Moving Furniture – an Homage to:

"If a Tree Falls Before Bedtime" and its Epilogue, "Can You Still Make It Into a Chiffonier?" A Gunsmoke Story By Amanda

Spoilers: "A Quiet Day in Dodge"

Rating: M

Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation.

[From the end of If a Tree Falls...

Kitty's Room – The Long Branch

She smiled as she watched him lean against the doorframe for a good five minutes, trying to calm his uncooperative body. Finally, he was successful enough to meet the world without displaying his significant attributes.

"Your office," he verified hoarsely, looking back at her and tugging on his hat. "One hour."

"My office. One hour," she confirmed, already regretting the wait as the door closed behind him.

She hoped they hadn't been too impetuous. Her office was anything but ideal. Still, somehow that didn't much matter. In fact, it provided the element of danger, the chance that they might be discovered – not that she really wanted that to happen, but the thought provided guilty excitement.

Then, her practical side nudged into her thoughts. What was she thinking? There wasn't a bed down there, or even a cot. An office chair and table – which was probably not strong enough to hold them. She shook her head. That left nothing –

But in that moment, another idea pushed in and she grinned, her body tingling in anticipation. That left nothing – except a very sturdy, very functional desk.

Her office. One hour. She lay back on her pillow and sighed.

It would be a long hour.

[Text in italics is from the Epilogue, Can You Still Make It Into a Chiffonier? Non-italicized text is my possible version of what was going on 'off-screen'.

As he surveyed the empty saloon, it occurred to Sam that the Long Branch was a bit like a woman: wild and passionate one moment, calm and demure the next. In the quiet of the morning, he almost had trouble picturing the rowdy crowd that would transform the room only a few hours later. Although he liked the early hours, they weren't what had interested him in the business of tending bar. He supposed it was people – the chance to meet all representations of his fellow man, good and bad, loud and quiet, happy and sad, responsible and irresponsible. Sam was an observer. He observed them all.

The clink of a glass made him grimace, and he shot a look toward the stairs, hoping he hadn't been too loud. More than once that morning, he had found his gaze wandering up the stairs. He'd heard no sounds from Kitty's quarters since he arrived and smiled at the thought of the two getting their deserved rest – or not.

A noise drew his attention back past the outside doors. The town was waking. The clopping of horses, the jingling of wagons, the muffled voices of merchants and customers vied for dominance in the streets. Boots thumped down the boardwalk outside the doors, heavy and light, even and uneven. The sounds of another day in Dodge City.

Through those familiar noises, though, one in particular caught the bartender's notice and pulled a quick frown to his face. It had encroached on his thoughts, faint at first, then growing louder as it drew nearer to him. With a keen stab of disappointment, he realized he heard the unmistakable footsteps of Matt Dillon on the wooden planks. It was his usual stride, long but unhurried, the sound of a dutiful marshal making his morning rounds.

Sam's gaze flashed back up the stairs, then swung back to the outside doors. He was not a man usually prone to profanity, but the implication of the marshal being out and about already brought a curse to his lips. "Damn," he muttered.

He must have left early, which meant no deserved rest and probably nothing else that would resolve the tension between the two people he cared most about in Dodge. With a touch of guilt, he found himself irritated at Matt Dillon, despite his own defense of the exhausted lawman the night before. If he had been in the marshal's place –

He stopped himself, embarrassed at the vision that popped into his mind. Besides, it wasn't any of his business. And maybe he was wrong. Maybe the footsteps didn't belong to –

But at that moment, the familiar tall, broad frame passed by the Long Branch doors without even a hesitation and continued on down the street. Shaking his head, the bartender wiped at the counter and began the task of bracing himself for Kitty's mood when she came downstairs. It would be a long day, he figured.

XXXX

Kitty hummed as she put the final hairpins in place. She'd added a few extra as insurance, in case a certain big marshal's attentions proved as energetic as they had the previous night. She smiled at the memory. Matt had certainly made up for the delay in their evening's... entertainment. More than made up for it. She felt a rush of heat at the vision of his large naked body stretched out beneath her, his big hands gripping her waist as she slowly impaled herself on him, feeling him fill her like no other man could. She could hear his groan as he entered her, his blue eyes dark with passion, those wonderful long fingers of his sliding up her body...

Kitty shook her head to clear it. She had to go downstairs and talk normally to Sam before she could retreat to her office to 'do the books', and she'd never sound normal with that sort of image running through her head! She stood and checked her reflection in the mirror. Her black skirt and cream-colored shirtwaist were eminently respectable looking. She smiled to herself. Only she – and later Matt, if he actually showed up – would know that she was wearing nothing at all under the skirt, and that she had selected her softest, simplest corset – Matt's professed favorite, for its ease of removal – to wear under her shirtwaist. After all, she couldn't be sure how long they'd have before duty pulled him away again. No point in wasting time with unnecessary clothing. With a quick decisive nod at her reflection, Kitty turned toward the door, ready for what she hoped would be an unusually stimulating day at the office...

It was nearly an hour later when she emerged. He watched her descend the stairs, wincing in anticipation of her attitude. Not that she would take it out on him. She was always kind and tactful. Sometimes, though, if her temper was riled, she didn't bother too much with diplomacy.

"Good morning, Sam," she greeted casually, carefully, her face composed and unreadable.

"Good morning, Miss Kitty," he returned, unable to keep his eyes from cutting up toward the balcony. Bravely – or maybe foolishly – he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

But if he had expected any revelation from her response, he was disappointed. "Fine," she answered vaguely, and after a polite, unrevealing smile, stepped toward the office. "I'm going to work on the books for a while, Sam. I'd rather not be disturbed."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, heart heavy for her. "Uh, Bill Caldwell came by this morning and brought you that last order from Kansas City," he said, both for information and to give her something innocuous and commonplace to divert her attention.

She stopped and looked back, expression mild, business-like. "Could you check it against the inventory? Last time he forgot the brandy."

"Yes, ma'am," he assured her before she nodded and closed the door behind her.

So that's how it was. He reminded himself again that it wasn't his business, but he couldn't help but wonder a bit at the marshal's sanity.

Of course, he couldn't do anything about that. Still, even if he couldn't magically make her dreams turn out the way she wanted them to, he could do his job and keep her from worrying about work. So he headed down into the cellar to count cases from the drummer's latest delivery. Bill Caldwell had been a good supplier for the past three years, but recently he had acquired several new – and rather large – accounts, and they had noticed a slight reduction in the quality of service. Kitty was right to second guess the count.

Picking up the ledger and a pencil, he began with the first case, marking off the order as he accounted for them. He couldn't help but hear Kitty's soft footsteps echo on the flooring above him and just to the left. She moved across the office, stopped for a moment, then moved again. It gave him comfort to be able to know where she was without crowding her over-protectively. Since Bonner, he'd had to fight the impulse not to hover over her.

He had just reached for a case of whiskey when he heard a second set of footsteps join Kitty's. He froze for a moment, poised to pound up the stairs to help in case she needed it, but only the low sound of muffled voices followed. The visitor was male, his deeper register easy to distinguish from hers, but they weren't talking loudly enough for him to make out an identity. Still, he didn't really worry. Kitty was a busy businesswoman.

Kitty made herself sit down to review her accounts, but almost as soon as she bent over the ledger she paused, quill in hand, at the sound of a key turning in the lock to the back door of the Long Branch. Her heart fluttered in anticipation at the unmistakable sound of Matt Dillon's footsteps in the back hallway. Happily abandoning her planned bookwork, she quickly closed the ledger and put it in the drawer. She then capped the inkwell and stowed it and the quill in their respective cubbies in the back of her sturdy rolltop desk. There, nothing left out on the desktop to get in the way of the very non-businesslike use she planned to be putting it to any minute - assuming of course that he wasn't showing up to tell her he had to ride out of town again. She shook her head to clear the thought. She would think positively!

As Kitty turned to face the door, it swung open to reveal the broad frame of the U.S. Government's handsomest public servant. The heat in his blue eyes made her weak in the knees, but she stuck to her plan, rising from her chair, batting her long eyelashes and putting on her best N'Awlins drawl. "Why Marshal, whatever brings you to my humble saloon on this fine day? I can assure you I run a lawful establishment, but if you need to inspect the books or... anything..." She licked her lips suggestively, letting her eyes run the length of him. "I will of course cooperate fully."

A hint of a smile flashed across his face, but he played along in character. "Well, ma'am, I'm afraid my earlier investigation left certain issues, ah, unresolved." His long legs covered the distance to her desk in a few steps. She shivered slightly as he looked down at her, sweeping the Stetson off his head and tossing it onto the nearby table. His voice was extra deep as he spoke. "I'm going to need your complete attention and full cooperation in order to conclude this matter successfully. Can I count on your assistance?"

Kitty smiled seductively up at him as she let her fingers rest against his stomach. His breath caught. She stroked slowly upward, watching the fire build in his eyes. Reaching the top button of his shirt, she slipped it from its hole. "I assure you, Marshal, you will find me very..." Another button freed. "...very" Another. "...helpful." One final button, and then with a quick tug she freed his shirttails, pushing the material aside to bare his chest. Leaning in, she planted a kiss on his breastbone, then flicked her tongue against a taut nipple, drawing a deep groan.

Suddenly she felt his hands on her waist. Stepping into her, he pushed her backwards until she felt the edge of the desk against her thighs. She let out a small squeak of surprise as he picked her up and sat her down on the desk. Stepping between her legs, he bent to kiss her hungrily.

When he didn't hear anything else from above[Sam returned to his inventory. Finally, satisfied that Caldwell had not shorted them, he began climbing the cellar steps to finish preparing the saloon for business.

Sliding her arms beneath her big man's shirt, Kitty pulled him against her, lifting her legs to wrap them around his. Feeling her foot hit the arm of her desk chair, she gave it a hard shove. As she pressed her calves against the hard muscles of his thighs, she heard the chair hit the filing cabinet and topple over. She spared a brief moment to hope that Sam wasn't paying attention, then surrendered to the incredible sensations of Matt's lips and tongue were creating as he plundered her mouth.

The unexpected crash from above jerked [Sam's head up in alarm. "No!" he vowed through gritted teeth. It was not going to happen again. Not again. He would not allow it.

Feeling Matt's long fingers encircling her breast, Kitty pulled back a hand and deftly unbuttoned her blouse, then loosened the fastenings of her corset. Matt immediately slid his hands inside to push down the corset fabric, lifting her breasts and dropping his head to suckle first one, and then the other. She was unable to keep from crying out in ecstasy as he feasted hungrily on her, sucking and lapping and biting, sending erotic lightening bolts through her body.

Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the top in time to hear an agonized cry from behind the door: Kitty's cry. Kitty's door.

Raising his head to stare into her passion-glazed eyes, Matt gave her breasts a final squeeze before reaching back to slip his hands inside her knees where they wrapped about his hips. Releasing her hold on him, she let him spread her legs, watching as he slid the fabric of her skirt up her thighs. She could see his brow furrow slightly as he failed to encounter the expected undergarments. A final push revealed her secret. She saw his eyes widen and his breath catch as he gazed down at the expanse of creamy skin and thatch of ruddy curls at the apex of her thighs.

When he raised his head to meet her eyes, his were molten blue desire. Moving in closer, he slipped an arm around her, hitching her backward as he leaned into her. Feeling the desk slide backward, she threw her arms around his neck to hold on.

It took only another five seconds to wrench the shotgun from its perch behind the bar. He heard a rough scrape on the floor, wood on wood, as if someone had moved a chair or a desk.

As her eyes locked with his, Kitty felt his long fingers slide slowly into her wetness, stroking from the bud of her desire down to her entrance, and then slowly back again in a slow, erotic rhythm.

Sam hadn't attempted to break down a door in years, but the motion came automatically. Bracing his left leg, he lifted his right one, prepared to kick down the barrier, prepared to protect her whatever the cost, prepared to –

The hand buried in her curls paused, and in the next moment she felt his fingers plunge into her. Unable to stop herself, she cried out his name.

Another cry cracked through the door, but this time he could hear the thick emotion behind it; emotion thick not with distress – he realized suddenly – but with desire.

"Oh, Matt – "

In mid-kick, he froze, eyes wide; then, off balance, fell back against the hallway wall.

Matt? Matt.

He heaved a breath, impossibly grateful that she had chosen that moment to – well, that she had chosen that moment. If he had managed to break open the door, if he had burst in on them –

His heart pounded, his mouth went dry. Forget the embarrassment he would have caused; much more sobering was the realization that, had he followed through, he would most certainly have ended up sprawled on the floor, plugged dead-center with Matt Dillon's bullet before the door had shuddered completely open. The awareness drove the strength right out of his legs, and he slid down the wall, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain control over the shocked muscles.

Lowering his mouth to hers, Matt kissed her hard and deeply. His tongue thrust between her lips to stroke and explore, mirroring his hand's masterful possession of her womanhood. Abandoning herself to sensation, she rode his long fingers as they pumped in and out, slick with the evidence of her desire, his thumb rocking against her most sensitive spot. Aroused by her response, he pressed his straining manhood against her thigh, his deep groans mingling with her repeated soft cries. Feeling herself losing control, she clutched his broad shoulders, using his passionate kiss to stifle her cry of ecstasy as she fell over the edge.

In the moment of quiet, he became aware of the result of his not breaking in on them: uninterrupted, the occupants continued their activities, blissfully unaware of the near disaster. Deep groans mingled with soft cries. Sam closed his eyes and tried to remove himself from the moment, but only succeeded in creating a very vivid picture of what was most certainly happening in that office. When his legs recovered enough to support his weight again, Sam stumbled back to the bar, replacing the gun and moving as close to the outside entrance as he could.

Humming to distract himself from the occasional moan that made it through the wood, he had just finished checking the beer supply when another sound brought his attention back to the doors. Matt Dillon's walk wasn't the only distinctive one in Dodge. The familiar clanging of spurs was enough to alert anyone to the imminent arrival of Festus Haggen. Sam looked up as the trail-weary deputy pushed into the saloon.

"Morning, Festus," he greeted rather loudly, forcing himself not to look toward the office door. "You just get back?"

"Yep," Festus answered, as he jingled up to the bar. "I'm a tellin' ya it's a fur piece longer ta Hayes than ya think. Newly n' me jest now rode in and I'm a lookin' fer Matthew. Hev you eyeballed him ennytime today?"

Matthew? Matthew who?

He concentrated on wiping an area of the bar that was already spotless. "He walked by here a little while ago, Festus. Morning rounds, looked like." He told himself that was the truth, and that he shouldn't feel guilty for only providing part of it.

"Wael, I hope he got hisself some sleep," the deputy said, cocking his head. "I knowed he wuz pure tuckered out yesterdee when Newly an' me took at' thar prisoner to Hayes fer him. I figgered I'd find him flat out on his bunk in th' jailhouse."

"You didn't," Sam guessed easily.

"Don't look like his bunk wuz mussed a bit." The other man shook his head and pushed his tattered hat back, exposing a ragged thatch of dark hair. "Miz Kitty around?"

Kitty? Kitty who?

"Uh, well, she's, uh, she's in the office," Sam supplied, then hastily added, "working."

Coming back to herself, Kitty opened her eyes to look up into the smoldering blue gaze of her incredibly talented and intensely aroused man. Slipping a hand between them, she stroked the rock-hard length of him through the straining fabric. Moaning, he thrust against her hand. Trusting him to hold her, she released her grip on his shoulder so she could use both hands to unbutton his trousers and expose his rampant desire. The moment he was free he began thrusting into her firm grip. She loved the feel of him in her hand, a solid rod of silken steel beneath her fingers. But even more she wanted to feel him inside her.

"I orda say good mornin' to her – " he decided, stepping down the bar.

"No!"

Festus turned, frowning. "What's wrong with ya, Sam? I jest wanna say hello."

He scratched for a coherent answer. "She's – she made me promise not to disturb her. She's, uh, she's behind on the books." The deputy should have recognized that as a flat-out lie. Kitty Russell was never behind on the books.

Fortunately, Festus seemed oblivious to his panic and just scratched absently at his beard. "Oh, well, mebbe I'll jest go on down ta the jailhouse an' catch a hour or two of sleep."

"Why don't you do that?" Sam agreed, trying to not sound too eager for him to be on his way.

"Hate ta do it, though, 'till I find Matthew – "

Sliding one hand around behind him, Kitty cupped a firm cheek and pulled him toward her, then reached up to bring his head down to hers. With her lips almost touching his, she whispered against his mouth. "Take me, Marshal. That's an order."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered back as he spread her legs and thrust forward to bury himself inside her.

Wrapping her legs back around him, Kitty felt his muscled backside push back against her heels as he withdrew, then turn to sculpted granite as he thrust forward and buried himself in her once again. She also thought she might have heard the desk move slightly, but almost immediately decided she didn't actually care, as long as it held together.

[Festus was headed toward the doors, but another scuff from Kitty's office stopped him. Sam flinched, eyes widening at the sound, all too similar to the scrape he had heard as he prepared to break down the door. Only this time, it continued in a consistent, rather rhythmic pattern. With a soft gasp, he realized it was the office desk.

Festus squinted toward the door. "What in tarnation is that?"

"What is what?" Sam asked, then winced at the feeble attempt.

"That thar scrapin' noise."

Matt had recaptured her breast with the hand not busy supporting her, and he was squeezing and tweaking the quivering mound in time to the rhythm of his thrusts. Kitty could feel her body almost immediately beginning to respond. Returning the favor, she pressed her lips against the solid plane of his chest, capturing the hard nub of his nipple between her teeth and tugging. She felt the immediate pulse of his arousal, and had to tighten her grip on him as the force of his next thrust actually moved the heavy oak desk back at least an inch.

The desk jerked again, a hard, quick sound, followed by a grunt. Sam scrambled for an explanation. "Uh – I think Miss Kitty's moving some furniture around."

The deputy nodded. "Mebbe we orta hep her," he pondered. "Sounds like she's havin' a hard time."

The bartender pursed his lips. That was most likely exactly what was happening. "You look right thirsty, Festus," he said quickly. "Been riding all night. You could use a drink, I'll bet."

The deputy hesitated. "Well – "

"Miss Kitty won't do anything foolish." Then again, maybe she already had. "We'll both help her in a minute."

"I am a bit parched – " the deputy agreed.

For once grateful that Festus wanted to mooch a drink, Sam heartily concurred. "Sure you are. Let me get you a beer."

"Well, now I'm much obliged, Sam."

"It is much too early in the day to imbibe!"

They both turned, faces shocked at the sight of Edsel Pry peering sourly at them from just over the top of the swinging doors. The pious old woman, who had given the marshal such misery the day before, had never darkened the door of the Long Branch, as far as Sam knew, and he couldn't imagine what would prompt her to do so now.

"Ma'am," he greeted politely, exchanging bemused glances with Festus. "How are you this morning?" he asked pleasantly, ignoring her warning of temperance.

"Considering I was accosted and almost suffocated just twenty-four hours ago – " she began as she stepped gingerly inside.

Kitty floated in a sea of erotic sensation, reveling in the feel of her man's ample endowment as he penetrated to her very center, his strong fingers stroking and kneading her breasts, the slight roughness of his beard on her skin as his lips and teeth explored the erogenous zones of her neck and shoulders. She heard her own voice as if it were another's, whiskey-deep, demanding he take her harder, faster. His response was immediate, the force of his next thrust once again driving the heavy desk backward. She knew it wouldn't be long now, for either of them.

The desk grated another a few inches across the floor in the office. Sam plunked down a whiskey glass to cover the noise. "Yes, ma'am."

"I am attempting to ascertain the whereabouts of Marshal Dillon," she announced primly.

Festus' brow rose.

"He walked by here a while ago," Sam told her quickly. "I haven't seen him since." Heard him maybe, but not seen.

"I wanted to inform him that I am about to send that telegram to my good friend the Attorney General and would like to afford him an opportunity to make amends before that occurred."

"He'll be plum tickled ta hear that." Sarcasm sharpened Festus' tone.

"Mister Haggen, I do not believe that I was addressing you – "

Matt's thrusts were growing erratic now as he neared his peak. Kitty's world had narrowed to the touch of his hands, his lips, his steel-hard manhood pulsing within her. And then in a moment she felt it spinning away as her release washed over her. Flinging out an arm, she felt her hand contact the one thing she hadn't put away, a locked tin box in which she kept the petty cash. Dimly she heard it strike the floor, and a small corner of her brain wondered how loud that had sounded out in the main barroom.

With a muted crash, something fell in the office.

"What was that?" Ms. Pry asked, eyes narrowing.

Sam opened his mouth to give her the same line he gave Festus, but the deputy beat him to it. "Oh, Miz Kitty's movin' some furniture," he explained easily, drawing a long sip on his beer.

"By herself?"

"Well, yeah." Then he seemed to become aware of her glare and added, "But I'm a gonna hep her terrekly. Jest as soon as I git my muscles liquefied back up."

A moment later Matt stiffened as he was seized by his own powerful orgasm. Throwing his head back, he let go, his body making the most powerful and primitive of offerings at the temple that was his one true love. Kitty clung to him, crying out as he impaled himself in her body one final time.

There were several scrapes in a row, followed by another cry from Kitty. Festus thunked down his drink and headed toward the office.

"Festus!" Sam called.

Even as they clung to each other, shaking from the force of their release, the sound of Sam's voice pierced the office wall. Kitty couldn't quite make out what he'd said, but his tone was urgent, and that usually meant he would shortly come looking for her. Forcing her limbs to work, she pushed Matt upright. "That was Sam! Quick, Cowboy, button up, he might come in here!"

With a muffled groan that told her he understood the danger, however much he hated it, Matt withdrew from her body, backing away so she could pull down her skirt and refasten her corset and shirtwaist. She had herself put to rights before her somewhat dazed man had done more than tuck himself back into his trousers and then somehow manage, though still semi-hard, to button them back up. Hopping down from the desk, she hurried to help him, deftly pulling his shirt closed and flinging buttons through the nearest holes while he tried to tuck the tails into his pants.

Now Kitty could hear more clearly, and she made out what sounded like Festus' voice not far outside the office door, apparently having some sort of heated discussion with Sam.

"Didn't ya hear that, Sam? Miz Kitty's havin' trouble. She might need our hep."

"I don't think she needs our help, Festus," Sam assured him.

"How d'ya know? That thar furniture coulda fell on her an' busted – "

"I think everything's fine. Maybe we could just knock – "

Aghast, Festus scolded, "Sam, where's yer chiverry? Ifn a lady's in need ah hep, it's a feller's duty ta be seein' to her, dontcha know."

"Well, yeah," Sam agreed, "but I don't think Miss Kitty really wants – "

Deciding they really were about to be discovered, Kitty made a final quick inventory of her appearance and smoothed her hands over her hairdo, thanking the stars that she'd thought to add the extra hairpins. Noting Matt's still somewhat dazed expression, she reached up to comb her fingers through his hair, attempting in vain to impose at least a semblance of order.

With a final despairing look at the unruly waves of hair already tumbling down over his forehead - definitely time for a trim - she dropped a quick kiss on his lips, then caught his gaze, her voice low and sultry. "You were amazing, Cowboy. I'll be available later if you want to continue your... investigation." She saw the crackle of desire in his eyes before she turned away and headed for the door, putting on her best poker face and hoping for a lucky draw.

Thankfully, before [Sam was forced into blocking the door, it opened, and Kitty Russell stepped out into the main room. She stopped short, her eyes widening at the sight of the three people staring back at her, but she recovered almost immediately and smiled. Despite her calm, it was not difficult to notice that her face was flushed, her hair a bit scattered. Sam thought he saw the reddish tint of whisker burn on her neck.

"Miz Kitty, you arright?" Festus asked, frowning.

"Why, sure, Festus," she answered easily, tucking back a strand of hair. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His spurs jingled loudly as he crossed the floor. "Well, Sam here said – "

But before he could finish, the door opened wider and the familiar broad shoulders of Matt Dillon emerged. Sam studied him a moment. He held his hat in his hand, which allowed his thick hair, way past due for a trim, to spill over his forehead in a tangle of waves. He had managed to tuck most of his shirt back into his trousers, but Kitty seemed to have missed a couple of buttons, and the bartender tried not to stare at the smear of lip rouge visible on his exposed chest. He wondered if the other two noticed.

"Matthew!" Festus exclaimed, then turned to Sam. "Why didn't ya tell me Matthew wuz a hepin' Miz Kitty move that furniture?"

Dillon's eyes narrowed, darting between Sam and his deputy. "Furniture?" he asked, voice shaded with suspicion.

"I wuz headed in ta hep," Festus explained, waving his hand vaguely, "but Sam here saw how parched I wuz after my ride and all but set on me ta have a drink first. If I'd a knowd you wuz hepin' her, I wouldna worried sa much."

"Furniture?" the marshal repeated.

Clearing his throat pointedly, Sam interjected, "Uh – yes, sir. That – uh – that desk you were helping Miss Kitty move. It was – uh – kinda loud."

His eyes caught Kitty's, and he marveled at her poker face. She returned his gaze blandly. The marshal, however –

There was no arguing that Matt Dillon was a cool character – everyone in the state of Kansas recognized that. Sam had watched him wade into brawls and efficiently dispatch the drunken participants without hesitation. He had seen him, outnumbered six to one, face down infamous gunmen on Front Street without so much as a flinch. He had heard tales of exploits of unrivaled courage and strength and sheer will from all over the territory.

But now Sam watched that coolness melt with the flame of realization. The heat that swept across the strong features turned the marshal's cheeks crimson before rushing down his chest. Sam couldn't resist a wink, and fought not to laugh when Dillon dropped his Stetson.

"Marshal?" Mrs. Pry observed, her face screwing up as she peered at him more closely, "you look flushed. I told you yesterday you needed to take better care of yourself."

"Ya do look a mite feverish," Festus noted, eying the marshal as he picked up the hat. "If'n yer sick, ya orda not be movin' furniture around. That kin take a heap outta a man. Sounded like you n' Miz Kitty wuz havin' a hard time. Ya shoulda called me."

Dillon merely stared at him.

Gliding closer to the nonplussed man, Kitty assured Festus, "Oh, Matt moved things around just fine all by himself." Somehow she kept her face perfectly straight.

"We wuz worried," Festus told her in complete seriousness. "Sounded mighty like you needed hep."

It took all the control Sam possessed not to choke right here.

Dillon cleared his throat, regaining at least a semblance of his usual control. "Kitty helped," he said, face innocent. "She helped – a lot."

Kitty grinned. "I did, didn't I?"

"Marshal," Mrs. Pry interrupted, oblivious to the underlying exchange, "if you spent as much time catching criminals as you did moving furniture, maybe the decent citizens of Dodge wouldn't have to put up with such shenanigans as I did yesterday."

Apparently overcoming his embarrassment, Dillon drew a breath to respond. "Mrs. Pry," he began, but Kitty flowed in between them and interrupted.

"The marshal was just helping me this morning, Mrs. Pry," she said sweetly. "Like Sam said, I needed a desk moved."

"And the marshal is good at moving furniture?" Mrs. Pry wanted to know.

Her smile widening, Kitty said, "Oh, he's very good."

Dillon's gaze caught Kitty's, and Sam was surprised they didn't all just burst into flames from the heat that threatened to combust between the two.

Mrs. Pry seemed to be reconsidering her priorities. "I have a chiffonier that needs moving," she announced.

The marshal's head jerked up, and Sam had to turn away at the look of sheer horror that flashed across his face.

"You do?" Kitty asked, her lips pressed together hard.

"I suppose I could reconsider my complaint to the Attorney General," Mrs. Pry decided. "That is if you can spare an afternoon to rearrange some furniture for me."

Dillon paled, looking as if he might be sick. "Not if you were the last woman on earth," he muttered.

"What was that, Marshal?" Mrs. Pry asked.

Kitty jumped in. "Uh – he's promised to move some more of my furniture later today. But I'll talk to him about it."

The older lady frowned. "Well, just so you know that I still have that telegram to – "

"Your friend the attorney general," the marshal finished for her.

Seeing the need for a little diversion, Sam said, "How about a little brandy to settle your nerves, Mrs. Pry?"

She opened her mouth in indignation. "I wouldn't dream of – " Then Sam set the bottle of amber liquid on the counter, and she cleared her throat. "Well, maybe just one, for medicinal purposes you understand. Since I survived such an ordeal yesterday."

"For medicinal purposes," Kitty agreed amicably.

The all watched as she downed the drink in one gulp, nodded curtly, and stalked out of the bar.

Clicking his tongue, Festus declared, "Ah guarantee that woman is as ornery – "

"Uh, Festus," Kitty cut in.

"Yes'm?"

"You must be exhausted, riding all that way to Hayes and back."

The deputy tilted his head. "I am right tuckered."

The saloon owner patted his arm. "Why don't you go on and get some sleep. I'm sure Matt will take care of things here."

"I wuz thinkin' on it." He turned to the marshal. "At arright with you, Matthew?"

"Oh fine, fine," Dillon agreed quickly.

"Well, I'll be to the jailhouse if'n ya need me."

After the jingling of spurs had died down, and only the three of them remained, Kitty placed a hand on the marshal's shoulder and offered in a warm, husky voice, "How 'bout a drink, Cowboy?" Sam thought how magnificent it would be for a man to hear that tone directed at him.

With a sigh, Dillon settled his hat on his head and tugged it over his eyes, avoiding the barkeeper's gaze. "I'd – uh – I'd better check on things since Festus is taking a siesta."

She didn't seem too disappointed, but let her hand close on his shirt for a moment. "Remember that promise," she reminded. "I have a few things upstairs that need – rearranging."

The marshal reddened and grinned at the same time.

"'Course, if you'd rather help Mrs. Pry – "

The grin collapsed into a grimace. "Kitty, I swear that's not even halfway funny." With a grunt, he headed to the swinging doors, but paused just before he pushed through them. "You'll have that furniture ready to move?" he asked, blue eyes teasing.

"Oh, yeah," she assured him, a twinkle in her own eyes.

Sam watched him leave and listened to the solid footsteps until they faded. Seeing that Kitty still gazed at the spot the marshal had just left, he gathered up whiskey glasses to wipe out.

Finally, she sighed and turned, regarding him warmly. "Thank you, Sam."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he shrugged.

"Sam – "

"Caldwell sent the brandy." It wasn't that he didn't want her to talk about it, but he figured there was no need. They had conveyed all they needed to know already.

She paused, smiling. "Okay. But thank you, anyway." With much more energy than she had the previous night, she sprang up the stairs, but stopped three from the top and turned back to the barkeeper. "You were right, by the way."

He looked up. "Right?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"The marshal doesn't need much sleep."

Sam stared at her a moment, then swallowed, his face heating.

Her smile softened and grew private, intimate. "Not much at all," she whispered, almost to herself, as she continued up the stairs and into her room.

The bartender let his own smile tug at his lips, and listened as the marshal's footsteps sounded again on the boardwalk, denoting his path back toward the jail. In a few hours, the world would be alive with dancing and singing and gambling and fighting, the sounds of another night in Dodge City.

As he looked around the empty room again, he remembered his earlier comparison of the Long Branch to a woman. It seemed even more relevant now: wild and passionate one moment, calm and demure the next.

And he wouldn't change a thing. He didn't figure Matt Dillon would either. Whistling, he picked up another glass to polish.