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They didn't have much else to talk about, nor much else to think about. If he was enough distraction to bother being talked about, then he'd just keep doing what he would. It brought more people into the saloon. More people in the saloon meant more money in his pocket, and he wasn't going to turn that attention down just for a little peace of mind.
He pulled a seat back from an empty table in the back and sat away from it, so that when Zella came out from the kitchen, she'd see him looking for her. She put on the same smile when she saw him that she put on with all the customers, one that split her tanned, leathery face in half and lit up the room.
He nodded, and she nodded back, even though she didn't head over right away. She had a tall glass of water in her hand, and she carried it across the room first. Chris couldn't see who Zella handed it to, but he could see that she waited a minute, talking. Maybe taking an order, but when the old girl didn't head right back into the kitchen, he had to assume that wasn't the case.
She came over with a sway to her hips that might have been interesting if she were twenty years younger, and slipped out another chair.
"You know, hon, this time of day, we're pretty busy. You think you would mind if we put you at another table?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't figure that would cause trouble?"
She smiles. "No, Mr. Broadmoor, I don't figure it would be any trouble at all. Come on, we'll get you acquainted."
The way she said it was odd—there weren't enough people in town that he wasn't already acquainted with all of them. It set him on edge in a way that he hadn't been since he was running around with the boys. All the same, he followed Zella as she retraced her steps back over to the other table. It wasn't until he got halfway there that he realized who was sitting at it.
"Mr. Broadmoor? This is Marie Bainbridge, maybe you two've seen each other 'round town."
"From a distance," he says coolly. She reminds him of a thousand people from the city all at once, with all the edges rounded off and some very noticeable new additions. She looks at him with an expression she might give to some mud she'd stepped in, an affliction that Chris found common in folks from the east.
"Is there going to be a problem?" Zella made a hopeful smile, as if to say that she'd much rather they didn't make a problem for her.
"I don't want to bother anyone," Chris said. "If she don't want me to stay, I'll go."
The look she shoots him has a point on it sharper than some knives the bartender's handled. "No," she says, like she means yes. "It won't be a problem."
Zella's smile broadens again. "Good! Steak, Mr. Broadmoor?"
"If you don't mind," he says, still standing. Zella nods. "Anything to drink?"
"Water's fine."
Zella hurries away like she can't wait to get out of there. Chris looks around the room without moving towards the chair opposite the schoolteacher. More than half the tables sit empty.
"I don't think it's so busy, you know. I could leave you in peace." He notices for the first time that she's got a book sitting flat in her lap, closed but marked with a thick red ribbon.
Marie looks ready to jump a foot in the air when he speaks. He wonders idly if she could have possibly reacted any more if he'd pulled out the pistol on his hip and said 'put em up.' Then she takes a breath. "No, I can leave, I'm almost done anyways."
She doesn't look almost done. Barely touched her water.
"And what if I said I didn't want you to leave?"
He says it meaning that he doesn't want to impose, but the minute that it leaves his mouth he knows that's not how it came out of his mouth. And he doesn't much mind.
Her face flushes. "I—well,"
He puts a hand gently on the chair. "I won't bother your readin'. You mind if I sit?"
Her lips, pretty and thin, purse together. "No, sir."
He pulls the chair back and watches her face as he gently settles in. "I'm Christopher Broadmoor. I tend the bar across the street."
His hand held out across the table seems to be the jolt that he's looking for, the one that gets her looking like she knows what's happening again. "Marie Bainbridge. I'm the teacher. I came out from New Orleans after Mrs. Whittle passed on."
"I know," he says, with a soft smile. "That was the talk."
She looks like she wants to pursue that line of discussion, but instead she pushes herself an inch back from the table and pulls the book out. "I'm going to get back to reading, if you don't mind."
Chris nods. "No problem."
