IX.

Hoofbeats…

He peered out of the ravaged building and smiled. Crown… The Marshal jogged by below, heading the big black horse toward the livery. He was back – at least for the moment.

If he had learned anything about the man, it was that Crown was anything but predictable in routine. Some mornings he joined his little trio of new friends for a full breakfast, others he grabbed only coffee and came back later for a meal. Still others he took it all into his office and closed the door. It would be hard to lure him, what with him in and out all the time. But it had to be soon before he gave into any suspicions. The trip to Hardesty had been wholly unplanned – the girl told him so, said she often knew when to pack his saddlebags. Trouble in Guymon had put him back on the road for two more days. Today he'd spent the morning at the settlement, where some rancher's boys had stirred things up.

Crown wasn't going to find anything on him in Hardesty – or beyond. Not under this name. He'd taken pains to cover his tracks. He had no special identifying marks on him that would be noted or remembered. And he'd changed everything he could about himself. He'd found new clothes, shaved off his beard, and cut his hair. He'd even altered his voice to that pretty polite tone he was using. No one would know him.

He turned back to his business, re-appraising the items arrayed before him, lovingly stroking them – the coil of rope and matching noose, the rags and matches, kerosene, the long knife, and the special club he'd made – such perfect torture weapons. Some he'd brought with him, others he'd easily stolen from under that fat merchant's nose, and a few others in town. It wouldn't do to filch from just one store – that would arouse suspicion, and he'd worked too hard to ruin his plans with any such carelessness.

"Crown," he whispered, touching them one by one, savoring the thoughts of how he was going to use them, which one first. He'd have plenty of time to watch the man he hated suffer so slowly, watch skin peel and blood run. There'd be time to wreck muscle, expose bone. And do it in the daylight so he could see the fear, smell the agony, touch the damage…oh, yes…Slow, oh so slowly…

His leg twinged – he laughed softly at the pain. It'd all been so easy – slip into the bank, steal the money, order up an explosion, drop a bag at Conroy's feet and let the town explode. Then he'd taken his gun, angled it toward his own leg, and pulled the trigger. The pain had been brilliant, and for a long few moments he'd run on the sheer power of the feeling, then toppled over with both feet kicking, trying to crawl because it was still flowing through him and he didn't want it to stop. Only passed out when that doctor finally showed up and tore it cleanly from the muscle. Even now when it acted up he felt some of that excitement thrum through him.

His plan was all in place now – he just needed the lure. The girl – his mind turned to her again. He didn't want to use her, but Crown was too unpredictable otherwise. If he put her away good and tight Crown would come for her – he wouldn't let anything happen to her. A little ripple of jealousy coursed through him – if it wasn't for Crown, he'd surely be in a position to put an honest design on her. "Damn you," he said bitterly to the empty room. It was all Crown's fault, everything. Dulcey – yes…

All he had to do was pick the time. He'd have to move quickly once he decided the moment was right. That would be risky, but he would not stop now. He'd made a dying promise to Luke, would keep his vow. No matter the risk.

He picked up the knife, stroked the blade – and then hurled it across the room. The hilt quivered as it stuck fast into the wall. "For you, Luke," he said to the broken space before him, envisioning blood and smoke and burning, bleeding skin. "This is all for you."

Crown was back and would soon be dead.

Avenged.

"There," Dulcey declared to the young man watching her, all too aware of his admiring gaze upon her backside. She found herself pleasantly dismayed at the thought. It wasn't as if she'd willingly allowed him the sight – he'd wandered in as the last of the bread was finishing, helped himself to a seat opposite and started an easy conversation with her. She should've better positioned herself but she'd been concerned about the bread – she could not afford to waste a loaf by burning it. Profits from the Inn were as yet slim, and something as simple as flour was still a luxury item.

She straightened and turned, the bread pan held carefully in her covered hands. She put it alongside the others already cooling on the worktable. "That's the last of them."

"I'd eat it hot, it smells so good," Matthew Hastings exclaimed, reaching forward.

"No you don't!" Dulcey scolded, batting his hand away. "That is for breakfast." She stooped again to close the oven door, and then quickly shifted to the side to complete the task, glad that the heat of the stove masked most of her blush.

"I bet you could sell it right now, by the slice," Matthew suggested, gesturing to the golden results. "Those drinkers out there would put up two bits apiece for a taste of that."

Dulcey chuckled. "I'll have to consider it then. It might help profits." The Marshal would be first in line, she thought distractedly. He so loved fresh bread, she'd discovered. Her very first loaf baked weeks ago had him drifting in looking for some, to which she'd delightedly shared. Now he was a regular snitch, somehow sneaking in to grab a slice or two when she wasn't looking. She knew she could stop him at any time, but she liked seeing this playful side of Crown; he was altogether too serious. Chasing after her all the way to the cemetery on a pretense of danger. For goodness sakes; by the looks of the graves out at the place, it wasn't visited or tended in the least. Perhaps after dark the shadows and alleys might hold a lurking figure or two, but surely not in full daylight. The Marshal had been around outlaws and robbers too long – he saw crime where it didn't even exist. Cimarron was a fast growing town and quickly becoming settled. The merchants were well established. There was regular mail service, and rail service. There was already talk of a library fund. To be sure, there was a lot of dust, and a lot of travelers. But with Crown here to see that the law was enforced, and so far doing a very good job of it, there wasn't much to be too concerned about.

She'd rather liked their conversation of the other day, even if she'd had to work around his shouting at poor little Benjy. Once Crown settled down he was easy enough to talk to. He seemed to have done so much before he'd settled on a law career. No wonder Francis wanted to exploit him a little – Crown wasn't all that far from the legend Francis was trying to make for him. He certainly had enough confidence in himself – but that's what legends were all about, weren't they? Long on experience and capability and skill. Crown was all that and more. He even knew how to handle a protesting goat, Dulcey thought to herself with a smile. Surely he knew how to milk a cow, too. Though for all that, he didn't seem too comfortable around her.

Maybe skirts flustered him. Or just long skirts – she heard that the girls over at Pony Jane's wore them at the knee, and it was said about town that Crown had already spent some time over there. Well, let him get all bothered there instead of at her. She owned the Wayfarer's and was quite capable of making her own decisions, business and personal.

Matthew rose, tall and lean, his own hair gilded by the lamplight, blocking out her musings of the Marshal. "I swear, Dulcey," he said with a wide smile that held a lot of warmth, "you could bring a man to his knees with what comes from this kitchen."

"You're too kind," she demurred, but that happy feeling flooded her again. Mathew, so kind and friendly, so – uncomplicated.

"It's true!" And he went down, assuming a prayerful pose, palms uplifted, green eyes appealing to her. "Miss Dulcey Coopersmith, golden princess of the Cimarron…"

"Stop," Dulcey laughed, wiping at one of her cheeks. "Some princess – I've flour all over myself." And with my hair wrapped in a rag…

"A sweet confection of beauty…"

"Now you sound like Francis – and don't give him any ideas," Dulcey warned playfully.

"Fair of hair, pure of heart," Matthew continued unabashed, smiling widely. "In her hands, all beauty beckons …"

Dulcey laughed again. "Get up, you silly." She reached over and gave him a tap on the shoulder.

"She knights me, O Fair One!" he declared adoringly and seized her hand –

His grip tingled; it stilled her. Perhaps he wasn't playacting. And perhaps neither was she. "Um, Matthew…" she began, suddenly quite breathless.

"Dulcey," he whispered. His eyes, so full of warmth, searched her face. He gave her a little tug; she had to balance a hand on his shoulder to avoid tumbling into him. "Dulcey…" She watched his lips as they spoke her name – how soft they looked. She was so close she could touch…

"Miss Dulcey!"

The kitchen door banged open.

Quickly she turned, stumbling a little as her foot bumped Matthew's knee. He put a steadying hand to the small of her back, his fingers warm through the fabric of her blouse.

Marshal Crown stared, silent and appraising. Fresh heat rose to Dulcey's face under that glittering, hazel-eyed gaze. "Yes – Marshal?" she stammered at him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Crown rumbled out, though his tone relayed anything but apology.

Matthew rose from his knees; their hands parted. Yet his features remained pleasant and unembarrassed, and a secretive sort of smile played out over his lips. His composure calmed Dulcey, and a little fluttering of delight worked through her. If Matthew wasn't afraid of the Marshal, then she wouldn't, either. And she shouldn't be feeling any sort of guilt. Matthew had been nothing but gentlemanly toward her – well, but for his opportunity to watch her. They were friends. Friends had fun, played about. There was nothing unseemly about what he – or she – had done.

"No interruption, Marshal," Matthew assured him. "In fact, you probably just saved me from eternal mortification."

Crown's hands went to his hips. "How's that?" he asked, heavy brows rising.

"I'm afraid I rather went on about Dulcey's great hand with baking," Matthew explained. "I was just about to burst into song when you came in. Good thing, too – I can't quite carry a tune." He nodded admiringly at the loaves sitting proudly across from him. "But I'd surely attempt a hymn in exchange for a slice of that fresh bread. I was hoping to persuade her to cut some up."

Dulcey saw Crown eye the loaves, knew that it was what'd brought him here. Then his gaze flicked over Dulcey and settled back onto Matthew. "Gotta agree with you there," he nodded. "Miss Dulcey's bread is the best I ever tasted."

"Marshal," Dulcey began. Crown turned an easy stare onto her, but she saw a muscle quiver in his cheek. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked.

He stiffened at her formal tone and his gaze ran back over the both of them. She saw a tightening of his jaw – was that some embarrassment tempering the light in his stare? "I'll be in my office another hour or so," he told her without any trace of his drawl. "Francis will be on rounds with me. MacGregor is taking first watch."

It had become his habit to tell her the evening schedule in order for them to coordinate locking up and turning out the lamps. Tonight, however, it seemed awkward. Dulcey glanced at Matthew beside her; perhaps the young man had something to do with that. But like all things relating to the Marshal, whatever he did or said was for a reason. A man like James Crown didn't wander about in his thoughts or waste energy on useless action. Even now, this conversation of sorts was intentional, though it might not have begun that way. Seeing her in here with another man on his knees, a young and attending young man, had likely surprised him.

He'd intruded and he knew it.

It probably galled him that he couldn't find any faults with Matthew. Dulcey smiled a little at that – maybe Crown's hat would fit better on his arrogant head for it. "I'm nearly done here," she announced. "Does Mr. Carter need anything?"

Crown shook his head. "He's fine – itching to leave, but no complaints about the bed or the meals."

"Well…" Matthew shifted, and they both swung looks onto him. He still appeared unaffected by the interruption. "I believe I'll catch some air before dark, work my leg a little before I turn in. Got an early day tomorrow – Mister Kilgallen's coming by to see the work on his building." He turned to Dulcey and bowed, reclaiming their earlier sense of fun. "Thank you, Miss Coopersmith, for your gracious company. I'm looking forward to partaking of that fine bread in the morning. Marshal," he nodded and ambled out, whistling a perky tune.

Dulcey stood there with Crown in a swirl of thickening silence. The Marshal hadn't moved, still had his hands on his hips, was still tensing his jaw and squinting. Dulcey reached up and wiped at her floury cheek, realized she probably looked a sight what with dough under her nails and her hair tied unbecomingly atop her head. The Marshal looked as neat as ever, what with his white shirt still clean and the light making his black hair shine and the badge secured to his vest twinkle. He was probably wondering why a man like Matthew Hastings would be interested in a plain thing like her. Then again, he probably thought Matthew was one of those – what did he call them? Out of work jaspers looking for the wrong kind of fun. Or a whipped up cowboy looking for Saturday night, or some other equally original expression. Always suspicious, in any event. Overly so, Dulcey realized.

"Coffee?" she asked to break the heavy atmosphere air, moving to the stove.

Crown lifted a cup from the row of them hanging on hooks by his head, held it out. She poured. He looked down at it, then back at her. Was that some sheepishness shadowing his gaze? Served him right – he could stand a little humility. "Thank you, Miss Dulcey," he rasped. "Good night…"

She squarely met his gaze. "Good night, Marshal."

He eyed the bread one last time and silently backed out.

Dulcey's traitorous heart gave a little tug as she watched him angle back toward his office. So there was a real man under all that tough skin. Maybe she could take him a slice of bread after she cleaned up – he did love it so. But then she firmed up her resolve. The time waiting in his office would do him good, remind him that he was only in charge of his half of this building – and had no control over her.

She started to clean up the warm room; placed cloths over the now cooling bread, gathered up used dishes and pans and put them in the sink, poured water, began to wash. It was quiet but for the sounds coming from the bar, the clink of glass, an occasional shout or whoop of laughter. Mac would pick up the chairs and sweep the floor for her once she went upstairs, all part of their nightly routine.

She dried all the dishes and put them away, wiped down the sideboard and the work table, tossed the cleaning cloths into a basket for the next day's washing, then took up a broom and swept. The room had overheated what with the warm day and all the baking she'd done. Her blouse and skirts clung to her, and her hair was hot and heavy on her head; she stripped off the tie holding it up and shook it out. Better. A walk would be a nice way to end her evening, but she would not ask the Marshal to accommodate such a trivial request. She peered out into the dining room. MacGregor was at the bar, Francis at a table writing furiously. Matthew was not in sight. Perhaps he was sitting out front – if he was, then she could sit with him for a bit. Let Crown came and get his own bread – he rather liked sneaking it, anyway.

She shot a look to the back door, Crown's warning coming back to her about keeping it locked and not using it after dark. But the sun had still to fully set. It would only take a moment to walk around to the front of the building. If Matthew was there she'd join him, and if not, she'd come back this way and go upstairs. She didn't want Crown to see her, and issue a shouted question and embarrass her in front of those men drinking at the bar. He might catch a glimpse of her passing by his window, but she'd be onto the boardwalk before he could say anything. And it was just halfway around the building – it wouldn't take but a few seconds.

She pulled off her apron, hung it up, and opened the back door. An obliging breeze met her, mild but fresh. Dulcey lifted her face to it, reached up and shook out her hair again. Even if Matthew wasn't out front she'd sit anyway. She wasn't yet tired, and a moment or two to reflect on the day would be in the cooling darkness would be better than her stuffy room.

She stepped across the threshold, and then turned to pull the latch behind her-

Something – someone – grabbed her.