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He didn't stop, but his head turned. "I can't do that."
He turned as he came to the foot of a stair-set behind the bar where he worked, and started up the steps without a pause, his hands already working the clasp on the work-belt.
"Mr. Broadmoor, what are you doing?"
She followed him before she could stop herself. She didn't have time to worry about appearances, not with the way that he was looking. He looked set to hurt someone. Or, worse, to get hurt himself.
"I'm doing what I have to do, Miss Bainbridge," he answered. He opened a door at the top and stepped through. The sounds of people engaged in less-than-wholesome activity in the upper-floor of the bar were all around. "You oughtn't be up here."
She ignored him, followed him to a room. He wasn't inside long enough for her to follow him in. By the time that she stepped into the door-frame, he was already stepping back out, wrapping a thick leather belt around his waist that she had seen him wearing a thousand times before. From one side, a heavy pistol hung low on his hip.
"What are you going to do with that?"
"I'm going to do what needs to be done," he said, with a sort of grim finality.
"Stop right now," she said. She tried to put all her force into it, and she stood firm in the doorway. She wasn't going to let him past. She wasn't, no matter how much he tried to fight or force it.
"I can't just sit here and let people get murdered," he growled.
"It's not your job to deal with robbers, Chris Broadmoor. You still haven't finished my roof."
"And I'm sorry about that. I'll give you a few dollars to hire Clint."
"That's not good enough," she said. He stopped as he turned. "You started it, you finish it."
He let out a breath. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do, Miss Bainbridge."
What was he talking about? She ground her teeth together. It was a bad habit, one that she should have broken years ago.
"I don't pretend to know your story, Mr. Broadmoor, but you've been living here for a lot longer than I have, and I think whatever you might have left behind, you've got to let it go. But if you think that pistol is going to be any help to you with anything—well, it's not going to solve a thing, and it's only going to cause more problems."
He stared hard at her, but he didn't respond, and he didn't move. She could see his jaw clenching hard, but to her surprise, no reply came.
"You're right, Miss Bainbridge. You don't know a thing about where I'm from. It ain't like no big city back east out here."
"The Sheriff will deal with it," Marie repeated. If she was steadfast, then he'd have to hear her. Right?
"Then he's just going to get hurt."
The way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. She wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean, but she didn't need to. It was self-evident, exactly what he meant. The fact that he thought he was different was evident, too. What was the difference going to be?
A long time passed, neither of them moving. Noises from the neighboring rooms weren't muffled by the walls enough that Marie had any doubts about what was happening in them. She shouldn't be here, but she couldn't leave.
"What do you know about this?"
"Don't make me answer that."
"You can't go." She was pleading, now, she knew. She tried to keep her voice firm, but in the end, she was ready to get down on her knees and beg him not to do anything that would get anyone hurt.
His face softened for the first time since the rider had come into town.
"I can't do nothing, Miss Bainbridge. I can't."
"I'm asking you to stay. Please." She took a deep breath in. "As a favor to me."
His teeth ground together, and then his hands moved to the thick gun-belt around his waist and undid the buckle slowly.
"Alright. You want me to stay, you can have me."
