Part 37 (1/2)

Marie looked at her options, and watched the list shrink. And then shrink a little more. And more still.

Sure, literally speaking, she could wait a few weeks. Her wages would come in, and she'd be able to afford it, if she tightened her belt. But that would mean she had no place to teach the kids in the intervening weeks. So while it was perfectly doable, it wasn't perfectly practical.

An idea flashed through her mind. She could do it, sure. It was just as believable as asking when the pastor pa.s.sed his hat around. People would sympathize, right? Because it was the schoolhouse.

The same people who had sent for her to come out from New Orleans would donate at least a little bit of money, no doubt about it. The idea, though...

Well, it had its own downsides. She closed her eyes and let out the breath that she'd been holding. It had its own downsides without a doubt. But it wasn't about her, was it? She had to make the decision on the basis of the children.

Eight.

Chris was beginning to feel, thankfully, that he wasn't going to run into that schoolteacher again. She had a pretty little face, and very much a woman's body. The coincidences had lined up for a few days to put them much closer together than he was used to finding himself.

Worrying about the next coincidence that could come up, the next chance he'd get-it was a distraction, and one that he would have rather done without.

If it were another time, a time when there weren't people pulling their pistols in the bar that he's supposed to be keeping watch over, maybe he'd have felt differently. But obviously he'd picked the wrong time to get a crush.

Now, though-now, it seemed like there wasn't going to be another problem that arose. So it was with a little sense of self-satisfaction that he was standing, leaned with his back against the bar, rubbing a little s.h.i.+ne into the thick-walled mugs they'd be serving beer out of later. Not that it would matter long.

It faded when the door opened and he looked up. It seemed that fate had other plans for him, because there Marie Bainbridge was, as energetic as she'd ever been. And, it seemed, heading straight towards him. It was strange to see her in the bar, by itself. To see her there looking for him, well... it was all that much stranger.

He watched her walk up. She must have noticed him watching her, but she walked up undeterred.

”Mr. Broadmoor?”

He set one gla.s.s down and picked up the next. ”How can I help you, Miss Bainbridge? Drinks on the house, as long as the boss doesn't see me doing it.”

The look on her face was priceless. As if she hadn't even considered the notion of drinking, and now that she had, she wanted to walk out again immediately. Then she blinked and set herself straight again.

”Not now, please. Thank you, though. That's very nice of you to offer.”

”If you don't want a drink, you just have to say so,” he answered, his voice even. ”Now, what can I help you with?”

She leaned against the bar and chewed the inside of her cheeks for a second before speaking. ”I need some money.”

”I don't know how I'm supposed to help you with that, ma'am.”

”It's not for me,” she says, apparently not realizing that it wasn't a moral judgment that he couldn't help her. ”I need it for the schoolhouse. The children, you see, they're-”

”What am I supposed to do about it?”

She looks at him wild-eyed. Apparently, somehow, he'd stepped on a nerve. As if he's not listening, rather than her not explaining. Then, very slowly and then all at once, it dawns on her that she hasn't explained a single thing about whatever plan she might have.

”There's a hole in the roof, you see,” she says, as if that helps. ”Big hole.”

”That sounds like you need a carpenter. Or at least, someone who's willing to go up on that high roof of yours.”

Chris took a minute to appreciate the look on her face. She's so pleased, with herself or with him he couldn't say.

”So you understand, then.”

”Not really,” says he. ”I still don't know why you came to me with that information. Couldn't the preacher help you out? Feel like he's probably got a community fund 'n everything.”

The look that crossed her face told a very specific story, but it was one that Chris couldn't begin to explain. Schoolteacher like her, she seemed very right and proper. There was no way she wasn't right with the church, so why did she seem so uncomfortable with the idea?

”I thought you might be able to put up a collection. Maybe just a little jar by the counter, with a sign?”

Chris didn't like the way the conversation was going, because he didn't want to have to tell her no. But it wasn't going to happen.

”You want to talk to the boss about something like that. Mr. Davis. He'd probably be at his house, right about now. I could get you an address.”

He could see the expression on her face. Deflated. There wasn't much that he could do, though. Stan came in and saw something like that, he'd be pretty unhappy about it, if he wasn't consulted. Nor was Chris in the sort of position to be making suggestions about now. There were a thousand other people who might be able to talk the guy into it. Chris wasn't one of them.

He'd probably be dismissed immediately. 'What, El Bandito is suddenly taking an interest in the children?' He'd bite down on his lip and not make a response. The man had a sharpness to him that cut deeper than Chris liked, and as much as he could deal with it when he had to, the bartender wasn't looking to stick his foot in it on purpose.

The next words out of her mouth were exactly what he'd expected. ”Can't you talk to him? He'll listen to you.”

She sounded so confident. Was that because she thought she knew something he knew not to be the case? Or because she was just trying to sound convincing? He didn't know, and didn't much care, either way.

”No, he won't,” Chris said with a quiet sort of confidence. ”You can trust me on that.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn't say anything for a long minute. ”So you won't, then?”

There was a little twinge of guilt in his chest. No doubt it was exactly the twinge that she'd wanted to give him. It wasn't out of spite that he decided to ignore it.

”I oughtn't. You ought to try, though.”

She took a deep breath. ”Alright, then. Thank you, Mr. Broadmoor.”

”I'm sorry I couldn't be more help,” he said, to a retreating woman's back. She didn't turn to respond.

Why did he feel so bad? There was nothing that he could do. If she wanted to take up a collection in the bar, it wasn't going to be good if they did it without talking to the owner. If it were Chris doing it, he'd laugh the idea right out of the room.

It was the best advice he could give, that she should talk to the man herself.

But the way she'd looked at him, the way she seemed so let down... it got to him more than he'd have liked. More than it should have.

He leaned back again, set a gla.s.s down and picked up another, working the rag around and through. None of the self-satisfaction he'd felt before.

There had to be something that he could do. If there wasn't, then there was no reason to feel bad. It might just be that he was making himself feel bad for no reason. That was more than possible, it was even likely. He didn't want to accept that logic. If he felt bad, it was probably for some reason. Something that he could be doing, but he wasn't. The only question was what it was.