Western Romance Collection: Rugged Cowboys Part 38

That wasn't what had worked out. Almost as much time had pa.s.sed since the last time he'd picked up a hammer as he'd been alive when he'd put it down for the last time.

The way he felt climbing up the ladder wasn't what he'd expected, though. He ought to have felt at least a little uncomfortable. Out of place, maybe. But that was the last thing that he felt.

Chris took a deep breath. There was more to it than Marie had realized. It should have been obvious, but he was out of practice looking at framing, so the common problems had slipped out of his head. But the fact that there was a hole in the roof, maybe two feet across, more than wide enough for him to slip through if he put his mind to, it should have been obvious.

It was going to take a little work. He had time, though. A few days off would let folks cool their heads, and maybe they'd get some ideas about him being a good worker, if they saw him working with his hands.

There was one thing uncomfortable, though, about the job. He'd worn that pistol for so long, it felt like it was almost a part of him. He looked around as he climbed, worrying that someone would see him without it and get a funny idea in their head.

It was completely nuts, of course. There wasn't anyone in Applewood Junction who tended that way. Even once they got a few drinks in them, he couldn't think of anyone who would like to tangle with him, whether he had that pistol sitting on his hip or not.

But the thought still bothered him. Itched at the back of his mind, like. He kept his hands moving up the ladder and pulled himself free and up onto the roof. Once, the height had made him a little nervous, but he'd been broken of it before he could read.

Now it was almost peaceful. He ducked his head down under the roofing and confirmed once again what he already knew. The frame would need to be repaired. That meant that the roofing would need to come up, and if that was all then he'd be lucky. But he'd already stuck his foot in it.

d.a.m.n his weakness for pretty women. If he'd had a lick of sense in his head, he'd have asked her for at least something. But the time for that had pa.s.sed, now, and he had to deal with it.

Chris slipped his gloves on, leather that hadn't had a reason to break in yet. He'd give it a good reason now. The roofing came up with a hard tug, a little ways, and he tossed it aside. Maybe he'd be able to reuse it, or maybe they'd have to buy more.

Thirty minutes later found him breathing hard, his legs dangling over the peak of the roof through the hole he'd torn in the top. He laid back and let his aching muscles relax just for a minute. Soon, he'd be pulling nails from timbers and trying to pull a rotting rafter onto the roof, instead of letting it fall through.

A sweet voice called up from inside the building, the place he'd told her absolutely not to stay. Well, that wasn't all that surprising, he supposed.

"Everything alright up there?"

Chris shifted himself around the other way until he was looking down through.

"Just taking a break before the next part."

She was hiding a worried expression, which he found almost cute.

"You just, be careful up there, alright? Don't break anything. I don't want to have things get worse."

He chuckled and stood himself up. The roof was steepled and there was always some risk of slipping, but his boots dug in comfortably and he wasn't worried.

"Don't you worry, Miss Bainbridge. I wasn't fixin' to make things worse."

He wedged one arm under the rafter and pulled hard, twisting. The board was rotted most of the way through and though it had been nailed in fairly well, the nails pulled free easily, staying lodged into the ridge-board. The rafter was heavy, but with a grunt he managed to pull it aside until it sat safely off to the side.

Another deep breath. That should probably have been a two-man job. Dangerous didn't begin to cover it, he realized as soon as it was done. But it was done. He just had to go down to the bottom and pull that side of the rafter off as well, now. Then it would be a matter of pulling the nails out, and then he could cut something to length and put it back in place.

Then...

He took a deep breath. It wasn't important to know the whole thing, not to the exact detail. He'd done it all before, and it would come to him. The most important part was just doing the next step in line.

He lowered himself down the side of the roof, wedged himself in between the good rafters and yanked hard until the little piece of the busted rafter came free. It was tossed back behind him, where it landed with a thud.

Marie called up again.

"Is everything alright? You sure you're alright?"

"Sure, everything's fine."

"And it's all going according to plan?"

"Sure. Gonna have to cut a rafter to length and nail her back in, and then it's just reattaching the roofing. Easy."

His voice, strained as it was as Chris tried to figure how to ease himself back to safety, didn't exactly communicate 'easy,' he knew. But there was easy, and there was easy.

He wedged his hands in behind him and pushed up. With his body free, he tilted until one leg turned over to the building's frame and put his weight down. Easy.

A sound that caught his ear made him start. Someone yelling, coming in from the plains. He climbed up the roof and looked out. Definitely someone yelling, and now that he could see, he was riding hard, too.

His hand dropped naturally to his hip, where it found a heavy carpenter's hammer. Useless. If someone were chasing this fellow- Chris scanned the horizon. Nothing. n.o.body was following him. He closed the gap to the ladder in two long, easy steps and was down a minute later. Marie was out the door by the time he set his feet on the floor.

"What's wrong?"

He looked over at her, considering not telling her for a moment. As if he didn't have the time, but it wouldn't cost anything.

"Rider coming in. Riding hard and hollering up a storm."

He started moving before waiting to see what Marie's thoughts on it were. He didn't know what he'd be able to do about it, but he'd at least get there to see what the problem was. Then, if he could do something about it, he'd find out what it was.

Eleven.

The first thing that Marie saw was the man, same as Chris had told her was coming into town. The second thing, the thing that worried her a h.e.l.l of a lot more, was what he had slung over the horse's flank.

Two people. From their clothes, a man and a woman, and from the way they were laid there, without moving except when the horse's rump kicked a little hard. It didn't take a great deal of imagination to figure out whether or not they were going to be alright.

Chris's voice caught her by surprise.

"What the h.e.l.l happened?" He sounded angry. Why would he be angry? Hurt, sure. Worried, upset. She was afraid, but she couldn't imagine him being afraid for an instant.

As the rider pulled up to a stop, Marie got a better look at the bodies laid out across the horse's rump. Spots of red stained their torsos. The rider wasn't heading from Indian territory way, and no arrows meant it couldn't have been that.

The teacher hoped somehow that it was an animal. Somehow it would be better to imagine that they'd been attacked by a wild dog than to imagine that there were people who'd chosen to do it.

"I don't know," the man answers, his voice wavering a little. "I found 'em like this. No horses, and nothing of value in their bags."

Chris filled in the blank. "Robbery, then, you think."

"I don't want to jump to no conclusions," the man said, but in spite of his stubborn response, it wasn't hard to hear the warble in his voice that agreed with the conclusion.

"G'on to the Sheriff's office, sorry to have taken your time."

The big man's shoulders set and he started moving before the horse did. Marie scurried to follow, the schoolhouse temporarily forgotten. He didn't stop to answer her when she put a hand on his shoulder. Her hand practically recoiled, once she realized what she'd done, but she had to know what he was doing.

"Stop," she said. She didn't like the edge of worry that she heard in her own voice.

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 pa.s.sed, neither of them moving. Noises from the neighboring rooms weren't m.u.f.fled 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."

She let out a breath and in the relief that flooded her, realized with a start exactly where she was, exactly what it would look like, and-very possibly-exactly what he meant by that.

Twelve.

The way her cheeks lit up like a Halloween pumpkin brought a smile to his face. A bright red blush filled her cheeks as far as he could see.

"No, I don't-I can't-"

He hid the amus.e.m.e.nt in his face as best he could as he reached to hang the gun belt back on the hook by the door.

"Can't what? You're not backing out, are you, miss Bainbridge?"

If it were possible, the color in her cheeks deepened.

"Um. Uh."

"Cat got your tongue?"

He stepped forward and leaned his shoulder against the door-frame. They were close together. Probably closer than she was comfortable with, but she didn't flinch. Rather, as the color in her cheeks stayed that bright rosy red, he could hear the raggedness of her breath. It wasn't an invitation, but it said everything he needed to know about how she'd feel about him making a move. Her lip quivered softly. In his mind, he'd already done it, wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in close.

But he didn't. "Come on," he growled, his voice low and teasing. "We've still got work to do."

He reached over and grabbed his other belt from the hook where it hung by the wall and stepped back, strapped it on. There was work to be done, and he was the one who promised to do it. Fun could come later.

He stepped through the door. She didn't move out of the way, so as gentle as he tried to make it, there was no avoiding the contact. The schoolteacher lost her balance almost immediately, his arms reflexively reaching out and wrapping around her to steady her.

The noises around didn't reach him, not after five years of living upstairs, where the business got done. But then, all of a sudden in the instant that he held her, they did. His hands shot away as if he'd been burned.