VII.

He saddled with quick efficiency – though hobbled by broken toes, Seth had already done his daily tending of the gelding, and the tack was stored together and clean. Crown slipped the bit into the horse's mouth and mounted at the doorway, took an immediate lope and headed away from the town proper. The gelding was eager to move so he let it have a quick go and didn't slow until the cemetery fence came into sight. Self-reproach kept punching him all the way. He should've made his intentions clear about Dulcey's safety to his deputies. He should've insisted that she stay for the court proceedings, anticipated her impudence. Should've known her stubborn hadn't ebbed overnight. He should've – dammit, it was done now.

He hadn't spotted her on the road. If she wasn't at the graveyard…

He swung down before the gates, tied the horse to a post and stepped through, his pounding heart easing as he saw her. A thorough look about told him there was no one else around. There were no strange shadows cast on the ground and no rustling in the nearby scrub. No glint of sun on metal. No sound of footsteps but his own. It was quiet, like a cemetery should be, hushed and lonely.

Dulcey was standing at the fresh grave, her head covered by a bonnet that held her long light hair into a simple fall down her back. It shone brightly in the afternoon light against the gloom of the place. She wore a gray-green dress, almost blended into the landscape but for that hair. Crown decided he didn't like the color on her. Not that it mattered what she wore and he wouldn't tell her anyway, but he much preferred the pink dress she had, or the blue one.

He removed his hat and stood quietly while she continued to pay her respects to the father she hadn't seen since she was five years old. Then she bent and placed the clutch of blooming wildflowers in her gloved hands at the foot of the cross-shaped marker. And stayed crouched, one hand sweeping across the crumbling mound of dirt. Crown gave her more time for her reflection, though he couldn't help shifting from foot to foot and passing his hat from hand to hand, impatient to speak to her. Concern, he told himself. Those two out-of-work jaspers from the other day could've easily followed her. He knew they were still lounging about, despite his warning to them. It wouldn't take much for a leer to turn into something worse…

She had straightened, was stepping his way. Crown jammed his hat back onto his head, jumped forward. "Miss Coopersmith!"

Dulcey gave a start, looked up with evident surprise. "Oh… yes, Marshal?"

"I don't want you coming up here alone." He hadn't meant to bark it out like that, but he'd held himself in too long to begin with niceties.

Anger frosted the blue of her eyes and firmed up the set of her lips. She straightened to her full height; he hadn't noticed that she was fairly tall. "Marshal Crown, I don't see-"

"It's too dangerous," he cut her off. "Makes you a target for any whipped up cowboy, bored lonely soldier, or tired-eyed farmer looking for something fresh…"

"Mister Crown, if you please!" she reprimanded. He sucked up the rest behind his teeth, whereupon his gums promptly began to ache. "This is not part of your jurisdiction," Dulcey told him. "And you're over reacting…"

"In case you haven't noticed," Crown began, stepping close. Too close, for she involuntarily backed up a step. Her face was full of high color, a pretty pink that went nicely with her blonde hair. "There aren't too many single women about town…" And those that are can't come close to you in prettiness…

"And what does that have to do with anything?" she demanded.

"I told you – there are rough men out here and they don't always respect a lady."

She made a point of looking about. He followed her gaze, felt some sheepishness come up over him at the sight of his gelding lazily swishing its tail and some dust floating by. That was it – not even the clouds above were moving. Dulcey's brows rose with amusement. "I don't seem to be in any danger," she stated.

"Miss, Dulcey, I don't want to see you hurt," he stated. "If you're intent on staying in Cimarron-"

Her back stiffened considerably. "You know I'm staying."

Crown swore to himself. Why did she have to be so stubborn, petulant? Immature? Why couldn't she just nod her head and agree with him? You're out of practice, Crown, chided a voice inside him. Too long out of practice. She's a woman, a young lady, not some silent squaw, or a tough-eyed sporting girl. A young lady…

Dulcey was all curtains and flowers; she was all order and neatness, friendliness and trust, and he had seen so little of that in the past ten years. The women he'd encountered in that time had been anything but flowery or delicate – most were as rough as the men they associated with. Some had the softness washed right out of them, or had left it behind long ago. They'd given up on manners. They were blunt – or silent. They gave as they got. Mothers, daughters, orphans – they'd all been variations of the same, far from home and niceties, long removed from civility.

And now here was Dulcey, fresh from Providence and the settled life she'd had there, bringing all her manners and youth and exuberance with her. With a voice that asked what was on her female mind. She wanted explanations; she wasn't looking at the badge he wore but right through it, to the man behind. Yet surely she understood authority. He knew she respected it – and him. Young, he reminded himself as his gaze ran over her again. Optimistic. Trusting.

He was old, he realized, and a little worn down. A man reached a time of age and experience when he saw things too clearly, devoid of frippery or finery. That's what settled this part of the country, the blood and the dirt and the fights. That's what he was used to. Now he was working and sleeping the path of youth and innocence and femininity in the person of Dulcey Coopersmith. He found himself uncomfortable with it, with her. Cimarron wasn't right for her, not yet, maybe not ever. He'd kept that eastbound train ticket for her – the one he'd offered her that first night here – just in case she might want to go back home to the safe and settled city of Providence. But judging by the set of her fine jaw as she stood before him, she hadn't given up yet.

"I'm not saying you can't come up here," he tried in a gentler voice. "I'm asking that you find someone to come with you when you do. For the time being – for your own safety." He paused, but she wasn't readying any answer. Or agreement. He gritted his teeth. "It's the same advice I'd give to any other lady in this town. All right?"

Her glare softened. She looked down at the grave and the scrubby grass beginning to sprout over it. "I asked Mr. Gibson to make a new marker," she said softly. "So he won't be forgotten…"

Why did that jab him deep in a soft spot below his heart? "That sounds fine," he allowed. "We'll bring a wagon next time, put it in nice and straight." Inwardly he cringed – had he just offered that? She didn't need any encouragement and he'd just given her plenty. "Miss Dulcey…" He paused. "You want to head back now?" Please, he silently pleaded, back to town and the Inn where things were at least somewhat normal.

She nodded, and he stepped aside to let her lead the way back to the gates. "Missed you at the court," he tried, untying the gelding and trying for some kind of conversation that would be more comfortable for the both of them.

"I thought I would use my time more wisely," she replied in a cool tone and he regretted bringing up the subject. "Did it go well?"

"It did," he nodded, appreciating her graciousness over his gaffe. Silence quickly dropped back between them. He held out the reins to her. "You want to ride?"

She looked up nervously at the black. "No, thank you," she primly refused. "I'll walk."

Then he would, too. Not that he was one for walking the countryside when he could ride, but he hadn't completely forgotten some gentlemanly manners. At least the landscape here was nice enough. The road here was wide and smooth, without enough brush to hide much of a man. From this rise you could view all comers in any directions. The sky was a nice shade of blue. It wasn't too hot and there was now an easy breeze sliding past them. From far off a dog barked and a cow lowed. Voices came up from the town, along with a faint rumble of street traffic. A young child called to someone.

And there was a pretty girl at his side. Crown glanced over at Dulcey's clear profile. If he was ten years younger he might be a-courting. He grunted softly to himself in disapproval. Jim Crown wasn't the marrying type – so far, anyway.

"Have you ever been east, Marshal?" Dulcey asked, sidling a quick glance over to him.

"Washington," he replied with a shrug, noting how her stride easily matched his. At least there'd been some ladies there, and he'd managed well enough with them.

"Some say that's south," Dulcey commented.

"I guess so."

"New York, then? Boston?"

He shook his head; let a smile lift a corner of his mouth. "Not even Providence." He pointed behind him. "Kansas to the north and Mexico to the south, and a whole of prairie in between. I grew up down Texas way. Cowboyed, scouted for the Army…" Why was he telling her this? He was flapping his jaws like a lonely line camp rider.

"Did you fight the Indians?" she asked eagerly.

He grunted again. "Some." Far more than some, but he didn't figure she'd appreciate the details. And most of it was downright too gruesome to talk about, certainly not proper parlor talk.

"Have you ever seen the ocean, then?" she inquired next.

He nodded with relief – something they had in common. "I was in Galveston once. Pretty powerful water." He paused, then added, "I hear the water's cold up Providence way."

She let out a pretty smile with her little laugh of delight. "Oh, it is! Freezing, even in summer." He had a quick vision of her in bare legs running along the deep sand, rushing to escape the chilly waves-

The gelding pulled up, let off a snort of concern. Crown immediately halted, hand already to the .44.

"Is there-?" began Dulcey but his fingers squeezed her arm and silenced her.

The brush that wasn't enough to hold much of a man was quivering – and scuffling. And crying.

Crown dropped the reins and the black obligingly stood still. He was easing his gun from his holster when a child broke into view from the scrub at the road edge. A young boy, perhaps six or seven, bareheaded and light haired, dirty and scratched. "Annie!" he pleaded plaintively. "Annie!"

Crown strode over to him, took a little arm. "Son, whatever are you doing way out here by yourself?" he demanded. "Where's your family?"

"I came looking for Annie," the boy cried, gulping on sobs. "She's lost – I got to find her."

"Well, who is Annie?" The youngster only cried harder and tried to pull away. "You're not going anywhere," Crown told him, catching some shirtfront. "Now stop fussing and tell me where you belong. And who's Annie?"

"Oh, for goodness sakes!" Dulcey rebuked, rushing over. "Stop shouting at him!" She crouched, gathered the weeping child close. "There, there," she soothed. "You're all right now, we'll help you…" Over the boy's blond head she gave him a murderous glare.

He made a frustrated sound and looked about, spied an animal ambling into the road – a dun-colored goat, with a frayed rope tether dragging at its side. "Miss Dulcey…"

She was wiping the youngster's tears with her hand, asking him his name in a comforting voice he hadn't heard before. "Benjy, all right," she nodded. "I'm Dulcey, and this is Marshal Crown. Now, who is Annie and how did she get lost?"

"I'm guessing that's her," Crown drawled, pointing.

The boy looked up. "Annie!" he cried. "My goat!"

Both little boy and young lady gave him plaintive looks. So this was how it was going to go – U.S. Marshal James Crown, rounding up one recalcitrant goat. Crown held in his sigh, ripped off a bunch of green grasses sprouting nearby and eased toward the skittish goat, slipping into the low tones once reserved for boogerish steers. The critter easily accepted his offering, for which he was glad. Running around creation chasing a complaining nanny goat in boots barely made for walking was not an action he wanted witnessed by either the youngster or the lady. He took up the trailing rope lead and towed the animal back to the boy, over the animal's bleats of protest.

"Now," he said to Dulcey's amused grin, trying to hold onto his sense of authority. "Where's home, Benjy?"

"Not sure," the boy quavered, twisting his little head about. "Ma was in town. I was supposed to stay back but Annie got loose. She'd be awful mad if the goat got lost so I went after."

"Well, we'll just take you into Cimarron and the Marshal will find your mother," Dulcey promised, unaffected by the scowl Crown levied onto her. She awkwardly picked Benjy up and started to walk with him, his little arms tight around her neck, his feet banging against her knees.

"Hold on." Crown handed the goat over and took the boy from her. "Okay, pard," he tried in a gentler tone. "Why don't you ride?" He lifted the youngster astride the saddle. "Here, take the reins – don't hold on too tight. Ol' Rocky, he already knows the way back." He wrapped the far rein around the saddle horn and gave the end to the boy, then took up the other. At the sight of Dulcey stiffly holding the anxious goat he reached over took the animal from her.

"Thank you, Marshal," she smiled gratefully.

"Don't mention it," he said grouchily. City girl, he remembered. Housemaid. Probably never saw a goat in her life. Maybe she should get one and use the milk for her kitchen cooking. Then he scowled – she'd probably ask him to show her how to milk it. "You just make sure Benjy holds on."

"I will!" the boy piped up excitedly, his worries all but forgotten from his perch atop the big horse. "Thanks, Marshal!"

He couldn't help but smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "Happy to help, son."

He towed the willing gelding forward and kept the goat well away from the large hooves. Dulcey took up a position on the other side and easily kept up again, despite his ground-eating strides. She began a pleasant conversation with the boy, chatting about Providence, the ocean, the sailing ships there. Benjy's childish and excited questions quickly evolved into some kind of word game that had them giggling and laughing. By the time they reached Main Street the gelding was ambling easily and goat was not, but the girl and the child were still happily at it. How did she do it? Crown wondered silently. How quickly she put folks at ease.

MacGregor approached on those long loping legs of his. "Would this laddie be young Master Benjy Frost?" he asked. "He's got a distraught Ma waiting…"

Crown easily lifted the boy down and Dulcey took his hand. "See? I told you the Marshal would find your mother," she told the youngster in an assuring tone. "Come on, let's go to her. You must be thirsty after that long ride – would you like some milk…?"

"Oh, lass," Mag caught her arm. "The young laddie, Mr. Hastings, asked after you. I said I'd pass the word."

"Oh – well," she blushed just a little and gave off a delighted little smile. "Thank you, Mr. MacGregor…Thank you very much." Her look darted back to Crown and he saw that her eyes were smiling as well. "Come along, Benjy…"

She took her smiles and the boy and headed quickly inside, leaving Crown standing in the heat and the dust with a horse snorting at his side and a goat bleating at his knee. And with a headache starting over one eye.

"Everything all right?" Mac asked him, and he realized he was scowling.

Crown released his lowered brow and handed over the goat. "Just fine now," he reported but couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. "See that the boy and his ma get back to the settlement, would you? I'll put up the horse."

"And Dulcey?"

"At the graveyard, like Francis said." Crown gave a sigh. "I don't see why he isn't interested in her. They would be good for each other."

MacGregor let out a little laugh and shook his head. "Nae, Marshal. You have that all wrong. Francis might shine an eye toward her, but she'll never see it. That lad Hastings, now-" But he broke off as Crown let off a sound of consternation. "Well, maybe she'll catch a rancher boy's eyes – that'd be more the type for her."

Somehow that didn't go down Crown's throat either.