XIV.
MacGregor was standing, Winchester in hand, peering out Crown's office door.
"Anything?" Dulcey called anxiously from the connecting entrance.
"No." The frustration was plain in Mac's voice. "Two hours gone – and nothing…" He didn't even turn around.
Two hours gone. Something was wrong – Dulcey felt it inside her. Crown should've been back by now; Francis, too. And Matthew Hastings had everything to do with it. Her heart wrenched. She knew Crown did not care for Matthew …
She'd recounted, over and over, her last minutes with Matthew, then her meeting with Crown and Francis. How Matthew's inattention had seemed so – disturbing. And how the Marshal's face had been set with worry – she knew easily recognized that look now. She'd seen it in Crown's glittering gaze. And it was more than his reticence over her friendship with Matthew. This seemed…personal. Between him and Matthew, that is.
Dulcey felt a chill ripple through her. She rubbed her arms to warm them – something was so wrong here, and it frightened her. Death up to now had been for the old and the sick. It could be cruel in its swiftness, or in its hovering stance. But not violent like out here. Men took up against each other here with a viciousness that she hadn't seen in Providence – or hadn't realized existed. Here men wore their intentions on their hips, and the need to kill for survival was always present, and the desire to kill waited close behind. The Wild West, they called it. But it was more than that. It was raw and hard, poured into the souls of those living out here so that it became part of their being.
Men accosting others, men seeking to kill others…and Marshal James Crown standing in the middle of it all.
"Matthew, what have you done?" she asked softly to the eerie silence.
She liked Matthew Hastings. He was a nice man, a gentleman. A friend. He'd asked no more than her attention. What could be so wrong with that? But there did seem to be something wrong with it – at least where the Marshal was concerned. No, she amended to herself. Not with her and Matthew. Crown would surely tell her if he thought Matthew could harm her – the Marshal was not one to hold himself back over such an opinion, as she well knew. Crown, with his criticisms, his harsh eye, his by-the badge business. This was different. This was about who Matthew was, or had been, or what he'd done. And where Crown was concerned, it had to be an issue with the law.
That was it then – Matthew had done something. The shiver went back through her – he'd done something terrible. And the Marshal was trying to stop him.
In the days since the alley attack she'd felt freshly comforted by Crown's watchful eye. Francis and MacGregor were also more attentive, but Crown had made his concern obvious in the way he'd asked about her, the gentle look in his gaze as they exchanged their daily conversations. He'd politely backed off from her and Matthew, hadn't said anything about catching them in the kitchen. Left her in relative peace, only she found she didn't really want that from him. From their first night together at the Inn Crown had been nothing but honest with her. She knew he still held a ticket for her to the eastbound train, knew he wouldn't blame her if she gave it all up and returned to Providence. He'd been quick to voice his displeasure at her seemingly simpleminded idea of staying, warning her in that gruff manner of his. But now he seemed to be holding back, careful not to overstep his authority. Ever since that night when he'd barged into the kitchen…
And then there'd been that day at the cemetery, when he'd been easy-minded and conversational, despite the badge pinned on him. That day, that night in the alley – that moment in the kitchen – he'd hadn't been a Marshal, but a man, with a man's feelings…
That incident in the alley – Dulcey couldn't stop her shudder at the memory of it, and the blacker one before that. She'd seen that knowing look in Crown's eyes, as if he could see through to her soul and the secret she kept hidden there, the one she'd never spoken of, not even to her mother. Crown saw her shame and knew, gentled himself to her because of it. He'd been respectful enough not to ask her about it, just took the knowledge of it into to him and held it secure. She knew he'd listen if she chose to tell him, would not look at her differently because of it. That meant the most of all. Maybe she'd confide in him one day. And it would be good to relieve herself of her harbored burden -
They both heard the shot – she jumped and Mac started, then sprinted past her to the front doors, the dining room long quiet from the noon meal.
"What is it?" Febrizio asked, lifting his gaze from the paper he was reading at the bar.
"Where did it come from?" Dulcey demanded, rocking to a stop beside Mac.
"I'm not sure," MacGregor tersely replied. His grip on the Winchester had gone white. They stared together but there was nothing. Maybe it hadn't been a shot, Dulcey thought, just something else, down by the depot, perhaps, or someone building something, dropping lumber or materials, perhaps Matthew…
Then the next shot came, and Mac jumped from foot to foot as he peered out trying to see something, anything A few people started to gather across the street, pointing and talking, walking toward the old sheriff's office. This time Febrizio came out from the behind the bar and joined them.
"MacGregor," Dulcey began around her heart that had worked up into her throat.
"To the kitchen, lass," he told her. "Or better yet, to your room and lock the door."
"Oh but I can't…" she protested. She could not go, not when it was all tied together, the Marshal and Francis – and Matthew…
"You must – for your safety. I promised Jim."
"But, but…" There was movement, an increased volume of voices from the street. Dulcey looked out. "There he is!" she cried, recognizing the figure in black and white, the glittering hat band, the badge.
"Stay here!" MacGregor pulled her back. "Jim!" he called and barreled through the batwing doors.
It was Crown – and Francis. Both were engulfed by a small knot of people. She heard the Marshal's authoritative voice but could not make out the instructions he was giving. Two men hurried inside the damaged building with MacGregor, while two more headed off down the street. The rest crowded around the boarded up windows, chattering excitedly to each other, then back at Crown.
Matthew was not among them – something landed hard in Dulcey's stomach. No Matthew…he'd been working in that building. And those shots…Matthew and Crown…
The Marshal and Francis detached themselves from the group, and slowly made their way across the street to the Inn. "What happened?" Dulcey asked in a rush as they stepped up onto the walk. "Is everything – oh no!" A heavy smear of sticky blood from a terrible gash covered one cheek. "You're hurt!" she cried.
"It's all right," Crown advised in greeting, working Francis through the batwings. "Febrizio, Francis needs a little fortifying, all right?" He handed the pale deputy over to the bartender and turned to her. "Miss Dulcey…"
He swayed. There was more blood on him; it was running down onto his hands, soaked both cuffs. "Into the kitchen!" Dulcey commanded, pointing with a shaking finger. "Before you bleed over everything!"
They parted, Febrizio herding Francis to nearby chair, Dulcey clutching Crown's near elbow and hustling him into the kitchen.
"Sit down!" she exclaimed as he stumbled against her. He grunted, reaching for his side as he lowered himself into a seat. "What happened?" she asked, reaching for water and towels. "We heard shots…"
But he didn't answer, only pulled the hat off his sweaty head and sighed. Then he blocked her hand, took the wadded wet towel she was about to press against his cheek and did it himself. He was beaten and disheveled, his white shirt stained and torn, his dark hair awry. Both pant legs were coated with dirt, one boot was badly scuffed. There were bruises under the sweat and the blood – and his hand…!
"You've been fighting," she declared.
"Yes," he replied.
"Let me see." Dulcey took his free hand – the wrist was chafed and sliced. Bleeding. The fingers of the hand holding the towel, and the palm connecting them, were worse; here the skin was ripped jaggedly away and bleeding afresh. It dripped darkly red, down his shirtsleeve. Her hands shook as she cleaned the cut in the one she held. "Everything's bleeding."
"Just opened up some hide," he told her in that maddening drawl of his, but she sensed a strain in his tone. "I've caught worse on a stormy night riding herd."
"It's still bleeding." She ripped at the towel to make bandages, wound it around and around. And Matthew – Matthew was…
"It'll stop. Enough wrapping!" Crown exclaimed, pulling away. "Even the doc wouldn't use that much bandage."
She finished tying the ends, apologized when she got it too tight and he winced. Then she gently pulled the cloth away from his cheek. A brilliant mess of split and gouged skin over a blooming red and purple bruise gaped at her. Something came out past her lips that made him stare up in surprise up at her, kept him staring as she rinsed out the towel and made careful ministrations.
"Bad?" he finally asked her, a glint of lazy amusement in his tired eyes.
"It looks terrible," she declared truthfully. No wonder he was unsteady – the blow had surely rattled him.
"It'll heal. Miss Dulcey…" He touched her arm, drew her hand away; his grasp was warm, gentle. "Sit down. Please." He gave a short sigh and she sensed his reluctance to speak. And she knew she knew... "I've got something to tell-"
"You found Matthew," she blurted and the tears quickly rose in her eyes. She sat, her hands reaching for his bleeding one. She could not be still; she had to move, if only to repel what she knew was true so that she didn't have to face it. No, it couldn't be…
"I found him," Crown said quietly over her movements, his gaze deep on her.
"He's dead, isn't he?" She didn't want his answer. Some part of her kept denying it. Hearing it from his lips would make it true. But she knew it was true. She knew. Why? she asked herself. Why? Why? echoed inside her.
"Yes," Crown nodded. "He's dead." His shoulders slumped a little.
A sob unexpectedly choked her from the sad and awful truth. Dead – Matthew was dead. She knew Crown enough to realize that he did not go after anyone without reason, would not shoot unless he had no choice. The man sitting before her – beaten, bleeding remorseful – bore the weight of his badge so heavily.
"What did he do?" she demanded, because she had to know that, too, awful as she feared it to be. She submerged his ragged hand into the bowl, began to carefully cleanse it
Crown pulled her hand away, did it for himself. "He tried for some vengeance," he answered, his tone requesting her understanding. "Because I killed his outlaw brother, back in El Paso. I'm sorry," he added softly.
Dead…vengeance…the words spun round and round inside her head. Dulcey tried to block them out but they persisted, pressed against the man she thought she knew, kind and friendly. The man who almost kissed her in this kitchen. Matthew – dead, he'd done all this to the Marshal. "Did – did you…?" she tried around a tongue gone dry inside her mouth.
He shook his head. "Francis got to the gun first. Saved my life."
"He wanted to kill you," she realized, her own words chilling her.
"Yes."
Dulcey looked at his beaten, sweaty face, the terrible, bloodied gash and the heaviness darkening his gaze. How he must have fought for his life. And Francis had shot…Sweet Francis, forced to kill to save Crown's life. "He – he didn't seem…" She took up some bandaging and padded his palm, began to wrapping his gouged fingers, lashing them together. The bleeding was heavy, quickly soaked the cloth. Matthew – such a nice man…Hot feeling threaded quickly through her – he was a vengeful killer…it was sickening, that he could be so – twisted…
"It was an act, to trick me – and you. His real name was Mark Harper." Crown shook his head slightly. "He had a belly full of hate."
"He used me…" Dulcey returned flatly. Used her to get to Crown. It made her feel like a betrayer.
"Maybe a little," Crown nodded.
Dulcey looked away from him, guilt thickening inside her. She should have known, she shouldn't have been so friendly, so trusting…
He touched her sleeve again. "He liked you."
"No, he…no." No, the Marshal was only saying that to assuage her feelings. Matthew hadn't been really interested in her – at all. The friendship wasn't one. She hadn't mattered to him. He was no different than those two attackers. There were no men really interested in her – she was dull, unseen, just like Crown had told her that first night she'd arrived. They wanted only one thing but took no notice otherwise.
"He liked you, Miss Dulcey."
She looked up at him, frowning. "How do you know?"
He nodded at her and a little flame of warmth worked into his gaze. "I know."
Dulcey looked away, her cheeks quickly growing warm. She concentrated on tying the last ends of the bandages around his fingers, saw that the blood was already leaking through, reached to fold back his cuffs. He probably should have the doctor tend to it – maybe he needed stitches, though there didn't look like there was enough skin to put together. It would probably have to scab over—
A mark on his arm caught her attention. Dulcey peered. "What's this?" Her finger carefully traced a thin but jagged white line just south of his inner elbow.
He looked at it, lifted one shoulder to shrug. "Just a scar."
"From what?" she asked.
"Just some ol' Comanche arrow…"
"An arrow!" Dulcey exclaimed. For goodness sakes! An arrow – from an Indian! Just when had he…?
"It was a long time ago," Crown told her.
She peered at it again. Healed, but not all that well. "Did it hurt?"
"This one wasn't so bad."
"There are others?"
He glanced away. "A few."
And no doubt a complete understatement. He was working too hard at being evasive, had flushed just a little under the new scrutiny. He didn't like probing questions, she realized, and more than likely wasn't all that comfortable having them asked by a female. An air of vulnerability swirled about him; she felt a whisper of memories come over him, hard things that had happened to him. Things he'd long ago accepted, molded him into the man he was before her, strong in character. It made her realize just how much he did understand her own secret held inside of her.
"I've never met anyone like you," Dulcey stated. "You've been pierced by arrows, shot by bullets, beaten, bruised…how do you do this job?"
"Same as any others," he replied, but she detected a trace of honest pride in his voice. "It's good if you can dodge some of those arrows and bullets and fists." He pulled out of her grasp and stood. "Thank you, Miss Dulcey." He grabbed his hat, clamped it back on his head, made for the doors.
She rose. He'd have things to do – check on Francis and Mac, probably make a trip to see Mr. Blynn the undertaker – someone would have to order up a coffin…Matthew, dead – it was so senseless. And there was surely some kind of paperwork to do. But he was still a little unsteady on his feet – that blow to the cheek had been hard, so hard.
"You're sure you'll be all right?" she called after him.
"I'm sure." He indicated the bandaging. "Thank you."
"You might want to see Doctor Kihlgren," she suggested. "If it keeps bleeding…"
"I'll keep an eye on it," he told her, still moving.
He was withdrawing, putting his feelings back under the badge he wore. Protecting himself – perhaps also his heart. She understood it, respected him for it, and wanted him to know…
You don't have to call me 'miss,'" she suddenly called after him.
That stopped him. He slowly turned back to her. His glittering gaze fastened onto her, heavy brows raised, waiting for more.
"Dulcey will do," she continued in a softer voice, unable to hold that stare. She might be his landlady, but that didn't mean they had to be so formal with each other, not after all this – with Matthew and all this blood, and the other night when he'd rescued her. And that day at the cemetery. There had to be a place somewhere in between for them…friends…
He nodded. "Jim," he offered in return, if a little gruffly.
She smiled. "All right."
His hands went to his hips in that manner she was coming to know so well. "Well now…Dulcey," he said, as if tasting her name on his lips for the first time, drawing it out in that distinctive tone of his. "Seems I missed some lunch. Think you could put something together for me – and Francis?"
She quickly stood. "Yes, of course – Jim. Right away."
He nodded. "I'll be back. Make it hot and plentiful."
"I will," she assured him, then watched as he swung back through the dining room, hail Francis, keep going. Always moving, always busy, checking and observing, meeting and greeting, directing, yes, even ordering. It was the badge, Dulcey decided. So much of him was in that badge pinned to his chest. He was like a watchman of old, she thought. The watchman of this town, and all the other towns, and the Strip – even the Outlet. Keeping the peace, punishing the guilty, making this place secure to all.
A huge job, too big for just any man. But Jim Crown wasn't just any man, she realized.
He was the only man for this job.