Chester Goode burst through the door to the marshal's office, his right hand grabbing the door frame to swing around and face the marshal's desk.
"Mr. Dillon! Miss Kitty's been shot!"
The fact that Chester's usual awkwardness was conspicuously absent stopped Matt Dillon's heart almost as much as the words Chester had just uttered, and the blood rushed from Matt's face.
Chester took one good, deep breath. "Doc's got her up in his office." A beat. "He's already got out of town, Mr. Dillon." Chester had assumed Matt's thoughts would turn immediately to justice, or possibly revenge in this case; however, hopefully after deciding that Kitty was in good hands. Chester could only guess how deeply Matt felt for Kitty, but at times that was just the problem: only guess. Matt's devotion and duty to the law and his almost desperate need to protect others—even from himself, if need be—covered a multitude of sins. And emotions.
Confusion flickered through Matt's stormy blue eyes at that declaration, but only for a moment. And if he had taken any more time to think on Chester's statement, Matt would have consciously realized that Chester's assumption had been correct. Sometimes even the great Marshal Matthew Dillon lied—if even only to himself about his priorities.
Less than a minute had passed since Chester had stopped Matt's heart. Less than a minute?
He's already got out of town, Mr. Dillon.
Miss Kitty's been shot!
He's already got out of town.
Kitty's been shot.
Got out of town…
Kitty's shot…
Out of town…
Kitty.
Matt made his decision, and, grabbing his hat and shoving it on his head as he went, took off for Doc's office. Unbeknownst to him, Chester followed, thanking God that his closest friend had made the right decision.
Normally, Matt would make the leisurely walk down to see Doc in two or three minutes. Today he would make it in one. But he didn't run. He walked purposefully, as fast as he could without breaking into a jog. To run would show weakness. To run would be admitting the situation was serious. To run would be burying Kitty prematurely, wouldn't it?
But all these fears were only in the back of Matt's mind, because one thought had pushed its way through all the others and scared him senseless, filled him with guilt, and, for lack of a better way of putting it, confused him to no end—Kitty was not supposed to get shot.
Ten seconds. Kitty's beautiful face flashed in Matt's vision, twisted in agony, fiery red hair already damp with sweat.
Kitty was never supposed to get hurt in any way. Being completely morbid, he was the one who was supposed to get hurt, get shot, be stabbed, eventually be cut down by a coward's ambush. It was practically part of his job description. His job description, not Kitty's. Never Kitty's.
Twenty seconds. He was sick to his stomach.
Matt nearly tripped over his own feet then as he realized his mistake: it was in the fine print. How had he not realized it sooner? Had he been that blind? Or had he been too preoccupied with his own sense of duty bound self-importance to really see how much danger Kitty was constantly in? He had always thought that Kitty's life would be in danger if people—if his enemies—discovered how closely her heart was tied to his. Or maybe it was the other way around…. Arrogant thinking.
Thirty seconds. His thoughts were racing.
He could suddenly see everything clearly. The figurative horse blinders had been taken off. Kitty was probably in more danger, or in more constant danger, because of her own job than she was because of his, and he really couldn't do anything about it. Terror and frustration warred within him—he was always supposed to be able to protect the people around him. Fights—fist fights, gun fights, bar brawls—broke out in the Long Branch all the time. Good men turned ugly in moments over alcohol, women, money, and cards, and the bad ones turned uglier even faster and over less significant matters, just because they could.
Nine times out of ten Kitty was there.
Forty seconds. Chester's uneven footsteps sounded hard behind Matt on the boardwalk.
A new thought struck. Chester hadn't said anything more than that Kitty had been shot. Had she tried to break up a fight? Had it been an accident? Or has she been shot down deliberately by some inhuman bastard? Matt was convinced that no being that shot a woman intentionally could be considered anything better than an animal.
Fifty seconds. He could read the sign at the bottom of Doc's staircase clearly now.
One last conscious that before Matt made it to the stairs: Kitty would always be in danger as long as she ran the Long Branch, and he would have to simply sit on his hands and deal with it. He could no more expect Kitty to quit her job than she could expect him to quit his. He wanted to keep her from harm, like she deserved, but—and he almost laughed bitterly at the irony of it, the largest paradox he had ever faced—because he loved her, he could not. Not in this most obvious way, at any rate.
The steps were in front of him, all too quickly. Suddenly, Matt no longer wanted to go to Doc's office. Seeing Kitty lying there, broken, could and would confirm all of his fears.
He froze with his hand on the railing and one foot on the stairs.
"Mr. Dillon." Chester had caught up to him. "She's gonna need you."
The slight tone of accusation broke through Matt's tortured thoughts and forced his body into action once again. He could be there for Kitty, even if he couldn't always protect her. It was a start at least.
Matt slowly made his way up the staircase and pulled his hat off as he opened the door tentatively. "Doc? How is she?" Matthew Dillon loved Kitty Russell.