This is just for fun, a MM for "Quiet Day in Dodge," from Sam's POV. It's a stand-alone story with no deep message or character study (except for a bit of introspection on the events of "Hostage!").
If a Tree Falls Before Bedtime
A Gunsmoke Story
By MAHC (Amanda)
POV: Sam Noonan
Spoilers: "Hostage!;" "Quiet Day in Dodge;"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters.
Sam Noonan smiled as he watched the beer drip from the sodden heads of Dobie Crimps and Buck Doolin. Kitty's dousing had abruptly subdued the two old timers, who, nevertheless, seemed to be taking it in stride. Funny as it was, though, her reaction triggered alarms in the bartender's mind, and his smile faded. She usually tolerated that kind of behavior – and worse – from her customers. But as soon as she had stomped down the stairs to quiet things down, the bartender noticed a distinct edge to her body language. His smile disappeared completely when she stepped to the doors of the saloon and he realized she intended to go out into the evening alone.
"Miss Kitty?" he asked carefully, uneasy about her leaving, but just as unsure about stopping her.
She stopped, hands on the doors. "What?"
"Where you goin'?"
"Why?" she retorted, her usual soft deference turning hard.
He flinched. Surely she knew what could happen. Despite the order Matt Dillon had brought to it, Dodge City remained a rough town, especially late at night. Even worse, they were still living with the ugly memory of Jude Bonner – not only the marshal and Miss Kitty, but every person who had been present that horrible day.
Hesitant to bring up the obvious, and certainly painful, reminder of that all-too-recent trauma, he hedged, "Well, it's getting late. You could be – molested."
But instead of the expected shadow passing across her smooth features, Kitty's brow rose, and she laughed, sarcasm sharp in her voice. "Really?" she cracked, then, with a slap, pushed through the Long Branch swinging doors and into the Dodge night.
He stared after her a moment, confused. It almost sounded as if she wanted to be molested. But surely that didn't make sense –
He stopped, the suspicion of comprehension derailing his train of thought, and he let his eyes track to the upstairs hallway. It had not been more than an hour before that she and Marshal Dillon had stolen away for a private dinner. Sam had been in her employ long enough not to expect either of them again until morning. Her exit – alone – had taken him by surprise. Perhaps the marshal had already left, slipping unobtrusively down the back stairs, called away to tend to the ubiquitous duties of his officer. It had happened before, and would certainly account for her frustration.
It was, of course, no secret in Dodge that Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell were a couple. In fact, even the "respectable" citizens of the town seemed to accept them almost as easily as they accepted men and women who had officially stood before a preacher. Maybe they realized that the marshal and his woman had a bond as strong as – or stronger than – most married people.
Nevertheless, the two generally maintained an emotional distance in public, only rarely emerging from behind the mask of friendship. But Sam, in his capacity as right hand man to the most successful woman in town, had – voluntarily and sometimes involuntarily – been granted glimpses into what hinted at much deeper and more passionate intimacies.
He had seen the subtle touches, the casual caresses, had heard the teasing flirtations, the quiet entreaties. Not that those moments were exclusively his. He bet Doc and Festus, and perhaps even Newly and Burke, had witnessed similar interactions. But Sam knew other things, as well.
He knew the marshal had a key to the Long Branch and the upstairs apartments that Kitty occupied. He knew the big lawman usually made his way up those stairs to spend at least part of the night four or five times a week unless he was out of town. He knew on the mornings after those nights, Kitty generally slept a little later and woke a lot happier than on other mornings. And he knew that sometimes, when they thought they were alone, they stopped on the stairs, him on the top step and her on the landing so that she didn't have to reach up so far to kiss him. Sam had witnessed those moments on more than one occasion, always politely backing out of sight until he heard their footsteps continue on to her room.
His eyes moved back to the saloon doors, still swinging rhythmically from their rough push. Crimps and Doolin were busy shaking like shaggy dogs to rid themselves of the excess ale that the frustrated saloon owner had emptied over them. When they looked at him, askance, he could only offer a shrug and toss them a bar towel to share.
"Why don't you fellas call it a night?" he suggested, his eyes sending the message to the saloon girl who was with them that her evening was over, too.
The two plunked down a few dollars to cover the battered chairs and shuffled out together.
"Is Miss Kitty all right?" Sadie asked, genuine concern in her voice. Kitty treated her girls well, and they liked her.
Sam shrugged, having no intention of discussing Miss Kitty's emotional state with the young lady. "I'm sure she's fine."
Her eyes glanced upward toward the private rooms. "Did something happen? I thought that she and the marshal – "
"That's not our affair," he told her, not even stumbling at his turn of phrase. With a tilt of his chin, he gently dismissed her.
"Good night, Sam," she returned, taking the hint with enough grace to keep the moment from becoming too awkward. Throwing a cloak over her bare shoulders, she stepped out onto the boardwalk.
The bartender stood quietly for a moment, listening, not sure what he thought he would hear. The marshal's distinctive footsteps on the planks, perhaps. His stride was easy to recognize: firm and sure, but just a bit uneven. The limp that had been imperceptible when he was younger had claimed a more pronounced hold on his gait in recent years, and he had given up trying to hide it. Sam wondered if even Doc knew just how many times Dillon had been wounded in the course of his service to the law. He bet Kitty knew. He had watched her eyes follow her man as he left the Long Branch, had seen the empathy on her face when he grimaced or winced over stiff muscles. He bet she knew every mark on the marshal's body, felt each pain as if it were her own. But even though she fretted over his injuries, Dillon seemed to take them in stride, just part of the job. His own health meant far less to him than the health and safety of his town – or of his woman.
Of course, if anyone could take care of herself it was Kitty Russell. She had proven that on many, many occasions. Still, Sam knew the marshal considered her protection a priority, and the bartender willingly accepted his own role as surrogate guardian in Dillon's absence.
Perhaps that was what had hurt the most when Jude Bonner took her. He had been unable to fulfill his promise to the marshal, unable to protect her. In fact, just the opposite had happened – she had protected him and the others by sacrificing herself.
It had been one of those rare occasions when Kitty had publicly acknowledged her relationship with Matt Dillon. Upon Bonner's threat to kill Sam and the others if they didn't produce the marshal's woman, she had not hesitated to step forward and boldly proclaim, "I'm the lady." Just thinking about that time gnawed at Sam's gut, pushed the nausea into his throat.
The vision of them parading her into town, battered and abused, then brutally shooting her down right there in front of everyone still haunted him. But maybe just as hard to witness was the look on Matt Dillon's face when he flung open the door of Doc's office and saw her lying on the table. It stunned them all to see the usually unflappable marshal visibly shaken as he stopped near the examining table, speaking to Doc in a voice broken and strained. Sam and the others had courteously stepped out the door, but not before they watched the strong, tall man sink to his knees beside to her.
She had survived, thank God. Somehow, she had found the strength to keep going, to gain the victory over those who had sought to destroy her. And somehow, the marshal had managed not to kill Jude Bonner, although it was a near thing. When the posse had come upon him, Sam was almost certain Dillon was going to smash in the dog soldier's worthless skull. And he had no doubt that, to the man, not one member of their group would have uttered a word about it.
But the ultimate good in the marshal overrode his fury. Somehow, he was stronger than the moment. Sam had always admired Matt Dillon, but after that, he felt something akin to awe, a feeling that gave him perhaps some minor insight into the complex private man only Kitty Russell was allowed to see. It was that awe that had inspired a loyalty to the marshal almost as strong as the loyalty to Miss Kitty.
And it was that loyalty that drew the bartender up the stairs after Crimps and Dooley had finally stumbled out of the saloon. Of course, the marshal could very well have gone down the back stairs, but if he hadn't, Sam wondered why Miss Kitty had left so suddenly. As he reached the landing, he thought back over the scene. Whatever had happened, she had been mad – furious, even. If the marshal was still upstairs, Sam figured he could probably use a beer, or maybe a shot of strong whiskey.
Not sure if he really wanted anyone to answer, he let his knuckles rap lightly on the wood, almost relieved that there was no sound beyond it. After a couple of beats, he tried again, a bit more forcefully. No response. Halfway berating himself for continuing, he twisted the knob and eased open the door. The lamps still glowed softly. The fragrant odor of their shared meal still lingered in the air. The smoke of fine brandy wafted across the threshold. A special evening, then, he thought, as if he hadn't already figured that by the almost girlish anticipation Kitty had shown that afternoon. He wondered what on earth Dillon had done to ruin her mood.
As he allowed one foot to step inside, his eyes scanned from the fireplace to the elegant table. No marshal. Okay. That was that. One more quick check and he would leave. It really wasn't his business anyway. Braving three more steps, he had almost convinced himself to head back out when he heard the rhythm of soft, even snores coming from the bed.
Another four steps brought him around to see the long, solid body of Marshal Matt Dillon sprawled diagonally on Kitty's fancy quilt, arms and legs flung out in total occupation of the mattress, looking rather like a chopped redwood that lay in the very configuration in which it had crashed to the forest floor. Considering that this tree still wore boots and vest, Sam figured that the "crash" had not been part of the plan – not at all.
The evening's scenario became painfully clear. With an amused grimace, the bartender understood what had infuriated Miss Kitty, but he sympathized, nevertheless, with the exhausted marshal, and didn't envy him the discussion they would most certainly have in the morning.
Dillon looked so peaceful lying there, almost like a little boy – well, big boy – who had played too hard all day and succumbed to the sweet respite of sleep, so unlike the superhuman figure he had to maintain everyday: the strong, giant lawman that no sane person dared cross, the keeper of order, the guardian of their safety. These were heavy burdens, ones that most certainly had to wear on a man. Sam decided he didn't begrudge the marshal his rest, and figured even Miss Kitty would understand – eventually.
With a fond smile, he contributed his bit to making the man comfortable, grabbing the heel of one large boot and tugging until it pulled free. Dillon did not budge. The next boot protested a bit more, but eventually relinquished its grip and dropped to the floor, as well. The vest would just have to stay on. There was no way Sam was going to haul the big man up in his arms and divest him of that garment. Besides, it certainly didn't look as if it was keeping him from his rest.
Duty done, he turned to ease out of the room and leave the marshal to his sleep.
"Kitty – "
The low voice stopped him just a few feet away from the bed, and his eyes widened at the softness of the tone. No, not softness – seductiveness. He had never heard that timbre in Matt Dillon's voice; probably no one else in Dodge had – except Kitty. Braving a wary glance back, he saw, to his relief, that the marshal's eyes remained closed, a slight smile curving his lips.
Sam took a few more quiet steps toward the door and had almost made it when the voice groaned again, the color warm and suggestive.
"Mmm – Kitty, that feels good – "
Swallowing, Sam flushed and stared at the marshal, who still slumbered peacefully across the bed. He didn't have to work too hard to imagine what thoughts floated through Dillon's brain. The possibility of where the dream could lead was enough to propel him hastily toward the door before he heard or saw anything that was absolutely none of his business. A deep, pleasured moan followed him into the hallway, ending only when he quickly, but quietly, clicked the door closed behind him.
It was not as if he didn't know what went on in Kitty's room between the marshal and her. He would have to have been blind – and deaf – not to comprehend a long time ago. But hearing such intimacy in that deep voice brought images to his mind, images that he definitely shouldn't be having.
Nevertheless, he hung onto them a breath or two before guiltily casting them out.
"Sam?"
Jerking up his head, he froze at the sight of Kitty Russell ascending the stairs, her face settled now into softer angles, her shoulders relaxed. She had obviously not been molested on her walk.
"M – Miss Kitty," he stammered.
Her expression wavered between a smirk and a frown, her eyes flashed past him to the closed door. "Everything okay?"
"Fine, Miss Kitty," he assured her, trying hard not to flush. "I was just – ah – checking doors before I locked up – "
"Checking doors?" she asked, voice skeptical.
"Yes ma'am."
"Upstairs doors?"
He swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, the thought of a smile touching her lips. "And everything's secure?"
"Yes, ma'am."
After another beat, she pursed her lips and sighed. "Okay."
"Good night, Miss Kitty," he offered, relieved.
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Good night, Sam."
He was almost at the landing, home free, off the hook. But something stopped him, and he turned. "Miss Kitty?"
She looked back expectantly, and he faltered, suddenly regretting his impulse. But it was too late. Screwing up his courage, he said softly, "He's been awake for three days straight."
The brow came down, the body stiffened, but she didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her snapping eyes told him enough.
Uh oh. Bad impulse. Still, he had committed himself, so he plunged ahead before he lost the courage. "It's awful hard to fight three days worth of lost sleep." Then, holding her gaze steadily, he added, "Even if you have a very good reason to try."
Kitty narrowed her eyes at him for a long moment. Finally, her stance relaxed, and she almost smiled. "He could barely keep his eyes open during dinner."
And didn't keep his eyes open after dinner, Sam surmised silently. Seeing the real disappointment on her face, he felt led to make an observation. "You know, I've noticed the marshal doesn't usually need much sleep. When I've gone out on posse with him, I've seen him catch a couple of hours on the trail and then be up and ready to go." It was as pointed as he would get, and even that much drew the red to his cheeks.
Kitty stared at him, mouth open, eyebrow rising. "Really?" she asked, but her tone told him she didn't need an answer.
"Really," he confirmed anyway, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. With a duck of his head, he decided it was time to go. "Well, good night, Miss Kitty. Sleep well."
She laughed a bit ruefully and murmured, "I'm sure I will," before she slipped into her room.
But Sam wasn't so sure. What he'd told her about Dillon was true. Thinking again about the smile on the big lawman's face as he dreamed, he looked back fondly toward the closed door.
There might just be a little molesting going on tonight, after all. If the marshal knew what was good for him.
END