My Guardian Be

Wouldst thou my Good Guardian be?

My faithful Spirit-Guide.

With heart of grace

And spirit might

Be ever at my side.

Defend my Soul,

Protect my Heart,

Shield me from all Harm.

Ere dark or gloam be near or nigh

Never from me part.

If this I ask be of thy will,

Pray, then take my hand.

And in thy care

I shall remain

'Til only Heaven stand.

I.

"He's still here?" Angus MacGregor demanded with a great glare, easing his rear into the chair Francis Wilde kicked out for him. "It's been all day and now halfway into the night!"

Crown did not reply – better to keep his thoughts to himself, since he was having trouble with them anyway. But hadn't he always told himself he'd support Dulcey if she found someone else? The boy sitting with her was certainly of her age, and they already knew each other. Crown adjusted his gaze onto the pretty young woman with her blonde hair falling silkily down her back and her blue eyes alit in her face. Something jabbed at in a tender spot within his chest. Dulcey…

Beside him Francis turned another page of the magazine he was perusing and shrugged. "He's an old friend. They worked together at that big house in Providence."

"Old friend," MacGregor harrumphed with fatherly disapproval. "Gardener…" He helped himself to Francis' half-empty beer, drained the glass in two large swallows, and re-fired his Scottish burr. "There no' be much gardening needed hereabouts, unless it's wheat or barley he might try."

"Flower gardener," Francis corrected, holding up the magazine and pointing. He gave a blue-eyed glare at the now empty glass and lifted it to catch Febrizio's eye; the bartender nodded and reached for the tap to fill another. "Places like this have fancy gardens to tend," he continued.

"What for?"

Wilde pointed to the photograph spread across the page. "Aesthetics."

"Ess-what? Francis, talk plain!"

"You know, nice to look at," his younger friend explained, nodding his thanks for Febrizio's beer delivery and taking a quick gulp far out of Mac's reach. "They have gardens like this all over Europe – back east, too."

Mac grunted. "Not in any o' the parts I ever saw."

Francis chuckled. "Well, that's what rich folks spend money on."

"Then he shouldn't have left their employ," MacGregor grumbled. He gave his own scowl over to the young, dark-haired man sitting with his pretty partner Dulcey Coopersmith. The young woman suddenly looked up, caught his gaze and smiled shyly before turning her attention back to her friend. "Maybe he should see that gentleman what checked into the hotel earlier," Mac commented, signaling for his own beer. "The desk clerk reports he looks to be rich – that'd be the man to need a gardener."

"Well, he's here and he's Dulcey's friend," Crown finally spoke, his face retaining its composure but for a slight squint through the smoke made by the evening crowd lining up at the bar. He'd already well memorized the features of the two strangers sitting across the way, so he let his gaze roam about the room but nothing was amiss. "We shouldn't interfere."

Not that he was heeding his own advice; his eye couldn't keep from slipping back onto the slim young man in his rough clothes and laced boots, the woolen cap perched atop a collection of dark curls. Worse, Dulcey knew him, and well enough that she was at complete ease around him. Though Crown had no doubt of the boy's intention – it was evident in his eager manner and all too easy smile. MacGregor's observation held water – there wasn't much work for a flower gardener in this part of the country. So just what had propelled the boy to leave Providence and land here, where the greenest plants were grass and crops for sustenance, and aesthetics were almost nonexistent? Crown's gaze landed back onto Dulcey.

Dulcey… She had an alluring charm that shone through her fresh innocence and attracted the eye of many a man – himself included. His badge generally deterred any untoward interest in her, though. Well, she was alone out here, and he lived and worked under her roof, took a certain responsibility for her – among other things. But this was Dulcey's friend, a part of her past. What right did he have to bust up anything between them? Even if his feelings about the lad were working onto the side where he held his professional opinions, he hesitated to do something about them and upset Dulcey. She was a person who naturally attracted others of both genders and all ages. There was just something in her friendliness that caused a body to notice her, what with her pretty smile and long silky hair, her pleasing accent and gentle manners.

And it could just well be that it wasn't professional opinion warring within him, but something more personal—

Like jealousy.

Crown broke off his stare and downed his whiskey in one hard gulp, ignoring Francis' pointed but silent reminder that it'd been his third in as many minutes. "I'll do rounds," he announced, rising.

"But I just did rounds," MacGregor told him.

"I'll do them again – I need some air," Crown answered stumpily. He grabbed his hat and stamped his way to the front door, wishing he could tell Dulcey it was long onto her bedtime if she was going to open for breakfast tomorrow. But that would be too much interference, and he had no real right…The boy was her friend, let her enjoy his company.

But his gut soured at the thought.

The evening breeze greeted him as he planted his boots onto the boardwalk. He sucked in a good lungful and let it flow through him, easing the tightness in his limbs and the ache between his shoulder blades, making him feel a little better. A little, for Dulcey was hard to get out of his mind, even on a good day…

It was none of his business with whom Dulcey kept company (a certain Galen McShane, as she'd introduced him) – at least, that was the argument he'd tried on himself all day. Somehow it wouldn't take root. He just couldn't keep from watching any admirer of Dulcey's with a suspicious eye. Maybe it was the years of knowing how to read a man, scrutinizing every physical detail, every action and word and expression. Knowing when it connected and when it didn't. Knowing what was genuine and what was not.

"Let me guess," began MacGregor, stepping into place beside him. "That moon-eyed laddie from Providence."

Crown let out a frustrated sound of agreement but performed his customary examination of the shadows before moving out a quiet step to begin his patrol route. He didn't complain when MacGregor joined him, strolling alongside.

Yes, McShane, the moon-eyed laddie from Providence. Dulcey's friend – and maybe now her suitor. Why else would he be here? Crown let his sigh escape his lips, shoved aside the weight of his badge for a moment and peeked into his sagging heart. Dulcey – he had put some designs on her, nothing permanent, but something was building between them. Yet she was young, and there were a lot more men out there with a lot better qualifications than a hard-eyed, hard-nosed Marshal of bare means. But dammit if his heart banged every time she neared him, what with her sweet womanly scent fluttering down over him. What he wouldn't do to freely touch a few strands of that long pale hair of hers, taste those pretty lips whenever he wanted (because he had tasted them). Lately he kept waking up from a dream in which he swept her up into his arms, kicked open the door to her room, cast her down onto the bed, flung himself down beside her…

Only now there was this boy of her past in town. A boy she apparently liked…

Sometimes, his ma was often fond of saying, love is seen in what you give up, James, not in what you get… But Ma also told him to hang onto what was most important to him.

"What?" he abruptly asked, realizing MacGregor had spoken.

"I said, why don't you have a talk with the lad?" Mac repeated. "Ask him his intentions."

"Dulcey wouldn't like that." She wouldn't. And he wanted to respect her feelings. The boy was a friend from her past. Crown could not falsely accuse what she might be encouraging – he could not use his badge to assuage his own jealousy.

"You've the sense for the goodness of a man," Mac pressed. "What does it say in this case?"

It says that I don't like him – and that I shouldn't ask…

"I'm not sure it's my business to know," he grunted honestly.

"It's only because you care," Mac told him gently.

"Yes I care!" Crown hurled back. He pulled to a stop, clamped his lips together and shook his head in apology. "I care," he repeated in a tight tone. "Maybe in the wrong way…" He started forward again, his step jerky, frustration jangling in him. "I don't want her to think I have to approve…I just want her to be careful. She's too trusting, she…"

"Spoken like a friend," Mac commented with a smile evident in his voice, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Or a lathered-up ol' pappy," Crown sourly added.

"Or perhaps someone else," MacGregor prodded knowingly. "It really is no secret how you feel towards her…"

Yes, it was probably the worst-kept secret about town. Dulcey and the Marshal were the whispered smiles that often came his way. But by his own reluctant choice it was not more. And for that reason Crown knew he held no real position with her. He was a friend, yes, but not a father or a brother, just a half-time, half-secret beau. He was, he realized regrettably, a U. S. Marshal above all else.

So while he didn't really like the thought of Dulcey seeing someone else, he couldn't make any further claim on her just yet. He still had to reserve a large space in his heart for the badge, and the fact that each day could mean a last hour of breath before the night fell.

And he didn't want to give Dulcey that for a future.

Crown growled at his own churning thoughts. With her looks, he figured Dulcey would catch the eye of a rancher's son, or even an army officer's attention – both would have money in the bank and a future to count on. Even a storekeeper would have prospect. But not a gardener, not out here in the middle of this wild land. Then again, Dulcey was a good catch as half owner of the Wayfarer's Inn – maybe McShane wanted to reap those profits and cast aside any more thoughts to the soil, except perhaps to grow vegetables to supplant the dinner menu. That notion at least edged aside Crown's jealousy (it was jealousy) and righted his objectivity. Because if young Galen McShane thought he'd become a gold-digger then he'd have Jim Crown's fist – the rightful fist of a friend – to answer to.

"Seek McShane out, Jim," MacGregor counseled kindly. "Ask him. It's the only way to get that raw spot out of your heart." He glanced up at the high-riding moon and let off a groan. "Och, it's late, we should be abed. Good-night to you then." With a wave he loped off into the darkness, leaving Crown alone to mutter over his brood.

Seek out McShane – sure, and upset Dulcey. Though she was no delicate butterfly, she had a vulnerability about her that affected him so. She melted him…surely she realized that now. Crown turned the corner onto Mercantile Street, tested the first door knob. Jealous, yes, all right, he admitted it. But that other feeling had also deepened within him, that sense that something wasn't right about this boy's visit. And he'd felt it too many times not to know recognize it. Where jealousy hit close to the heart, this one always ran low in the belly—

Trouble…

There was just something bothersome about the boy's sudden appearance in Cimarron City. A few months ago Crown would've just hauled the stranger into his office and demanded answers, set a watchful eye onto the kid and prove himself right. But he could not do that now; he could not hurt Dulcey that way. The best thing was to talk to her, though that wouldn't be any easier; she'd accuse him – perhaps rightfully so – of interfering where he wasn't wanted. But she should know his concern. And he wanted to know just how she felt about the boy. Maybe then his heart would settle and let his badge resume command of his mind.

Crown turned and cut through the alley and came back out onto Main Street, opposite the hotel. A finely dressed man lounged against the front wall of the building, smoking in the glow of the lamp, dark-haired and mustached, with a derby hat and expensive suit framing him. MacGregor's wealthy visitor, no doubt; probably some land speculator or Congressman's friend. Attentive sort, though, for he glanced and met Crown's gaze with an assessing stare before nodding. Crown gave a half-wave and kept going, back to the Inn.