by Amy Faye
"I've heard you were a killer, hiding out from the law. Heard you were a spy from Washington. Heard all kinds of things."
"All true," he reminded her again.
"And the one thing I haven't heard is someone talking about you going out shooting men. Not since you got here, anyways."
"I'm sorry to have disappointed you."
He rolled over onto his side and let out a long breath, looking at the little room that was most of his life now. The rest of it was sitting at the foot of his little bed. If she decided to stay, he'd never have a reason to leave the place.
"Shush," she said, a little annoyance, mixed with amusement, finding its way into her voice. "I'm making a point."
"Well, you better get to it, then, 'fore I sass you to death, ma'am."
"So why now, all of a sudden? Twice, in the last month, after years of bein' a complete mystery that never tried to shoot nobody."
"Nobody ever made a move, 'fore this."
"I don't see anyone trying to do anything now. You're not reacting, Chris, you're going looking for something, and I want to know why. Now, you're going to tell me, or I'm going to rip it out of you."
He leaned up on his elbow. "I believe you would, too."
"Then get talking, mister." She couldn't quite keep the illusion that she was angry with him, but she was doing her best either way.
He laid back. "What if I just promise not to do it again?"
Marie shook her head. "I don't believe you. Tell me what's got you so riled up."
"I'm not riled up."
Chris couldn't help but smile at the way he'd managed to rile her up. "You know full well what I mean."
"I do," he admitted. "You want to hear the story? It's not short,"
"I didn't expect it was. We've got time."
"You sure? If you're going to be staying in my room an extended period, I've got something else—"
She swatted his leg. "Get to talking."
"I don't know how much is obvious, so I'll start at the beginning."
"Alright."
"I come from a hundred miles or so from here. Dad was a dirt farmer, had a few cows that made what money we had. I's the third son, so they call on a favor. Ma died when I was seven. Consumption, they said. Got me a good apprenticeship when I was ten years old with the carpenter."
"Alright."
"I spent a few years doing that. Learned most of what I ought to know. So my mother was dead, and Dad, he never got remarried. So when he got caught out by sickness, I mean… died in the night. I suppose that's how you want to go, if you gotta. By then I wasn't the youngest, no more. They sent us off. I was only a couple years out of being a man, 'course, so it wasn’t all that bad. A couple unpleasant years."
"Okay. I'm not seeing—"
"I'm coming to that. Be patient, now. I don't like talking about this stuff, so I ain't got a quick way to get 'round to it."
She closed her mouth and waited patiently for him to continue.
"I get out of the home, and there's my older brother, waiting for me. He tells me all sorts of stuff, about how we got to get things settled for the family when they get out of the home."
He leaned his head back. It was tempting to make things sound like he didn't have any fault at all. If he tried to squint real hard at the situation, he could see it that way. But that wasn't quite true, was it?
"I ought to have gotten work back home, with that carpenter. Would have been a good life, and I wouldn't have had no trouble. Could have supported the boys until they were on their own feet, too. But Jack, he sounded like he knew what he was talking about."
"So what did you do, then?"
He let out a long breath. "We figured quick money was best. Get a good amount of money settled up before the other boys could join us, right? That way, no problems."
The bartender gave Marie a significant look, one that he could see wasn’t entirely lost on her. "Quick money, we figured. Not quick-and-legal money, if you catch my meaning."
She caught it well enough.
"So, then—"
"No, we didn't kill nobody. Not to my knowledge. But we left some people in some pretty tight spots, and I ain't proud of it."
She blinked but held her face steady. "And then?"
"The boys got out, and we had money, sure enough, but… don't you know how it is, it ain't never enough, so we kept on that way. Things didn't get better, neither. They got worse. Eventually, I ate a shot in my leg. Not too bad, all told, but it put me down in the middle of a job, and they had to move along in a hurry. Nobody really stopped to check on me, 's I wasn't moving a whole lot and they needed to get gone."
She stayed silent. Maybe the questions in her head were too much, or maybe she couldn't find words for them, but they were painted on her face.
"So then, ah—" Chris took a breath and tried to steady himself, but it was too much to hope for. "They gave me a place to stay. Patched me up. Introduced me to their boy, and maybe the most important of all, they didn't tell nobody about the circumstances of our meeting, and I suppose for all that, I owe them about everything I got, don't I? They're—ah, they're dead, though, now, so. I can't rightly pay 'em back."
He laid his head back and stared at his ceiling, his breaths coming unsteadily. Then Marie laid her head down on his chest, not saying a thing, and wrapped her arm around him, and he closed his eyes to hold back the wall of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him.
Thirty-Three
There was no violence in it this time, when her lips found his. No desperation. Marie could feel something else there to replace it, though. A softer sort of need. His arms wrapped around her slowly, clinging to her and holding her in a grip that was comforting in its tightness.
His beard scratched against her skin, threatening to tickle at any moment, but she held off, because she knew that he needed something that she could offer him. Some sort of comfort. After the excitement of the day, Marie thought, she could use the comfort as well.
Her arms wrapped around him as best as they could, with their weight pressing down into the bed, and pulled him in tighter. He seemed to enjoy the closeness as much as she did. The kiss deepened, their desire tightening them together as much as their arms and the weight of their bodies.
She pushed herself up, off of him, and settled her weight back on her hips. They pushed down on the part of him that made him a man, and he pushed back up against her, his body letting her know exactly how he felt about her.
Marie could feel his eyes on her all the time as she reached down to fiddle with the buttons on her dress, undoing them one by one. The first was easy, but as her fingers fought for grip on the little bead of a button with the second, finally getting it to slip out, she realized that she'd been overconfident.
Suddenly, the reality of what she was doing hit her all at once. She'd done this before. She'd done it before, with him. But that had been in the dark, it had been rough and something that had happened in a moment of–
No, not a moment of weakness, she cut herself off. But a moment of passion? Certainly. Now she was undressing herself for the first time before a man who'd just admitted to being every bit the vagabond that some accused him of being, and her fingers froze up.
Was he going to find her adequate? Would he have high expectations for her, after all this time? What if he didn't find her, you know–attractive? After all, there was a big difference between a convenient woman and a pretty one, wasn't there?
He reached up as her breathing started to hitch in her chest with one broad, strong hand and ran a thumb across her cheek. He seemed strangely vulnerable to her, which ought to have been impossible for a man like Chris Broadmoor.
"Are you alright?"
Her jaw tightened. She was alright. She wasn't going to say that she was nervous. She'd never been nervous about anything in her life, before this, and she wasn't going to start now.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice hard, and pulled the next button roughly, to prove to hersel
f as much as to him that she had complete control of herself. That she could do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
Chris smiled, and then rolled his hips up into her, rubbing the rough fabric of his clothes against her through layers of dress. Her eyes shut themselves tight reflexively, her hips meeting his and temporarily halting her fingers.
The man below didn't wait for her to continue, reaching up and taking the next button between his thick fingers and with a gentle flip, it came undone, showing more of her body.
His hips rolled up into hers again, but she kept her focus this time, brushing his hands away. She'd do it herself, if only to prove that she wasn't afraid.
The shoulders of the dress hung loose on her shoulders, threatening to fall off and leave her there wearing only her camisole to hide her breasts from his eyes. He moved his hips again, threatening to rob her of her senses once more. Reluctantly, Marie slipped off of him, claiming control of herself for a fleeting moment.
The dress fell away easily when she let the top fall, leaving her in her unmentionables, which may as well have been nude, the way that his eyes raked over her. Marie's face burned red, but she continued undressing, her hands shaking.
The camisole came apart easily. Five buttons. They were no different than any other, she reminded herself. It was nothing special, even as each one revealed inches of ivory-colored skin that she'd never let any man see.
He didn't waste a moment in pushing himself out of bed to wrap his arms around her, his skin rough against the smooth skin of her sides. His face dipped low and took one dusky-colored nipple between his lips, sending a jolt of pleasure through her shoulders and into the rest of her body.
Her hands worked the drawstring keeping her petticoat up before she lost her nerve, and then realized with a start that she was the only one with her clothes off. A gentle bite on her nipples, though, drove the thought quickly from her mind. His lips left her for a moment, only to rejoin again on the other side, balancing out the pleasure as Chris replaced his teeth with this fingers, pinching and pulling until her nipple stood at attention.
His arm wrapped around her hip, then, and his weight shifted back, pulling Marie into bed. She let him, turning and falling into the soft mattress as his lips pulled away from her with a soft 'pop.'
He stepped back for a moment himself, his own clothing coming off simply, hurried but without desperation. His shirt fell to the floor, already forgotten in favor of working the clasp on his belt. Then he was pulling down his pants, and Marie couldn't help but gasp.
His cock was big, from this close up. She'd felt it before, even seen it, but this was a completely different circumstance. Now she had time, she had good lighting, and she wondered how it could have possibly fit inside her. She reached out tentatively, wondering if she could even fit it in her hand.
She couldn't, she discovered–it filled her grip completely, her fingers not quite able to close around the shaft. The bartender's hips rolled into her hand, his voice coming out hoarse and thick with need.
"Jesus, Marie–"
The way he was looking at her had her heart racing. Set her on edge, full with need. She held herself still, in spite of all that. Then, slowly, she moved her hand up and down his shaft again, taking great care to be gentle. Chris's eyes fluttered shut.
"I need you," he growled, putting his hand around her wrist.
"Do you now?"
Marie let him push her back, one strong hand pressed in the middle of her chest, providing an illusion that he'd hold her down and take whatever he wanted. Marie knew better, but the feeling sent a surge of arousal shooting into her. His knee pressed her thighs apart and he took the place between them, his hands hooking under her thighs and lifting them, spreading them wide to wrap around his waist.
He pressed himself up against her, his hardness teasing her with temptations that she didn't know how she could go without when they inevitably had to return to their lives, even if only for a few hours.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he growled. She let her eyes drift shut at the words and nodded–he didn't need a second invitation before pushing himself into her, filling her all the way in a single rough thrust.
Her eyes shot open but saw nothing, whatever power her mind used to see turned off for the sake of containing the pleasure that coiled her body around him. His hips pushed into her again, hitting her deepest places and setting fire to every nerve along the way.
Her lungs spasmed and forced a gasp from Marie's lips, a little voice escaping when she let the air out. She sounded every bit like–like the sort of woman she certainly wasn't. Then again, maybe she was. He thrust into her again and she met his hips again with an upward roll of her own. Another orgasm built in her belly, coming up fast as he moved deep and rough, holding onto her for any purchase he could get.
And then, all at once, he let out a hoarse cry and pushed deep inside, his tightening fingers and the way that he hit exactly where she needed it sending her over the edge. Her body milked him for his seed as he shot himself into her, warmth filling her body.
Her breath came hard, the fire of need slowly leaving her body and leaving her to move her body on her own. It didn't want to, though. She'd much rather have laid there beside him as long as she could. But it wasn't going to last forever, and she knew it couldn't.
Thirty-Four
Chris laid his head back on the bed. Should have been at work. Should have been doing his job. At this rate, he was going to lose it, no doubt about that. But there were things needed doing, and Stan would understand or he'd find more work. There wasn't any special shortage of jobs, after all. That much, at least, he could praise Applewood Junction for.
He looked down at Marie, who dozed lightly against his chest, her soft breasts pooling and pressing against his ribs. She felt good against him, pressed there. It killed him to do it, but he shook her awake.
"I'm up," she said softly, as if she thought she hadn't been softly snoring a moment before.
"I have to go," he said. She nodded and sat back up. He took a moment to watch her, to watch the way that her body moved. He didn't deserve her, that much was for certain. But if she was going to be here, he'd at least enjoy the show.
"You have to promise," she said, pinning her hair back.
"Promise what?" He swung his legs off the side of the bed and pulled on his blue jeans.
"Promise you won't go off trying to get yourself killed."
He took a deep breath. That would be the easiest way out of all this trouble. Just get his own head blown off and everyone else could just walk away. But she had the right idea, whether he liked it or not.
"I promise," he said, before he was even entirely conscious of speaking. "I'm just going to talk to the Sheriff."
"And you're not going to get yourself involved any further?"
He glanced over at her; she was straightening her slip and pulling her dress back on over her head. He slipped his own arms through the sleeves of his shirt.
"I'm already involved, Marie."
She pursed her lips and he knew he'd said the wrong thing. It wasn't as if he could just walk away, though. Why couldn't she see that?
"I just don't want to see you getting yourself hurt," she said finally, fitting a pin into her hair that almost hid the chaos that had overtaken it a few minutes prior.
"I won't. You made your point."
She gave him a long, tired look. He understood it, but there wasn't anything else he could do. And then, a moment later, she was gone. He fit his pistol around his waist and took a deep breath. It would be easier to deal with his brothers himself. He could just lay it all on the line and if it went wrong, then he was the only one who got hurt.
But Chris already knew that wasn't an option any more. It had already gone wrong, if other people were getting hurt, and sure as the sun rose in the morning, Mick was layed up in the doc's, likely as not to succumb to his injuries. Someone needed to set things straight, and clearly, the bartender's way of doing th
ings wasn't doing the job no matter how much he wanted it to.
The Sheriff didn't look surprised when he walked in. Roberts never gave Chris the impression of being surprised. It was a trait that worked well in Sheriffs and bartenders both. A Sheriff has to deal with all kinds of craziness that normal people never see. A bartender hears all sorts of stories and has to sit with a straight face while some drunk tells them. In a sense, they were practically the same.
"Sheriff, I got some information for you. It ain't much, but it's something. I hope."
He told the short version of the story, as short as he could get it. By the end of it, the Sheriff was leaning back and thumbing cartridges into a rifle idly, as if he did it every day.
"You know where they're hiding out?"
"Sure," Chris answered. "They told me to go meet 'em."
"Then you could take me there."
The bartender answered by way of a solemn nod.
"I don't like the notion of taking a civilian along, no offense, but I suppose it has to be done."
"Suppose you're right," Chris said.
That was the last thing they said for a while. The bartender followed the Sheriff out the door and slipped onto the back of his horse. He took the lead, in spite of the fact that he shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have been going at all, if Marie had her way. She had the right look, too, but there wasn't much choice.
Finally, the sun settling into an evening twilight, they crested a hill, and Chris saw what he'd been looking for. A big tree, half the branches missing and the trunk bent and gnarled like an old woman's spine. "There," he said, and pointed.
The Sheriff nodded; Chris could guess what he was thinking without the man saying anything. This was about where one would expect outlaws to be hiding out. Far enough out that nobody was going to come looking if they didn't know where to find what they were looking for. On the other hand, it was close enough that you could make it in an hour or two—little enough time to cause as much mischief as you might need.
