Asshole's Bride (Bad Boy Romance)

by Amy Faye

  That wasn't what happened. Someone noticed him riding in, and once they'd looked his way it wasn't hard to notice the body, halfway laid out along the horse's neck, a position that couldn't have been pleasant for any involved. Then the shout went on ahead and before he could say 'boo' there were folks coming out of the woodwork to come and see what was happening.

  Chris let out a yell and tried to force his horse through. This was exactly what he'd expected to happen. Like clockwork, they'd done what they always did, and he wasn't going to be surprised by something like this. Just work through and try to get the Sheriff to help. The folks would figure it out and let him through, though they'd be clinging real close to see how it all went down. To see the exact moment when they can start claiming that he got the Sheriff killed. 'Almost' just didn't hold the same sort of appeal.

  None of that surprised him. He was even a little bit used to it, as if he'd have been disappointed by the town if they hadn't bothered. But he was surprised by the horse pulling up in front of him, blocking what little gap the bartender was able to make for himself.

  "I wasn't done talking to you, you yellow-bellied coward."

  Chris's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer, heading his horse off to the side. He got the response he expected when his brother moved to intercept him. He worked the action on his rifle, a little threat to remind him that it was loaded.

  "I need to get this man to a doctor. He's hurt bad."

  Jack lowered the barrel of the rifle until it was leveled at his younger brother. "Yeah? That's a damn shame to hear."

  "You can't do this, Jack–"

  The murmur of the crowd rose in a ripple. With the name, suspicions were being confirmed. A face to go with the name. 'Smiling' Jack wasn't smiling–not that he ever did. But at least he'd managed to keep Chris's name out of the papers, and off the wanted posters.

  "You watch me. You think I have a problem watching some law-man bleed to death? You got another thing coming."

  "Jack, I don't know what your problem is, but you got no quarrel with him. You want me, you got me, but let this fella get help."

  There was a glimmer of something in Jack's face that might have been consideration. Then his flat expression returned and he reaffirmed his target was dead on.

  "I ain't gonna have you running off again. You're good at that, boy, and I ain't lookin' forward to another five years trackin' you down again."

  "Is that how long it was? How long did it take to decide I weren't dead when you left me behind?"

  There was a moment, in Chris's head, when he'd hoped that Jack was going to be so stung by the comment that he would let them both go, at least just long enough. The way that he tightened up his jaw, though, told the whole story of how naive that idea had been.

  "Fuck you. If you were fine, y'ought to have come along behind. Sammy'd still be around if you had brought up the rear."

  "If I'd been a quick shot, you mean. If I took on a posse by myself, I might have had a chance."

  Jack's expression shifted from righteous fury to stubborn fury. It was a subtle shift, but to Chris, he might as well have moved a mountain.

  "I don't care what kind of clever words you got to say. You left us to die."

  Chris bit back the words in his chest, and then looked at the hexagonal barrel of that rifle, pointed right at his chest.

  "I ain't done nothing. Not to Sammy and not to you. You're foolin' yourself."

  "Fuck you, you son of a bitch. It was in your power, but you were too weak to do what needed doing."

  "Jack, look at yourself, and when you're doin' it, realize that you're the one got Sammy killed. If we'd given up that life when we was ahead–hell, if we'd picked at the dirt a little–"

  "Is that what you thought they wanted? Live life with nothing to look forward to? Just dirt-farmin' and barely making enough to survive?"

  "Better than looking forward to a bullet."

  Jack's snarl deepened. "You always think you're so smart. Go on, go for that pistol of yours. Think you're so tough–"

  "Either pull the trigger, Jack, or get out my way, cause I'm coming through. How many of your brothers are you ready to get killed?"

  He spurred his horse on, and it started moving. Chris tensed for a minute, ready for the shot to ring out any moment. And, to his surprise, it didn't. He passed Jack's horse by, and kept his head on straight as he rode by. Nothing to look back for. Nothing to think about, nothing to worry about.

  He had something else to deal with, something more pressing. Something bleeding all over his horse who needed medical attention, and needed it hours ago.

  Thirty-Seven

  Marie watched him riding with a sick feeling in her gut. There was talk. People who gossip, they know that it's just idle chatter, that they could be making it all up, even if they say that they're as sure as can be.

  Marie had watched that doubt in its effects, even as she'd seen what happened when suspicions mounted and people's idle talk overwhelmed their senses. That doubt slowed them down. Kept people quiet. That little bit of uncertainty, the idea that maybe, just maybe, they're wrong and they need to act with a little doubt. Discretion.

  Once they knew, without a shadow of a doubt—he'd be done for, and nothing that she nor anyone could do would be able to stop that from happening, when it happened. She could feel the heat in the crowd rising as they waited for him to emerge. Either he'd come out, or they'd go in and get him, she feared, and then—then, who knew what lengths people would go to.

  Marie took a deep breath and tried to get her head on straight. The first thing that she had to do was make sure that he had as many people on his side as possible. She looked around for Chris's brother. If he was still there, he was hiding. But there was no place that he could hide so well, not in a crowd like this. She stepped up onto the wheel of a coach that was parked up outside the back of the saloon and looked closer. Nothing to see, even still.

  Marie frowned. That was one problem out of the way, at least. But now, she had to get across the crowd. That was going to present a problem and a half. But there wasn't much choice in the matter. Either she got over there, or… well, there was no point in thinking about the alternatives. She settled back down to the ground and grabbed Jamie's hand.

  "Come on, we've got to go."

  He looked up at her with an expression that told her all about the questions he wanted to ask her. He kept them to himself, though. It wasn't time to be arguing with adults. Not when everything was going crazy all around them, and he was a good enough boy to know it.

  The problems would really start once Marie got to the door. Whatever her plan would be, the first step was always 'get to the door.' But beyond that, turning things to her favor, to Chris's favor—that would be a challenge. Faces turned and stared as she threaded her way through the close-pressed people. Thankfully, they looked only for a few moments before deciding, it seemed, that she wasn't nearly so interesting a prize as Chris.

  The teacher did her best to keep her head down and keep moving to encourage that. If she didn't, who knew how long it would be before someone stopped her. Once they got inside, she reminded herself. They just had to get inside, and then they'd be safe. She could talk to Chris and they'd be able to hatch out some kind of plan.

  Marie shouldered through another layer of the crowd. It seemed impossibly thick, all of them pressing to get even a little bit closer to the door. And as she moved, she pressed them in even tighter.

  A voice went up, loud and clear. Loud enough that she, along with the entire crowd, stopped what they were doing and looked up.

  The preacher was there. She'd seen him a few times, in passing. Not enough to know more than that about him. But it was easy to see the resemblance between him and the gray-haired man sitting on the seat beside him. No one stood near the coach, she saw. They seemed to have cleared a space. It wasn't until one of them shifted and she saw the rifle over the soldiers' shoulder that she realized how they'd done it.

  A h
alf-dozen men with military bearing and sour expressions on their faces held the crowd back far enough that there would be no risk of the crowd ever touching one solitary hair on the horses pulling the coach before they were dealt with. Swiftly, no doubt.

  "People! You've heard the words of wanted men—and has Chris Broadmoor denied it? Never once!"

  The crowd fell quieter still. The murmurs died down. There was someone in charge, now, and they'd wait for him to give the orders.

  "I have spoken with you fine people about him more than once. And now you see, with your own eyes, that I have spoken the truth."

  She pushed harder. There was a bad feeling in her gut.

  "Are we going to allow that sort of man in our community?"

  "No," someone cried out from the mob. Several other voices joined in. Marie pushed harder, and made it another couple of feet. In just a few more steps, she'd be there.

  A hand grabbed around her arm.

  "I've got his whore!"

  She turned to find Mrs. Bradbury's face, beaming, her other arm held up high to show everyone exactly where the 'whore' was.

  "Don't hurt her, dear. Just bring her here. We're not animals."

  The crowd spread out, making room for them as she was pulled past. There was no hope of fighting, so Marie let them take her.

  It was far, far too late to do anything else, now.

  Thirty-Eight

  Chris watched the doctor working with a tight jaw for a minute. He'd expect payment, at some point. That would be a problem. Hopefully, it would be a problem he could leave with Mick and Sheriff Roberts, but if it wasn't—well, he'd made the problem.

  If things went sideways, then he'd have to be the one to deal with the consequences. He let out a long breath. His hips hurt from all the riding. It had been years since he'd spent that kind of time in the saddle, and now he was beginning to remember why he hadn't ever wanted to live that sort of life.

  Sore, and here he was right back where he'd started the day, more tired and with nothing to show for it but a couple of broken men who had been fine when they went to bed the night before. The only one making out was the Doc, and even he had to be feeling the pressure, with two men in his care who, far as Chris could tell, might go at any moment.

  He took a breath. There was a racket outside. People yelling, people shouting. No different than it had been on the way in, but now it was time to stop running away from it. If they wanted him, then by God, they were going to get him.

  He looked down at the gun belt on his hip. The damn thing had caused more problems than it was worth. What use was it now? The only thing it would do if he wore it out into that crowd of people would be to convince folks he was every bit the killer they seemed to think he was.

  Chris pulled the buckle loose and set it down.

  "I'm gonna leave this here," he called into the other room. The doc didn't respond, not that he'd expected one. And then, with a breath like he was about to dip his head under the water, he stepped out through the doors.

  Once the door opened, the sound of the crowd outside, riled up enough to start a war, hit him like a ton of bricks. It didn't take more than a moment for them to notice him coming through, and then near on two hundred souls all tried to come at him at once.

  Chris let them grab him, let them pull him, handed from one to the next like a bucket of water during a house fire. And then he was standing, staring the priest down. The governor was still sitting, a sour expression on his face.

  He didn't approach, once they'd passed him through the crowd, past the territorial soldiers. If they wanted him to come closer, they'd say so. Until then, he'd keep his distance. It was safer that way for everyone involved.

  "You wanted to see me, Reverend?"

  Marie was there, too. She looked fit to be tied, but she kept it bottled in. A good woman, one who knew when it might be better not to say anything. This was one of those times, he feared.

  "Chris. Mr. Broadmoor. You have the nerve to come out here, and face these people, after all the trouble you've brought down on their heads?"

  The bartender's shoulders slumped forward. "I ain't running away, if that's what you mean."

  The preacher's expression remained unchanged, and Chris had a suspicion that it didn't much matter what he said next. Things were in motion, now, and all he could do was soften the blow.

  "Your… loose morals, known throughout the community—" he paused for a moment when the crowd momentarily lost their composure, and then continued. "Are one thing, when it falls on your own head. You may corrupt the drunkards and vagrants going through your little bar."

  Chris kept his mouth shut and straightened up. Whatever the man had to say, he could say. Weren't nothing that Chris could do about it in the first place, and if this was the penance he'd pay for his sins in the past, then he'd pay it.

  "You might even, though it be shameful, seduce away some poor, innocent young woman whose faith has strayed." The way he looked over at Marie, like she was something on the bottom of his shoe, burned a fire in Chris's gut.

  "You keep your mouth shut about Miss Bainbridge, or I'll—"

  "You'll, what, shoot me with your pistol? Very civilized, Mr. Broadmoor. I suppose we all expect nothing more from a vagabond like yourself, but I'd hoped you could at least keep yourself in check for a few moments."

  He clicked his teeth together and stared.

  "But, in spite of all that, all we are willing to allow you—one thing that I, that my people, that the Lord God on high, cannot abide, is to spread this wickedness to children. To teach them the ways of evil."

  Chris's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."

  The priest spoke softly. "Oh, I do what I must do, in order to ensure that the future generations, the children that I must protect, are not harmed by vultures like you."

  "What is it you want from me?"

  The priest's lips pinched together, and his eyebrows raised a little. Like he was surprised at having been asked. And further, like it didn't much matter.

  "You seem to have misunderstood me, Mr. Broadmoor. I don't want anything from you. I've already made up my mind."

  Chris's mind raced. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, not for a moment, it would be letting that boy suffer the same fate he'd suffered himself. To be left in a jungle like that—nobody deserved it. They ought to have a home, at least the closest they could get to it. People who cared for them, who kept them safe.

  He took a breath and steadied himself before speaking.

  "And what if I left town? What then?"

  Thirty-Nine

  Marie's jaw went tight when he made the suggestion. Perhaps, if there were some element of the entire plan that was logical, that relied on logic, then it would be able to work. But now, they weren't chasing out some man who had been successfully tarred with a bad name. They were purging the Chris from their town and from their souls.

  It was a way of approaching the world that was dangerous. Not only for Chris, though he was in the most immediate danger, but for the people themselves. The Catholic inside her burned to start lecturing them on repenting for their own sins, and looking inwardly. But that would only serve the purpose of having her sent out of town with him.

  Not that it would be so bad, for her. Marie, at least, could solve all of her problems by simply going back home. No more bad reputation—after all, she'd been the one who was so kind as to go out and help those folks in the terrible wasteland of the Oklahoma territory. That was what people had said before she left, and no doubt that would be essentially what they said when she got back.

  Her throat choked. Wait. A plan was beginning to form in her head.

  "Chris!" He looked up at her through knit brows, with a look that said not to start it. That he would rather just let this all go the way it was going to go. It would have been fine by her, since he's the master of his own life. But not hers. "Do you feel sorry for what you've done?"

  He sagged again. She could see it in him, all the ai
r leaving him like he was an accordion. She couldn't hear his response, but anyone looking at him would have known what he said, even if they were deaf.

  She twisted to look at the reverend. "I don't suppose they teach the Bible out here, in the West, do they? 'and if he repent, forgive him.'"

  Marie didn't know what to expect from the preacher. Something. She expected him to turn on her like a villain from one of her dime store novels. But his eyes were blank when he looked at her. His expression was one of consideration.

  "Are you asking me to forgive Mr. Broadmoor his sins?"

  "I think it would be the Christian thing to do."

  The preacher's expression was thoughtful, and then he went blank for a moment. She watched the wheels in his head turn. What was going to come next, she wondered. What was going to come next, and how could she deal with it?

  "Brothers and Sisters!"

  The crowd cheered. There may have been a time when this was based on religion, Marie thought. but that time was long since gone. They were here for spectacle.

  "You, the good people of Applewood Junction—you have seen what I have seen. You have seen the people of our town, sinking into the pit. You have seen the corruption spreading! You have seen the effects of sin, when it seeps into the pores of the unprotected and unguided. But you—you have been kept clean, through your devotion."

  Marie said nothing, her teeth chattering together. This was bad.

  "But you have also heard me speak, over and over, of the power of the Lord to keep company with thieves and prostitutes, to cleanse them of sin, even Mary Magdalene, who was cleansed of seven demons. Here we have before us one such man. A man who has known sin, who has had a bellyful of corruption."

  The crowd, the one that had been jeering, grew silent as he spoke. Marie's hand clutched at her dress, the priest's hand around her arm loosening its grip.

  "Now, he asks us for forgiveness. And what have I said, up until now?"