Rode Hard, Put Up Wet: Cowboy Romance (Rebels & Outlaws 2)

With a little luck, maybe there wouldn't be any problem. She hoped. That didn't stop her from holding her breath as she crossed the room, certain that any minute, twenty pounds of debris would come crashing down on her head.

She made the note with quick, smooth writing and tacked it up outside the door. It wasn't satisfying to have to cancel class. But it was necessary, and just this once, it was the right thing to do.

The options that she had left open to her weren't as many as she'd like, and the ones that came to mind immediately weren't options that she liked.

The church would be able to raise the money, no problem. The preacher would just get up on the pulpit and ask for donations. With it being for the school, it wouldn't be any trouble at all.

That wasn't entirely true, though. Not even close to true. It wouldn't be any trouble at all for Mrs. Whittle. Or, for that matter, for anyone else.

For a Catholic woman who'd wandered into town three months ago, and hadn't been going to a chapel outside the Church's grace… well, it was sufficient to say that she and the pastor weren't on good terms, and leave it at that.

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 passed 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 shine 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 glass 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."