telling you the same thing."
He turned on his heel and a moment later, he was around the corner and out of sight.
Twenty-Two
Chris settled into his place behind the bar and put on a face that said he wasn't in the mood to talk. When customers started to come in, then it would be a problem, but as long as the pla
ce was more-or-less empty, then he didn't want to talk.
He didn't want to talk because he sure as hell didn't want to think too hard about anything, and he didn't want anyone asking him how his day had gone, or by God he might actually make the mistake of telling them.
What in the hell was Marie thinking about, acting like that? It was an insult to her to call it throwing herself at him. She wasn't quite so desperate as that, thank God, but he couldn't imagine what else to call it either, not when she should have been anything but receptive to anything he'd be able to offer her.
Yet there she was, without any sort of doubt, very clearly giving it a fair bit of thought. The way she had stood there looking at him, all—God. No way. He wasn't going to saddle a woman like that with his kind of problems, not if he could do anything about it. It was as much his decision as hers, and he had already made it for the both of them.
She didn't know the first thing about him, and there was a good reason for that. If anyone knew much of anything about his history, then they'd flip. He'd have to find some other place, settle in there, and hope to hell that they never started asking any funny questions about why he'd wandered into town one day.
There were a thousand things that he owed the Pearsons, but that was one of the biggest. They didn't ask unnecessary questions. Maybe they already knew, maybe they didn't care, or maybe they knew that they might not like the answers they got.
There were a thousand possibilities. Folks who came West after the war ended, and didn't want to talk about what color uniform they'd been wearing. Probably plenty of folks in town who knew someone who didn't want to talk about it. Maybe the Pearsons had been one of those, or maybe they hadn't, but whatever the reason, they hadn't asked and he hadn't told them, and he was more thankful for that than anything.
But eventually, if that teacher kept pushing, then he was going to have to come out with it, and he wasn't remotely ready to do that, not yet. Maybe not ever.
Folks started filing in, and Chris put on a face like he'd jump at the chance to talk to someone about how their cattle herd was going. Most faces were familiar, even in a town with a station like this one had. People came through every day, but only a dozen or so. Most of the business consisted of regulars that stocked the tables and waited around for someone with a bit of money to come by and try to take it.
As often as not, the folks who came by were the takers themselves, but try telling a half-dozen drunken men who fancied themselves card players that they didn't know the first thing, and watch how long it takes to get your nose smashed in.
Chris was particularly good at avoiding having his nose smashed. He could do it from a long way off, by not opening his fool mouth, a skill that he'd thankfully learned before it became real important, or he could do it on short notice, when a fist was already moving through the air and he had to move real quick to avoid it.
There are plenty of things that there's no reason to avoid. If he's good at figures, then a man can make a mighty fine living as a bank teller. If he's a good cook, then there's plenty of places looking for a cook. If he's got a steady hand, there's always room for one more apprentice in a worker's shop.
A talent for fighting and for shooting only brings down trouble on your head, in the end, and Chris had a bellyful of trouble that he wasn't ever going to be done with. No, he'd just as much like to get away from trouble if it were possible.
Trouble had a way of finding men like Chris Broadmoor, though. Maybe it was a punishment for his sins, or maybe it was just the same bad luck that had nurtured that talent in the first place, but something always seemed to conspire to find him in positions he wasn't going to be happy with.
While his mind was still churning over the idea of Marie Bainbridge and how hard to put his foot down against their acquaintanceship, trouble found him again, and with his mind occupied, he managed to miss his chances to avoid it from a long way off.
"Chris, hey. It's been a long time."
When he heard his name, the bartender stiffened, in the same instant reflexively moving to start doing the job of preparing a drink and realizing who was speaking.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low and held a threat that he knew he didn't need to voice in order for the message to get across.
"What kind of greeting is that, after all these years? What's it been, five years?"
His jaw tightened. "I said, 'what are you doing here,' and I meant it, Jack."
Chris's eldest brother had skin dark from the sun, thick and leathery. When he smiled, his face spider-webbed into too many lines for a man who wasn't yet forty.
"I'm here to see my baby brother," he answered. "And find out what's been happening the past few years."
Chris didn't match his brother's smile. "You don't gotta worry 'bout me, Jack. I'm fine here. Let me be, and there won't be no trouble."
"Trouble? What trouble?"
The gold from the eldest Broadmoor's tooth gleamed, and trouble dug in to stay.
Twenty-Three
Marie hadn't exactly gotten the answers she wanted. No, that wasn't entirely accurate. It sounded like she might have gotten some of it–she hadn't gotten any sort of response from Chris at all, and she wasn't exactly enjoying the feeling that at some point, the other shoe was going to drop and she was going to see exactly what had him so riled.
Nobody was going to come to her and ask her about whatever relationship she may or may not have had with the local bartender. Rumors moved fast in Applewood Junction, and just about everything else moved slow. So talk was common, and idle talk the most common of all.
Most of the time, you didn't hear any of it unless you were doing the talking or doing the listening, because as a rule, nobody ever stopped to confirm what the truth was. There wasn't a whole lot of point in asking, because if it was nonsense, then you looked like a fool. If it was true, then nobody would ever admit it in the first place.
If someone had come by, Marie reasoned, it was because there was more to it than trying to confirm a rumor. And if there were more to it, then either Chris wasn't telling her everything, or he'd run them off before they got to telling him the real reason they were there.
In the end, it didn't matter one bit which had happened, because the end result was that she didn't know what she needed to know, she wasn't told what they'd come to tell her, and that meant, sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, there would be more to deal with later.
Eventually, they would come by at a time that Chris wasn't there to act surly, and then she'd have to deal with it. The only question was how long they'd wait to deal with her, and how much she'd suffer for the wait.
Marie's head pounded. Another night of being able to sleep should have had her almost back to normal, now. Jamie certainly seemed fine. But every time she woke up, even though hours had passed, she felt as if she'd only just closed her eyes a moment before.
She'd slept as much as she possibly could, the past three days, and she felt as if she just needed a nap to get by. Nothing she could do would improve it.
Maybe she was a little sick, the schoolteacher reasoned. With all the craziness going on, no doubt she was more prone to sickness. Worrying about Jamie and about the schoolhouse and now about all this, it wasn't good for a person's health.
She made a mental note to talk to the doctor about it, and tried to get her head back into classes. Every day was different, she knew. Some days seemed to race by. Others took a toll, seeming to last forever. And yet, at the end of the day, it was always manageable.
Today was one of the days that dragged. In the end, she'd be over it, easy as can be, but until the bell tolled out three on the clock, when she'd watch the children go, she had to bear it. All too soon she'd feel as if they hadn't been there long enough, after all.
And sure enough, though the time passed slowly, within little more time than the blink of an eye, it seemed, she was standing by the doorway, with a wisp of nostalgia as she watched the children go. All of them, of course, except fo
r one. He had his head down on a desk, his eyes shut. Out like a light.
She was about to close the door behind her and start planning for the next day when she heard someone coming. She looked over and her worries were answered. The other shoe, it seemed, had not taken particularly long to drop.
It wasn't the same woman, of course, but she could see the same expressions, the same stiffness of manner. And, she noted, this time the husband seemed distinctly less beaten-up.
She also noticed that the clothes the couple wore were quite fine. If there were any residents of Applewood Junction who had any sort of money, Marie would have been surprised to learn about it. Daddy had some money, back in New Orleans. Nothing to put on airs over, of course, but enough that the move out west was a strain for her.
Which meant that, in all likelihood, the pair had dressed up specifically for the occasion, as if they were going to address a celebrity. The look on their faces wasn't that sort of expression, though. She took a deep breath and forced a smile.
"Can I help you?"
The woman glared while her husband, arms linked around hers, spoke softly. "You're not going to be allowed to continue this, you know."
He wore a sneer that was reflected perfectly in the way that he said the line.
"I'm sorry, Mr…?"
"Mr. Bradbury," he said, as if she ought to have known who he was. "I'm a deacon at the local church, and we have noticed that you haven't been attending our services."
Marie tried to smile, but couldn't keep the confusion off her face completely. "I'm sorry, is there a problem, Mr. Bradbury?"
"You've been seen with that boy in there," he said, glancing through the window at Jamie. "And gallivanting around with the wrong sort of person. Now, of course, anyone would be so charitable, with the tragedy that befell young Mr. Pearson's family. But I suspect that you're not doing it out of some Christian effort, are you? After all, you don't attend services."
