IV.
Dulcey stepped up on one of the wooden chairs and retrieved the rod Mr. Gibson the carpenter had put up for her. It only took a moment to fit the curtains to the window. Yes, much better, it cut the glare of the afternoon sun, matched nicely with the etched design in the glass. Didn't mar the appearance of the room at all. And Marshal Crown did not own this window. Emboldened, she moved over to other window and hung the next curtain, humming a little tune. The quietude was nice, she decided. No Francis rushing about, no MacGregor shouting with excitement. No Marshal bellowing. Her evening meal was ready to be cooked, the desserts were prepared, the dishes long since washed and dried. If every day went like this then perhaps she could cut a new dress pattern and begin sewing again. She took up the rod from the next window, slid the curtain into place—
"Hey, I wouldn't go in there, Mister!"
"This is the Marshal's office, isn't it?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Well, I've got business with the Marshal."
The voices came from outside the door – Dulcey peered out the window but couldn't see anyone. They must be farther down the alley on the corner, near her kitchen door. You tell me if anyone's loitering out there, Crown had told her. And lock it for now…
"Rules, always rules," she grumbled to herself.
"He ain't in," she heard the first voice say.
"How do you know?"
"She's in there – the girl. Alone. I wouldn't go in with him not there. Threatened Tom and me last week over her – all but drew down on us."
Dulcey pulled back. What was the man saying? Marshal Crown threatened some men last week – over her? She hadn't known of any men asking after her. Come to think of it, no one asked after her but perhaps some shopkeepers, and even then they were distantly polite. Suspicion worked through her. Just what was the Marshal up to by keeping folks away from her like she was some plague? And how dare he threaten them with his gun! The presumption of the man! Thinking he could just speak for her! He was neither her parent nor her guardian. He had no right – no right! No wonder folks barely spoke to her. All it'd taken were words from the mighty Marshal Crown and they all had backed away.
First taking over the Inn and now this. Well, she would not stand for it!
She whirled, grabbed up the last set of curtains and stormed toward the connecting door. She would not do anything else for him, nothing—
The back door rattled open – he was coming back. Dulcey turned, words of venom already on her lips. "Marshal Crown! If you think you can-!"
It wasn't Crown.
Instead there stood a tall, sandy-haired young man with his hat in his large hand, a set of saddlebags over one shoulder, and a sheepish look on his face. A tall and handsome young man with green eyes and clean cheeks, a few years older than she. Much younger than the Marshal, certainly…
"Oh, oh – I – I-" She felt her face burn fast with embarrassment. "I'm so very sorry. I thought you were the Marshal…"
He stepped forward, just one step, bobbed his head politely. He was slender, a little pale. He wore no gun – she relaxed a little. Had he limped? "I'm looking for him," he said in a strong, even voice. "I gather he's not here?"
"Um, no –he's not…" Crown's reminder bounced back through her about not talking to strangers, especially men. And then Dulcey thought of the conversation she'd just heard, and she straightened. "I can tell him you called, Mr.…?"
"Matthew Hastings, Miss." He extended his hand to her. She shook it firmly, liked it when his grip held just a trifle too long. "Will he be back soon?"
"I really don't know. I can tell him that you're looking for him if you want. Or you could leave a note on his desk I suppose. Or both." She was chattering too much, she realized. A sign of nervousness. That happy sort of nervousness when a fellow got too close, turned some attentive eyes on her. Something that hadn't happened to her since her arrival here. Come to think of it, no one had really spoken to her on the train either, once the Marshal had come aboard. Had he chased them off even then…? Oh, she would have such words for him!
Matthew Hastings gestured. "Looks like you were hanging those – can I help, Miss…?" He limped forward, held out his hand.
She smiled at his politeness. She was safe. The connecting door was open with Febrizio just outside, and Francis would surely be returning soon from the depot. "Dulcey Coopersmith," she introduced, almost curtseying and wondering why she felt so breathless. He was no employer, no outlaw, just a polite young man looking for the Marshal. Why, he had no devious look whatsoever in his eye. She handed the curtain to him; his fingers grazed hers, made them tingle. "Are you new in town?" she asked him.
He put his saddlebags down, hung his hat on the diamond-shaped rack and nodded. "Just got in on the train from Hardesty." He turned to hang the curtain in the alcove doorway she indicated, easily reaching the rod. "You work here?"
"Yes…well, I own it," she admitted, then pointed. "The Inn, I mean. The Marshal rents this space."
"You own all that?" He made an approving sound. "Mighty lucky to have it, Miss Coopersmith."
"Well, I inherited it, really. And I do have a partner."
"Looks like a fine place." He peered out Crown's door, whistled low. "Mighty fine! Looks like there'd be a real good meal served here."
"I – I do the cooking, too," she told him a trifle shyly.
His smile went wide. "I bet it's the best in town! Looks like I'll have to try some – what's for supper?"
She laughed a little – it was so nice talking to someone close to her age, and without the Marshal squinting and frowning at her. "Chicken and dumplings, carrots…bread," she found herself saying to him. "I've made some tarts for dessert."
"I'm hungry right now," he declared and she gave a little laugh. He held out his hand for the other curtain and she gave it to him – he hung it quickly, and then stood back while she shook them out.
"Will you be staying long in Cimarron City, Mr. Hastings?" she asked.
He settled back on his heels. "Couple days, I guess. I'm a witness for the trial tomorrow. Met up with that fellow Conroy holding one of the money bags he stole out of the freight office. Took a bullet in the leg for my trouble. Told the Marshal I'd be ready to testify though."
"How very brave of you! And you shouldn't have helped me wounded so!" Dulcey admonished.
He shrugged. "It's healing. And it was my pleasure to help." He smiled again, such a nice and easy smile. "I figure it's my duty to tell what I saw." He pointed to the alcove. "That's where the cells are?"
She glanced back to the door barring their view. "Yes. That man Conroy is there. The trial will be held here tomorrow." Here in the Inn, and Mr. Matthew Hastings would be here, as a witness…
Hastings nodded. "Well, I'll wait outside." He reached back, retrieved his hat, then picked up his saddlebags.
"You could wait – at the bar," Dulcey suggested. "I'm sure the Marshal won't be too much longer…"
He shook his head. "I'm not much of a drinking man. But if there's a chair out front I can sit out there – enjoy the sun."
"Come this way, then," she invited with a smile. Such a polite man – and he didn't drink. Perfectly respectable. "If you're hungry I can get you something-"
The door behind them banged; Dulcey jumped and turned-
"Can I help you?" barked Crown, standing there with his hands on his hips and more than a fair share of dust on his person. Then he nodded with recognition. "Mr. Hastings, glad you could make it to town," he amended in an easier tone. "You feeling better?"
"Yes, sir," the younger man promptly replied, his face calm and still pleasant. "All ready for tomorrow."
"Fine, we'll put you up here overnight, give you a meal or two for your trouble. You'll see to it?" he asked Dulcey.
Expectations – but it did make sense. And Crown, as an agent for the government, would pay for the services. "Of course," Dulcey nodded. She glanced back over to Matthew Hastings, caught him smiling a little at her. Perhaps they would have some more time together. He didn't know anyone, and he didn't drink. It would be nice to enjoy a gentleman's company…
"We'll need to go over your statement one more time," the Marshal was saying. He paused, glanced about the room; his lips went into that frown of his. "Just give me a few minutes to finish up some things and we can do just that." Dulcey saw his gaze turn onto her, lock fast. "Miss Coopersmith, a word or two with you first?"
"I'll be outside," young Hastings murmured and slipped through the connecting door.
"I was just leaving," Dulcey told Crown. "I'll get Mr. Hastings settled." That he could so easily dismiss the younger man right in front of her, barge in and take over. If he thought he was going to just take her to task right here and now…
"Now you just hold on," Crown instructed. He took a step, got between her and the door.
Her chin lifted. "Yes?"
"I see you've been re-decorating," he replied, eyeing the room again.
"Just a few window coverings," she stiffly explained, now ruing her insistence of them. "You need your privacy." She would not remove them – let him do it if he was so against them.
"That's what shades are for," he grumbled, beginning to stroll about the room. "And what about these?" He grabbed a fistful of fabric hanging before the alcove leading to the cells.
"I did just iron them," she returned coldly. He made a face but let go. "Privacy," she repeated in a calmer tone. "Something to separate you from your prisoners."
"Got a door for that," he grunted. Then he straightened, strode to his desk. He picked up the flower vase she'd installed there; the bloom shivered in his grasp. His lips thinned as he handed it to her. "No."
She took it with a simple nod, but the anger over what he'd done – chasing good people away – was simmering within her.
"Nothing else," he told her.
She nodded again. "All right."
His hands went back to his hips; he leaned in toward her. "I mean it, Miss Dulcey."
She did not back up. "I understand, Marshal Crown."
"This is my office," he explained, as if she were an imbecile. "If the door's open you can come in. If even half of it's closed then you knock."
"Yes, of course, Marshal."
His stare suddenly bored into her and she felt his mind working furiously. He made a noise of consternation, but she kept her tongue behind her teeth. Then he pulled back a little and squinted. "Just what is making you buzz like a slapped hornet?"
Unleashed, Dulcey stepped up to him, close, too close, saw her reflection in his badge. "Just this," she hissed at him. "I'll thank you to not – not – insinuate yourself into my personal affairs!"
His returned smile was just a touch too smug. "And what 'affairs' would those be, Miss Dulcey?"
She hoped the glare in her eyes was cold enough. "Do not," she began in clipped tones, resisting the urge to stab her finger into that broad chest before her. "Do not fancy yourself a judge of my customers – or my friends!"
"Someone's been flapping a jaw," he commented in his drawl, folding his arms.
"You may pay rent, but you do not have any other obligation to me," Dulcey told him.
"As a lawman I have an obligation to keep you safe," he quickly rejoined. "Same as any other citizen in this town."
"I can judge that for myself!"
"Begging your pardon, but it doesn't always work that way, Miss Dulcey…"
"I'll decide whom I wish to speak to," she cut him off. "And if I refuse and there's trouble, then you can step in. In fact, I'll welcome your assistance. But not before!"
She was so angry she was shaking. She whirled, felt her skirts slap his knee, grabbed them back. She walked rapidly away, made for the kitchen. She was running by the time she was halfway across the floor, but saw that Mr. Matthew Hastings had taken a chair not far from Crown's office. He'd heard the whole exchange, then. Tears rose, fast and hot, up behind her eyes. It was too late to salvage any sort of further conversation with him – the Marshal would chase him off, like he'd chased off every other person that had looked her way.
She reached the kitchen, barreled through, threw open the back door, scattered two men lounging there. They scampered quickly around the corner out of sight. She stopped there on the stoop, breathing hard, wiping furiously at the dampness on her cheeks. Curse that Marshal! Curse him! Playing parent to her, trying to lord over her in a space that wasn't even his! He wasn't her employer, and yet he acted like he held some ownership of her. She'd thought him as a kind of friend, could forgive him most of his admonishments, but this…
For the first time since she'd arrived in Cimarron loneliness stung her, swift and hard. "Oh, Papa," she softly cried, sinking back against the doorframe. "Why aren't you here – to help? Why did you have to die?"