X.

She went off balance, instinctively tried to draw back. "Stop – no…"

Two hands got around her, lifted her down off the step, turned her. Dulcey grabbed for purchase, found her fingers curled into corded arms of a man grinning before her. In the early gloom she saw the young face, the unshaven chin, a wave of fair hair – a stranger, no one that she recognized. There was a wide look of leering delight glimmering in his eyes.

"Miss Pretty," he purred – she smelled the liquor on him.

"Let me go!" she demanded loudly, pounding angrily at him. Stupid, drunken lout. Why hadn't she seen him?

He laughed over his shoulder. "See, I told you she's a fierce one. Oh, Miss Pretty," he moaned as her fists banged on his chest. "Don't keep doing that to me."

"Now, Tom, you save some," said another voice, high and excited. "You promised."

Fear slid over Dulcey's ire – two of them! Oh, no, no…

"Stop!" she cried with rising panic, but the one who had her started whirling her about in a tipsy, dizzying dance.

"I've waited days for you," he breathed heavily, tightening his hold on her. "You're so pretty. I told my buddy Randy the minute I laid eyes on you I had to have some of that pretty." He reached up, thrust rough fingers through her hair; the strands snagged on his ragged fingernails. "Pretty through and through…"

"Please, don't," Dulcey tried, her mind racing toward a solid thought – safety was just steps away. The Marshal was in his office around the corner. MacGregor and Francis, Febrizio and others were at the bar. Even now she heard a roar of laughter coming from that direction. She took a breath, readied her scream—

His hand came up under her jaw and squeezed, cutting off her air. "No-no," he told her in a singsong voice, fresh excitement dancing in his eyes. "Not here." He pinned her arms to her sides, crushing her to him. His lips scraped across her cheek, got to her mouth, slobbered, sucked. "Be nice now, nice and pretty…"

Be nice now…

Revulsion assaulted her, made her mind spin with cruel blackness from long ago. No, no... She tried to thrust it back, but the old brutal memory shoved itself up into her throat, choking her with its sourness. No, dear God, no, no! No, not again! The voice – his voice – from so long ago started inside her head, hissing, pleading…No, no, Dulcey…be nice…be nice and I won't hurt you…

She tried for a breath, could not find any air; his fingers were pressing hard, crushing her windpipe; his other hand slipped under the edge of her blouse, probing. Bile surged, hot and sour, up from her stomach and the sweat of fear broke out over her, made her shake. Again, it was happening again… Pretty Dulcey, crooned the shadowy past, I won't hurt you – just let me...

His tongue licked her. "Just gotta taste me some…" he rasped, swinging her to the wall and pressing her back against it. He began to grind against her. His fist moved lower, began bunching her skirts, lifting…

It won't hurt –oh, you're so soft, sweet…

Dulcey retched but worked it back down. Behind them the other man was yipping and hooting; out of the corner of her eye she saw him dancing in the growing darkness, pale face and hands glowing, his boots scraping heavily across the dirt. The sound grated in her ears – scritch-scritch-scritch – eased her terror for a bare second. If she made some noise they'd hear her – she had but to alert them. Screech like a horned devil, came Crown's voice into her head. A noise – something…Yes, yes… She got her hand moving, clawed what she could reach – his shirt back, the pockets of his pants – his gunbelt. Frantically Dulcey tugged at the heavy Colt, fingers roaming over the metal. She'd never handled a gun, but seeing Crown use his she knew there was a trigger-

He stiffened. "Not, you don't!" he hissed, grabbing for her hand even as his other fist rammed her cheek.

Air flowed down her throat – he'd let go. Dulcey's voice rolled up, spilled past her lips…

She screamed—

The gun went off.

An unholy scream and then a shot, one right after another.

Crown bolted up out of his chair and barreled out his back door, eyes already scanning the street, squinting as they adjusted to the deepening darkness. Instinct, however, drove him to the alley behind the Inn. He sprinted around the corner; saw a flash of pink, a swing of blonde hair – Dulcey.

His long reach swiveled the man watching even as his uppercut lifted the kid off his feet and sent him sprawling – his eyes rolled before he hit the dirt. Crown recognized him despite the gloom – the lurker from the bar, and the other one was his cocky friend. The snake had pinned Dulcey to the wall and was working suggestively over her. In one stride, Crown grabbed the other one. Enraged, his grip was colossal. He ripped the man bodily away from Dulcey, ducked flailing arms and legs, saw the glint of metal. He shifted smoothly to the upside of the girl and slapped his own leather.

The shot drove the younger man to with his knees with a cry. Crown dove in and tore the gun from the bleeding fingers, smashed the face hard; bones broke and blood spewed. He tossed the spent attacker to one side; the boy fell into a heap beside his motionless partner.

Quickly Crown whirled, shoving level breaths into his lungs, his gaze immediately seeking out Dulcey. She was just beyond him, frozen to the wall and gasping with sobs, her eyes shimmering darkly against the sallow skin of her face. Her dress was a wrinkled mess; the edge of her collar had slipped, revealing the outline of her collarbone. Crown's gut clenched – just what had the liquored-up bastard done? Had he…? No, God no, please…

He shoved the kid's Colt into his waistband and softly approached. "Miss Dulcey…"

She was staring unseeing, her shoulders – all of her – quaking hard. Crown reached out, tenderly touched her wrist. "Miss Dulcey?"

She exploded, her body twisting, a harsh cry tearing from her throat. Her fists banged down on his shoulder, went for his face. "No! No, no…!"

"It's me, Jim," he called to her. "Miss Dulcey, it's all right…" He took her arm, tried not to grip hard and advance her panic. Still she fought him, strong in her fear. "Miss Dulcey!"

Her knuckles connected with his jaw, but he pulled back before the blow could cause any real damage. He got her by the upper arms, tried to catch her gaze but her hair had swung across her cheeks and was sticking to her slicked skin. "Miss Dulcey, stop!" he half-shouted. "Stop, it's me. It's Jim Crown – Marshal Crown!"

She rocked to a halt – maybe she recognized the glitter of his badge in the shaft of amber lamplight crossing over them, or maybe she knew the sound of his voice. He certainly had shouted a lot in the past few weeks, even at her upon occasion. But whatever it was, she suddenly seemed to dry up and go still. Crown eased his grip but did not let go, felt the sticky heat of her skin under his hands, the warmth of her breaths fanning across his cheek, was afraid he'd break a bone because she was so taut in his grasp.

"It's all right now," he told her, wishing she'd ease enough so he could get his arms around her fully, give her more comfort. "It's all right, Miss Dulcey."

She took a breath, tipped her head to look up at him. Some of the tangle that was her hair fell away from her face and he saw her gaze, not quite so riled now. Her lips moved. "M – Marshal…?" she quavered.

He nodded. "Are you hurt?" he demanded. "Did he…?"

"I – I…" She swallowed hard and he saw it, a flare of old fear that swept her features, shadowed her gaze and thinned her lips, and he knew-

She'd been hurt before, like this. "Dulcey…" he got out gently, forgetting the formality. His heart strained painfully against his breastbone. Someone had hurt her, touched her, harmed her. "Talk to me now…" he urged, drawing some strands of hair away from her face.

"I'm – I'm…" she stammered and quickly turned her head aside, began to choke.

The scrape on her cheek glowered at him, freshening his rage. "MacGregor!" Crown shouted through the din of laughter rolling out from the doorway. "Francis!" Dulcey began to heave, harsh but dry. "Did he hurt you?" he asked her as worry swooped through his gut. Did he place his filthy hands anywhere-? Tell me and I'll rip off this badge and…

"He – he…no," Dulcey gasped, shaking her head and swallowing hard.

"What – what did he do?" Crown pressed, because the pain he'd seen in her eyes was drilling deeply down into him without cease and made him fear he'd been too late...

"He didn't – no, he just…" She withdrew a hand from him and wiped it across her lips, then swayed.

He got an arm around her, guided her to the bench by the doorway and eased her down onto it, then sat hard beside her. It was a long moment while he waited to make sure she would stay upright, the top of her head grazing his cheek as she took deep breaths and tried to steady herself. Laughter rang out from the bar again. Movement caught Crown's eye – one of the attackers was trying to get up.

"Stay right here-" he started.

"No!" Dulcey's fingers snagged his vest, curled in tight.

He worked it away, gave it a comforting pat. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured her. "Stay right here for a minute, all right? Mac!" he roared, and finally saw his chief deputy coming on at a run, Francis close behind. Crown stepped back to the fallen, bleeding man, hauled on an arm. "I warned you, Mister. Now get up!"

The man moaned, scraped at the dirt. Crown rattled him onto his feet. He wanted to shove his knee deep between this low-lying bug's legs, take his .44 and shoot the very spot. Years ago he would've done it, but now the badge held him back. But it could not quell the anger roiling through him. Attacking a woman – attacking Dulcey.

Trying to rape her.

All right outside his door. He should've paid more attention – something, anything. Dammit to hell!

MacGregor and Francis had made it through the door, brought themselves up short at the sight. "What the devil?" thundered Mac, jumping forward.

"Straight to a cell," Jim told him, shoving the kid's gun at him. Then he gestured to the one beyond. "Francis, wake him up and get him inside. Then get the doc."

"What's the charge?" Mac asked him. "Oh, stop crying you drunkard – you got what you deserved. Jim?"

"Assault," Crown gritted out around a rigid jaw. He well knew the full legal term for the crime, but he refused to say it with Dulcey hovering on the bench there.

Mac frowned as his gaze followed. "Oh, no! Dear lass…Jim…?"

"She's all right, just scared…" I think… "Get them inside, would you? Use my door."

He waited until the area was clear, then stepped back up to Dulcey, touched her arm, hated it when she flinched hard. "Marshal…" she got out, eyes locking instantly onto him. She rose under his grasp, trembling, but let him lead her inside.

Crown guided her into the warm, lit room, settled her into a chair, shut both doors to give them some privacy. He grabbed a towel, wet it, kicked a chair around and sat before her. Carefully he touched the towel to her scraped cheek. Dulcey winced and drew back, but he took her hand to still her. She immediately quieted, her fingers curling fast around his, hanging on.

"It's not bad," he told her as he cleaned the graze. His voice seemed to echo about the room. Her silence made him uncommonly nervous. He didn't do it, he reminded himself. He didn't get his hands… "You all right?" he asked to work away the jumpiness threatening him.

"I didn't know he was there," Dulcey replied in a tiny voice. The skin at the base of her throat and over her exposed collarbone was red and roughened. Her hair was a mass of blonde tangles. "I didn't know…"

"It's okay," he soothed, and managed a lopsided smile at her. "You gave a good scream."

"I opened the door – I shouldn't have…" She looked up at him, wholly dismayed. Fresh tears spiked her lashes.

"Don't fret now," he counseled softly, tossing the towel onto the counter. He couldn't be upset with her, not when she was looking so scared. He should've kept a better eye on those two jackals. Again it came to him – she'd been harmed before… "I'll take you to your room, all right?" He took both her hands – they were so small in his.

"Oh, but your rounds," she quickly protested.

Crazy girl, he thought, worried about his routine at a time like this. "You first," he told her.

She gave no resistance but hung onto his hand, fingers cold and clammy in his warmer grasp. He escorted her through the dining room, shielding her from the small group gathered at the bar, quelling their curious stares with a glare of his own. Except that of Matthew Hastings; the young man was stepping forward. "Miss Coopersmith?"

Defensiveness arose hard within him, settled close to his heart. "Not now," Crown ground out as Dulcey pressed closer to him. But we're going to have a talk, boy, he silently told the other man. He knew he'd interrupted them earlier in the kitchen, but restraint be damned – he'd sleep better once he found out exactly what Matthew Hastings was after. He herded Dulcey up the stairs, feeling the younger man's eyes on their backs as they turned the corner out of sight.

He got the key from her, unlocked the door, lit the lamp and turned it up full, her hand clutch onto his sleeve the whole while. His gaze sought out all the corners, taking note of the flowery bedding, pretty chairs, and lacy dresser scarves. And a faint fragrance – hers. "All secure," he assured her, pressing the key into her palm.

"Thank you…" she murmured.

"Miss Dulcey..."

It was on his tongue to ask her, but his mind quickly told him it wasn't his business. Yet she looked up at him with those pretty blue eyes shadowed with memory, and that pink mouth all tight and his heart kicked within his chest. Don't you know how pretty you are? Don't you know how they all want you? He wished he could smoothen her hair, hold her, hug her…

Warning prodded him, reminding him of the badge he wore and the limitations it imposed. He could not lead her on, nor fuel any of the loose notions in his own head. "Lock the door behind you, all right?"

"Yes," Dulcey nodded. "Yes, I will. I – thank you…"

He waited until he heard the sound of the tumblers clicking into place behind him—

Then stood powerless listening as her muffled sobs came from behind the locked door. With that ringing in his ears, and a weight inside him like he'd just swallowed a stone, he made his way back downstairs.

He waved off Mac's and Francis' anxious gazes, accepted the drink Febrizio held out to him, and allowed a few more moments to upbraid himself for not turning those two cowboys out of town sooner. By the time Febrizio had poured a second round, his emotion was ebbing and his cool head returning. Then he spotted Hastings coming through the doors.

"Can I speak with you a minute, Mr. Hastings?" he called.

Hastings got his foot off the stair and turned. His face was easy, perhaps too carefully so. "Yes, Marshal?"

Crown beckoned with his finger and the younger man obligingly followed him to his office. He shut the door behind them, remained standing. "Want to talk to you," Crown began, "about Miss Coopersmith."

"Miss Dulcey?" Hastings echoed. "Is she all right?"

Terrified… Crown managed a nod. "Thought I might ask you," he said evenly, "what your intentions might be towards her."

The boy's attitude did not change – Crown sense he was trying hard to hold back. His stance was centered on his feet, but he was stiff in the shoulders. He looked non-threatening, but Crown remembered the unexpected strength when he'd grabbed him the other day. Still he wore no gun – at least none that was visible.

"Marshal, I hope I haven't-"

"She's a nice young lady," Crown interrupted. "She hasn't been out here too long – doesn't know the way of things. Inexperienced, you could say."

"Yes, sir."

"Doesn't always see danger before it happens."

"Yes, sir, I understand." Hastings took a step forward. Crown reflexively eased back, let his hand rest on the butt of his .44 Hastings' gaze went to it for the barest second. "I surely appreciate Miss Dulcey's company, Marshal," the boy continued. "She's very kind."

"She is," Crown agreed. "You planning on staying in Cimarron?"

"This is a nice town," Hastings shrugged, then nodded. "Plenty of work for two carpenters, it looks like. At least for now. Folks need carpenters."

"They do," Crown said. "Now, as for Miss Dulcey…"

"If I can ask, Marshal," Hastings gave a pause, but Crown didn't think he was hesitant in the least. "Miss Dulcey – well, she's not already spoken for, is she? I didn't think…" His smile came on, broad, almost wolfish. "She surely is pretty, sir."

"Just so we understand," Crown put out, feeling ugly all over again, "There'll be no disrespect shown to her. I'll give to any man what I gave to those two alley dogs tonight for even looking the wrong way at her. You got that?"

Hastings gave a simple nod and stuffed his smile behind his teeth, though Crown still felt he was gleeful about something. "I do understand, Marshal. Thank you for explaining. Good-night to you, sir."

Crown only nodded, and watched him leave, limping slightly, his manner ever-calm. Annoyed with him – and himself – Crown tossed his rear into his new office chair and fumed silently.

You'll come to me, Crown. On my terms, not yours. There won't be any dark alleys, like you're thinking. Daylight, Crown. Hot daylight so you can watch yourself die. You'll come to me…