Rugged Cowboys (Western Romance Collection)

by Amy Faye

  Her voice is firm but not angry, hopefully a good balance. A dozen eyes drop back to the desks in front of them, pencils picked back up where they've rolled away. Marie follows the bartender out the door.

  "What's the message?"

  "I'm real sorry about this," he says. The way he looks at her isn't at all apologetic, though. It sends a shiver down Marie's spine in spite of herself.

  "Just tell me what you came here to tell me."

  "Zella came to tell me, to tell you, there's a problem with your room. Gonna have to get a room over at the hotel. It's their fault, so they'll put up board until they can get you back up in your own bed."

  "And she couldn't have delivered the message herself?"

  "I asked her the same thing."

  He doesn't say anything more, but she doesn't need him to. He didn't get an answer. She could easily have come herself, but she'd sent Chris instead.

  Marie didn't know whether to be upset or to buy the woman a drink. More than likely, it would be both, and in that order.

  Four

  Christopher Broadmoor shifted his hips as he waited for the ale to pour into the tall glass. He couldn't get the thought out of his mind that he ought to have known better than going over there. Have Zella do it her damn self; the restaurant wasn't so busy that she couldn't spare a few minutes' walk over.

  It wasn't as if she were so sly that he couldn't see what she was doing. What he couldn't see was why. He'd never heard Zella say a negative word toward him, but that was no reason to go trying to play matchmaker between him and a schoolteacher from back east.

  Miss Bainbridge didn't need a man with a past like his mucking up her personal affairs, and she sure enough didn't seem like she wanted it in spite of what was good for her.

  He shook his head and set the beer on the wide bar. A man with a broad country-boy smile nodded his head. Just someone passing through, it seemed—he wasn't familiar, certainly not a regular. He didn't wear a gun, so it was easy to ignore him.

  Chris would learn, a little later, the mistake he'd made in writing the young guy off. But in the first moments, he hadn't noticed any of it. The boy walked off, and the big bartender turned to the next patron to come up, with thoughts of a pretty young woman with an eastern accent running heavy through his mind.

  There was always more work to be done, of course. Any free moments were quickly filled with getting new glasses prepared, keeping the bar tidy, and the customers engaged. Chris was a bartender, after all—not a bouncer. It had taken some reminding at first, but five years is a long time to settle into a routine.

  Which is why he didn't notice the ruckus about to start. The fine-honed edge of instinct that would have warned him of the changing tone in the room had been dulled by neglect. The first cry that went up, though, turned him around.

  The card game had been going on for hours, in spite of changing faces around the table. None of the same people who had been there 'round lunch time were there now, but it was still one continuous game that hadn't let up. This time of night, most folks playing were regulars. Regulars and the country boy, passing through.

  From the pile of money in front of him, he wasn't just some poor Okie. Maybe that was what he wanted them to think. Probably made him better money.

  In the split-second as Chris looked up, the boy let out a yell and Chris took in the scene. It didn't matter to him that Mick Young was a fool, any more than it mattered that he raised chickens. The bartender didn't buy eggs, and he didn't care to fleece a prime candidate like Mickey.

  But that didn't stop him from noticing, and it apparently hadn't stopped the Okie from noticing either. Well, it might have taken a while, but Mick seemed to have noticed, too, and from the look on his face, he wasn't taking the news well. His face was all twisted up in a snarl.

  The chair behind him was already being thrown back onto the ground. Chris's mind raced. Were either of them armed? The boy, he knew, wasn't. Not with a pistol, anyways. Chris tried to recall when Mick had sat down, and then the big bartender was moving as fast as he could in the space of a heartbeat.

  The noise and the smoke beat him to the table. Five years ago, he might have reached for his own iron, and even now he could feel an itch to pull it as a measure of safety. He quieted the reflex as best he could and sucked in a breath before diving into the smokey haze.

  His hand came down hard on Mickey's pistol, grabbing and twisting and pulling with his left as his right rocked the farmer's chin. For a moment, the bartender allowed himself to relax. If Mick let himself stay on the floor, maybe that would be the end of it.

  His vision swept the room to see what the extent of the damage was. The Okie standing there, his hands balled up at his sides, said that he hadn't hit whatever he'd aimed at. There was a hole in the table, and a hole in the floor, and a half-dozen men pushed back with their eyes as wide as could be, but no shock of red blood.

  Chris looked back just in time to see Mick get up with anger in his eyes. He took his sweet time responding. It was his second mistake of the night. The Okie wasn't going to let him get a second try. Chris couldn't blame him, but the flash of a knife showing meant he had to step in anyways.

  The feeling of a blade biting into his flesh never got easier to bear, no matter how many times it happened. Letting it get to him wasn't an option, though. Not when it could mean someone else getting hurt. His teeth rattled as he gnashed them together, and his hand came across in a heavy clubbing motion.

  The boy clattered to the ground. The knife slipped free, and Christopher's heavy boot heel clapped down on top of it. The gash in his side felt wasn't one of the worse wounds he'd had, but his mind screamed at him to fight harder, to get out of the situation. Adrenaline and pain mixed into a heady cocktail that made it hard to keep his eyes focused and keep himself calm.

  "Stay down," he growled, his hand dropping finally to the butt of his pistol in a threat that didn't need to be voiced. "Both of you."

  He shot an eyelong glance toward the door. "Somebody go fetch the Sheriff, will you? We'll let the law sort this out."

  The boy moved a little, and Chris pulled back the hammer on his pistol without moving to slip it from his belt. The audible 'click' stilled him.

  "I got to get out of here, boss."

  "You'll get a fair shake. We all saw Mick pull a pistol, didn't we?"

  "I'm not going to hang for this," the kid says, trying to make himself sound more certain of himself than looked. "By God, I ain't gonna hang."

  Chris turns to regard Mick, who sat on the floor rubbing at his lip where it had busted open.

  "You neither. Don't move."

  The Okie tried to protest a third time, but Chris cut him off.

  "Soon as the Sheriff gets here, he'll get the whole story straight from me. He'll see what to do about it, and you ain't gonna talk your way out of it. I wouldn't recommend trying to fight your way out, neither."

  The boy got a sullen look on his face. There wasn't a whole lot he could do to change the situation, though, and Chris was thankful that he realized it.

  He'd had plenty of other stuff to worry about already. This was exactly what he didn't want to deal with today. The sound of footsteps outside told him someone was coming. Hopefully with a Sheriff in tow. Then maybe he'd be able to get back to his damned job.

  The kid relaxed back down to the floor, finally getting his head on straight. Chris's hands shook as he pulled his pistol free of the holster to let the hammer back forward gently. In a minute, the adrenaline would pass, and then he'd see what needed to be done about the new scar he'd have in a week or two.

  Five

  There was absolutely no reason for the big bartender to have come back to her little schoolhouse at the edge of town. With no kids, he wasn't going to need to discuss her teaching. He wasn't going to need to see her for anything at all, and up until several days ago, he hadn't done it one time.

  That didn't stop Marie from looking up, and somewhere deep down in her gut, wonderin
g if he'd be standing there in her doorway again. It had been distracting. The sound of the rain slapping against the side of the building, though, told her more than adequately not to expect anything.

  If he was going to come, he'd wait until it were a little less miserable out. Half the kids had done the same.

  The other half crowded the edges of the room, finding little spaces between the wide cracks in the ceiling—cracks that hadn't been particularly noticeable until the water pouring through them soaked her hair.

  She looked up again as a crack came from above and the spot where she'd been standing was showered with a bucketful of water, landing right in her face. She took a deep breath and stepped away for a moment: rubbing the water out of her eyes, squeezing what she could from her hair, and smothering the frustration that threatened to overwhelm her as best she could.

  It was lucky that the few who had come in were young. As the day went on she was becoming more and more drenched, and if she wasn't outright indecent already, it wouldn't be long. She shivered at the thought of anyone seeing her like this.

  She'd never live down the talk that would come about. Never in a million years, no matter what Chris Broadmoor did. Jamie Pearson was still waiting patiently when she turned back. Arithmetic wasn't her strongest suit, but it needed to be taught.

  Marie's eyes scan the floor, looking for somewhere—anywhere—where the rain wasn't coming straight through. She eventually settled for a spot with the wall pressing up against her backside, but it was dry enough and if she was lucky, maybe it would stay that way.

  She let herself slip back into teaching mode. Cover the lessons as best she could, given the circumstances. No need to worry about any of this until later. When something could be done about it.

  But that didn't stop her from worrying. Not one bit. Marie let out an exasperated sigh—Jamie's eyes went wide looking down at his slate, a momentary flash of panic that maybe she was mad at him. She didn't know what was going on in his house, not really. But there were signs that something was wrong, without a single doubt. Every little thing was a possible cause for extreme alarm. That wasn't the behavior of a healthy, happy child.

  She made a mental note to see what could be done about it. Maybe go by his house and see what he was dealing with.

  Then again, she made a mental note as well to have someone do something about the schoolhouse. They couldn't keep working in a place like this. They'd all go home soaked to their bones because the schoolhouse, a place where children are supposed to learn and be taught, a place where young minds are shaped, where the nation's future was supposed to flourish, had more holes in it than cheesecloth.

  Satisfied that Jamie had grasped the material, she left him with several problems to work through. No doubt it would take him some time to complete them, which gave her ample time to go and make sure that all of the other youngsters were on-task.

  An hour later, the sun was back out. That can happen, and the warmth was starting to come back. The children filed out slowly, one by one. Jamie looked nervous as he left. His parents would be coming back any day now, but no doubt he was nonetheless nervous.

  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 wi
th 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."