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"Not a big deal. You really oughtn't worry, Miss Bainbridge. You got enough on your plate right now, you don't need some country bumpkins getting you down."
"So they were there for me, then. I'm not a child, Mr. Broadmoor, I can deal with problems as they arise just as well as you."
He stopped, then, all of a sudden, and Marie near walked past him in her hurry to keep up. He turned easily and quickly on his heel, his jaw jutting out in defiance, and he looked her up and down with a mix of anger and blatant sex that sent a shock down her spine.
"No, I suppose you aren't," he growled, his eyes lingering for a moment. She knew that he shouldn't look at her that way. She knew that if she chastised him for it, he'd apologize, and he wouldn't do it again. So she didn't.
"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.
