by Amy Faye
"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 place 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 for 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."
Marie kept her lips pursed together for as long as she could. Catholics weren't exactly regarded fondly in the area, she knew. It hadn't taken long to suss that out. She might as well be godless, or a Mormon, or worship the natives' strange gods, as to be Catholic.
It was always a matter of time before she responded, though. She couldn't simply ignore his comments, regardless how much she might have liked to, in the way that she couldn't have ignored a slap in her face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bradbury, but I don't believe we've met before."
He sneered, the implication requiring no words.
"No, and I don't know that I would like to again, Miss Bainbridge. I only wanted to make sure that you knew that we're not going to stand for this sort of behavior. A chance to rectify yourself is the Christian thing, after all," he said, with the emphasis on 'Christian' as if she were going to be cowed by it.
Marie scowled. Maybe Chris was right to have kept her out of it. Because she was three things, after all. First a schoolteacher, second a Catholic, and third, most troublesome of all, she was Irish.
And the Irish in her had her blood boiling right now, whether she liked it or not.
Twenty-Four
There isn't a whole lot of chance that if one of the Broadmoors is in town–well, one other than himself, Chris corrected automatically–that the others are far. They certainly aren't unaware of where the rest are. He was the only one who left, the only one who'd even talked about leaving.
So there wasn't a chance in hell that he was going to believe it when Jack Broadmoor, the crown prince of whatever the hell Chris's brothers called themselves, said he was there alone, and nobody else knew where Chris was hiding out.
He was making an attempt, however pathetic, to calm Chris down. It wasn't going to work, and there was no way it was ever going to. The hell he'd gone through to get away from his brothers was all he needed to remember to know that there was no reason he'd ever go back, under any circumstance at all.
None of this was a surprise. None of it could have been a surprise. Jack was as smart as a whip. He could be surprised; Chris had seen it himself, with his own eyes. More than that, he'd seen it on several occasions. But the things that would surprise Jack were things that couldn't be predicted.
No, panic was exactly what Chris ought to have expected, and if he ought to have expected it, then he expected it, simple as that. He'd tried to play it cool, of course. Jack always tried to play things cool. So when Jack told him that he should really relax, that there was nothing to worry about and everything was fine, it was hard to guess which was the right way to go.
Chris took a deep breath and pressed himself into his bed and closed his eyes tight. Someone else might have been able to see through the plan. He wasn't one of those people. Marie was a teacher, maybe she had a solid head for these kind of things.
But just the same as there was no way he didn't get nervous with his brothers around, there was no way he went and explained the entire situation to Marie. She shouldn't have been involved with him at all. He wasn't going to have her any more involved than necessary if he could at all help it.
He let out a deep breath and got up. There was time for laying around and there was time for work, and it was time for work. Luckily for Chris, he didn't have to go far.
Unluckily for him, when the big man finally dressed and stepped through the door, trouble was already waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. Like most trouble, it didn't look immediately like trouble, and that was why Chris didn't know to avoid it.
"Hey, man," Jim drawled. "How you doin' today?"
The bouncer was sitting in his corner of the room, looking suitably pleased with himself in spite of having done nothing in particular to deserve it.
"Hey yourself," Chris responded.
He couldn't shake a vague dislike for Jim, but they spent most of every afternoon together. There was no reason to be uncivil, he reckoned. And maybe, somewhere under the veneer of lecherous idiot, there was some meat to dig into. He'd worked there for three years and hadn't seen a single hint of it, but there was still time to turn things around.
"You heard the talk?"
Chris checked the ice chest to make sure it was still cold, checked the taps on the kegs, but he answered all the same. "Talk? No, no talk. I've been in my room."
"Oh yeah?" The question was entirely tone, and Chris didn't miss out on what the bouncer implied. He scowled.
"Alone, in my room."
"Sure. So you ain't heard then."
"No, Jim, I ain't heard."
"Some folks talkin' to your lady friend. The Bradburys, if I hear talk right."
"She's a free woman, she can talk to who she likes."
"Talk is, the conversation weren't all friendly."
"No?"
"Not the least bit friendly. Say the Deacon and his wife came by to say they weren't gonna let–now, I hear his exact words were, 'godless heathen bitch' and Mick swears on a stack of bibl
es that's what he said–get her claws into no child–"
Chris's sneer deepened. "I'm goin' out for a bit."
He rose and stepped out the door. He didn't have time for this. Couldn't Jack have made an appointment? After all, he had trouble to dust up. Jack was just enough more that he was going to have to figure a way to handle it all at once, and no matter how it went down, it wasn't going to be pretty.
He leapt up a short set of stairs and inside. There were folks sitting in the pews, but no preacher sitting there talking to them. It was just as well, because apparently the distraction of Chris Broadmoor, the subject of a good deal of the town's gossip and rumor-mill, was too great.
He rapped on the door harder than he ought to have, and when he didn't get an answer, Chris rapped on it again. The sound of movement inside was followed a moment later by the padre opening the door. When he saw Chris's face he lost the sanguine expression he'd worn opening the door.
"Come to confess your sins?"
"No, father. I think we ought to talk inside."
The man's expression didn't change. He didn't particularly want to talk to Chris, and Chris didn't blame him. He didn't particularly want to talk to the preacher, either, but the situation called for it either way.
"Fine," he said, his lips pinching together. "Make it quick."
Chris stepped through the door. "I don't put much stock in rumor, father, so I thought I'd come and confirm with you."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Broadmoor."
"I'm sure you don't. Your deacon, Mr. Bradbury, was apparently talking all kinds of trash to the schoolteacher."
"Mr. Bradbury's a good man," was all the pastor said. But he wasn't denying it, Chris noted. And that told him what he needed to be told.
Twenty-Five
