III.

You'll never realize 'til it's too late, Crown. Just before you breathe your last I'll tell you why I caused your dying. I'll slice the skin off you, let your blood run out, break all your bones…I'll get you, Crown. I'll get you…

"Marshal Crown…sir!"

Good, now at least she had his attention. Still, Dulcey Coopersmith couldn't help but wilt a little under the appraising stare of hazel eyes now affixed onto her from beneath those heavy, dark brows. Crown's firm lips were set in a line – it was, she knew, the first element of his ire. Next his face would darken, his eyes would glitter ominously and he'd utter something so scathing…

She knew he'd worked hard to prepare for the court. He'd been writing endless papers, visiting victims and witnesses, rounding up necessary jury members. She'd even come upon him one evening late last week arranging tables and chairs just so, pacing off the space and muttering about the lack of a flag. Everyone had taken notice – this was going to be an important day.

She'd thought of letting it go, maybe just this one time. But the circuit court was going to be a regular occurrence, and to let him take over…Not that she wanted to cross him. She'd witnessed his wrath, had been personally subjected to it upon occasion, and Marshal Crown frightened her when he was mad. But she also had to stand up for herself. Reason, Dulcey told herself, squaring her shoulders before the taller man with the winking silver badge and glittering silver hatband. He'd listen to reason – he was a reasonable man…

"I have some – misgivings…" she began and his heavy brows lifted at the word "…about using the Wayfarer's as a courtroom. It will affect business and profits, and we've only been open a few weeks. To reserve a day-"

"Only the morning," Crown smoothly interrupted. "I hear the judge likes to be done by noon."

"Yes, well, be that as it may…" She took a breath, but then willed herself to continue. He was reasonable, she reminded herself. He was a U.S. Marshal, a man of authority and judgment. This was business, and he well understood business. "You've ordered me closed up until that time," Dulcey reminded him, then added, "I can't even serve breakfast."

And instantly regretted saying it, for his hands went to his hips, the right sliding toward the bone handle of his ever-present .44; the ready glitter came into his eyes. "One half of this building is officially leased to you as government space, Miss Coopersmith," he said in an unusually clipped tone. "One day every month for federal business won't hurt yours."

There it was; his stubborn had dropped right into place. Now there would be no budging him. Crown indeed; he wore his authority like a king sometimes. Dictating this and that, expecting others to obey like little children. Including her in that category, even though she was well heading to nineteen. Dulcey took a breath but pressed, straining to keep the notion of reason within mind. "Up until now they've been using the church-"

"Religion and the law don't keep company all that well, Miss Dulcey," he said in that reclaimed drawl of his. "It's safer for everyone if my prisoners stay under the same roof for incarceration and trial. So when the judge comes, the Inn stays closed for the court." He gave her one of his squints, followed by a righteous nod. "My jail, my rules."

"But, but…" she began to sputter. The arrogance of the man! It might be his jail but it was her restaurant – her very building! "You can't-"

He stepped in but she stood firm, even though he was taller – and dark and imposing. His jaw worked; he jutted that cleft chin of his, and then the rest of him bristled. Here it comes… "Miss Dulcey," he whipped out, his drawl all but re-swallowed, "I'll gladly give you the address and you can write Washington with your complaint. But tomorrow morning, the Inn stays closed!" And with that said, he stalked directly to his office.

Dulcey closed her eyes – slam! went his office door. Newly installed, she thought, and he'll have it off its hinges in no time. She let off an angry sound, stopped short of stamping her foot; so much for reason – it'd been all one-sided…his side.

"He is impossible!" she thundered to Francis Wilde.

The young man only smiled. "Guess that's how he got so good at his job," he commented, adjusting the placement of his boxy camera one more time. "Doc" Crown's first day in Cimarron City court was tomorrow and he was going to capture it. He reached down and chalked the position of the tripod.

"I don't suppose you'd talk to him?" Dulcey asked him hopefully. He didn't reply. "Francis, would you?" she asked sweetly, trying to draw his attention away from that infernal camera.

"Me?" He looked up and shook his head. She read his face – he had no desire to cross Crown. He then gestured. "Get Mac – this place belongs to him, too."

MacGregor wouldn't intervene; he was already too loyal to the lawman. Dulcey sighed and stepped away, let her gaze travel to Crown's office door. If he just wouldn't shout so much. It was more than shouting – he bellowed. He strode, he threatened, he fought, he slammed doors. He was hard-headed, hard-nosed, rigid minded. He ate hearty enough, though where it all went she couldn't tell – there wasn't anything but toughness and muscle on him. Then again, he didn't seem to sit still. He was always riding out – through the Strip, into the Outlet, down to the settlement, across the river and back. He'd been everywhere, she'd heard. To the army fort, the Indian camps, the ranches, and each of the five towns in his district. Making his presence known, directing, instructing and commanding attention. No, demanding attention…

It didn't help that he was an attractive man. Surely she was not the only one who had noticed his handsome face of defined lips, those arresting eyes held by those curled black lashes, and that prominent cleft in his chin. That thick, dark hair that curled over his collar. The white teeth. His broad chest, muscled forearms, narrow hips and long legs. His nimbleness in and out of the saddle. Completely confident in the way he carried himself, what with that long barreled gun strapped to his thigh, the way that silver hat band caught the light, the way his badge glittered with authority. He carried all his responsibility on his very person, from the top of his dark head to the tips of his black boots.

And he'd taken over more than just his rented space. He now required a shotgun under the bar, a bolt on both the front and back doors. To his credit he did not parade prisoners through the dining room. He made sure he or MacGregor or Francis was present when she served the prisoners a meal. And he didn't run in every lawbreaker, either; he let some things slide, worked with a measure of common sense. Not that he was trying to ease his way into the town's favor – he'd set some hard and fast rules that had some folks quickly chafing. But he could be reasonable – when he wanted to. When that measure of reason didn't cross his sense of duty. Which apparently the court location did. And yet…

He was freshly washed and shaved each day, came to the supper table with clean hands and a clean shirt. Didn't appear to have too many vices – an occasional taste for liquor, an affinity for a cigar. There was a respectfulness he eased into his drawl when he was amused or polite. His "Thank you, Miss Dulcey" always warmed her, despite his other rebukes and refusals. What was so frustrating was the way he took on some things, the way he would plant his heels and squint down at her in that haughty manner. Then there was no sneaking past that badge to the man underneath.

Yet he seemed a fast friend to MacGregor, though she supposed that was because they were closer in age; the Scotsman was just some years beyond Crown's thirty-five. And Mac seemed able enough. Crown had also taken a liking to Francis, bringing him along like a kid brother. He relied on them both – they were the only ones that'd been at his side from the first. She knew he also depended on Mr. Hanscomb at the livery, and the blacksmith, and that he had talked to Mr. Blynn the undertaker. And he'd visited Pony Jane's, taken a liking to a dark-haired, foreign girl over there – there'd been quick gossip about that.

As for herself…

She knew he watched out for her. There wasn't a day when he didn't warn her to be careful, to recognize dirt as dirt, blood as blood – death as death. She understood that his caustic words reflected an element of care for her. Though they often seemed too dramatic – and amusingly colloquial. There'd hardly been an incident since he'd taken charge and stopped Payne's farming contingent from crossing the river.

"Francis!"

The object of her musing was now standing behind the lower half of his fancy door, thumping the top edge to gain the younger man's attention.

Francis pulled his head out from under the black hood of his camera, brushed his brown hair back into place. "Yes, Marshal?"

"You get on down to the freight office and check on the eleven-oh-five train. I'm expecting a delivery. If it came in you bring it straight here."

Dulcey quickly stepped forward – another opportunity to perhaps change his mind, especially if he was distracted… "Marshal…"

"I'm heading down to the settlement – you're in charge," he continued right over her to Francis and turned away. His back door slammed appreciably and he was gone.

Francis picked up his camera, folded the legs of the tripod. "If I see Mac I'll ask him to talk to the Marshal for you," he offered.

Oh, don't bother," Dulcey replied, sighing again. "It would be like talking to a chair."

Francis smiled a little apologetically at her, hoisted his camera to his shoulder and moved away.

Well, now that the Marshal was out, she should get into his office and hang his curtains. They'd been ironed for two days but every time she asked to put them up he'd refused, said he liked his place just as he'd decorated. But one etched window and window two shades hardly qualified as completed decor. Besides, the curtains matched the shade color exactly, and were intended as a set.

While there, she could sweep – it would only take a few extra minutes. How would it seem to others to engage in discussion in the Marshal's new office with dried mud and sand all over the floor? And she would stay well clear of the cell area. Truth be told, she didn't want to go near that section anyway, what with it so full of those angry men. Lawbreakers, Crown reminded her, and not trustworthy.

She quickly retrieved the curtains, swept over to his door, then backed up to a nearby dining table, took up a flower vase…

And stopped. He would be angry with her. Dulcey peered into the office, at the bare window and the dirt-streaked floor, and felt a stream of her own stubborn tunnel through her. Marshal Crown might have control of the entire Cimarron Strip, the five towns within, the settlements, even the railroad, but he only paid rent here. With a measure of triumphant defiance she juggled the items to one hand, unlatched the lower door and stepped inside.

The scents of newly sawn wood, varnish and polish greeted her. It definitely had the mark of a man's taste, his taste, but one could hardly call it over-decorated. There was the rather scarred desk, but a new black leather chair sat proudly behind it. On impulse Dulcey touched it; it quivered easily under her touch. On casters, she noted, then pulled it out, turned it – it swiveled. If not for the curtains draped over her arm would have sat in it.

The desktop was curiously neat – she peeked into the canister on one corner – his cigars. Other than that there was an oil lamp and a wire basket already full of papers, wanted posters mostly. She shivered at the drawing of the outlaw's face staring back at her. Such a mean looking man – would he ever be jailed here? She deposited the flower vase on the other corner and glanced away, noted the leather bench from what was now the dining room, and the fat easy chair that had been formerly parked under the stairway, a couple of other straight chairs for sitting, a few filing cabinets. A map of the States hung on one wall, a picture of President Lincoln on the other. Dulcey peered closely – there was a gouge in the frame. Obviously not well tended, and why this President? He'd been dead twenty years already! Why wasn't there a picture of President Cleveland instead? She'd have to ask him…

There was a pair of steer horns nailed over the map, a rather crude hat rack made of antlers affixed to a diamond shaped frame, and a gun rack near the back door; this was filled with long guns and secured by a chain and lock. She turned, headed back to the desk, noted that he'd filled the alcove before the cells with the roll top desk that had been shoved into one corner of her kitchen, and some more scarred filing cabinets. A peg high on the wall held a large round ring of new cell keys. Well, it appeared he needed some things, at the least a towel or two, a ewer and a wash basin, a tray for his cigars – the man was likely going to spend a lot of time in here. Francis certainly had made enough photographs – a few in here might be nice on the walls, too.

Better get working – he could be back at any time. Dulcey draped the curtains over the back of the shiny chair, fetched her broom and the dustpan – first things first.