HELLO, KITTY

Part 2

Matt paid the bill, and they rode the gilded elevator to the fifth floor in silence. At the door to room 512, Kitty stopped. He took the key from her hand, inserted it into the lock and stepped back so that she could precede him into the sitting room of her suite.

She turned up the lamp by the settee and dropped her reticule on the table. "Sit down, Matt. Can I buy you a drink? The distributors were most generous with their samples today."

He placed his Stetson on top of the reticule, laid his gun belt next to it and lowered his long frame onto the sofa. "Sounds good."

Her hands were shaking so badly the square Jack Daniel's bottle clinked against the rims of the cut crystal glasses as she splashed generous amounts of whiskey into both. She carried them across the room, handed one to Matt and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. "Try this."

He took a swallow. "Nice," he smiled.

She smiled back and added lightly, "Most of my new patrons appreciate whiskey a bit more refined than the rotgut that seemed to satisfy the drovers and drifters who passed through Dodge."

"And cow town lawmen," he added, a trace of quiet bitterness in his voice.

"I didn't mean it that way. First of all, you're a United States Marshal, not a cow town lawman, and second, there's always been a quiet dignity and class about you. You're a gentleman, Matt, and a gentle man, too."

"So then I guess you didn't leave because I'm an insensitive clod." Suddenly angry, he angled his body to face her. "Why did you leave, Kitty? I've wondered about that, you know." He watched her flinch visibly at his unexpected and uncharacteristic tone, but he continued. "What did I do wrong? At least tell me that. Please."

"Oh, Matt, you didn't do anything wrong! Is that what you've been thinking all this time?"

"What else would I think?"

She couldn't allow him to continue to blame himself for her leaving, and her voice was low and hesitant as she lifted her eyes to his. "Matt, I didn't leave because of anything you did…or didn't do. I left because you were…because you were...dead…or I thought you were."

He watched her struggle with the words and his voice softened. "I understand that, Kitty, and I'm sorry about…about what you must have gone through. But I had no control over anything that was happening to me…to any of us."

"I know that, Matt. Now. But I didn't know it then. What I knew, and what Doc knew, too, was that it was way too soon for you to go out on the trail again. You worked so hard to rehabilitate yourself, but you'd been back in town less than a week. Your gun hand wasn't healed enough for you to take off after a gang of bank robbers by yourself. You were still using that left-handed draw, for God's sake. Festus would have gone with you—or Newly. Or you could have picked up one of the deputies from Jetmore or Kinsley, but no, you had to do it your way."

"Kitty, I…."

"Don't interrupt. Please. You asked me to tell you why I left. And I'm telling you—my way," she added with a trace of a smile in her voice. "Every day I prayed there'd be some word, but there wasn't. Six months went by with nothing, not one single word. For six months I waited and watched and worried. Festus and Newly scoured every town in the territory and every canyon and cave and blade of grass in between. We asked every stage driver who came into town if he had seen or heard anything. Doc and I devoured the out of town newspapers. We sent telegrams to every lawman in every town that had a telegraph office. Nothing. You just disappeared."

She paused to take a deep breath and a swallow of whiskey before continuing. "Then an envelope came containing your badge and identification papers. And there was a letter, too, saying you had been killed in a gunfight in Mexico. It went to the marshal's office, of course. Newly brought it to me. He and Festus had no choice but to forward it to the War Department. And the War Department accepted it as genuine. Seems as if, after six months with no contact, the government presumes a missing lawman to be dead, closes the books on him and sends in a replacement." She gave him a wry smile. "It's very simple, really—very efficient."

She took another long swallow of the bracing liquid and said quietly, "This next part is difficult for me, Matt, and I'm not even sure I can make you understand, but I'll try. When the letter came, it was…" Her voice faltered, but she went on. "God forgive me…it was a relief. Finally, I could stop worrying about you and I could stop waiting for the day I had always dreaded—the day the worst would happen. For it had happened. Matt Dillon was dead. Time was when I thought I couldn't live without you. But I was wrong. I discovered I could go on living—sort of. But not in Dodge. Too many memories…too many ghosts. Too many pitying looks. So, I contacted Hannah about running the Long Branch, bought my ticket and left. For New Orleans, where I could mourn for you and bury our past in a place where I wouldn't see you in every shadow, wouldn't hear your voice in every rustle of the wind, wouldn't…"

She shook her head. "I had just bought the paddle wheeler and started the business when the telegram came from Doc saying you had sent a wire…that you were alive and on your way home. I actually bought a ticket back to Dodge, but I…I couldn't bring myself to use it. For the first time in nineteen years I wasn't spending every hour of every day worrying about you, wondering if you were sick or hurt or…or…if you were coming back. The War Department said you were dead and…and I thought it best if you—and our past—stayed that way." Exhausted, she paused and took a shaky breath before adding, "And, Matt, I do appreciate that you've honored my request not to contact me."

He started to reach for her, but drew back, uncertain. "Then you don't…don't hate me? You aren't mad at me?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Hardly." She paused, and matching blue eyes seared each other's souls. Her arms ached to hold him, but she couldn't let her guard down now. "I...I'm very tired, Matt. I think it would be best if you'd leave now."

He finished his drink in a single swallow, stood and reached for his gun belt and hat. "Will you have breakfast with me tomorrow, say eight o'clock?"

She nodded. "I'd like that."

They walked to the door; with his hand on the knob, he turned back. "May I kiss you good-night?"

She nodded again. "I'd like that, too."

He widened his stance to lower his tall frame to her level. One long index finger tipped her chin upward and his hooded eyes bore into hers. "Just so you know, Kitty, our past isn't dead. It's every bit as alive as I am." Then he bent his head, and, for the first time in twenty-six months, she felt the soft brush of Matt Dillon's lips on hers. His kiss was brief, it was gentle, and it left her trembling.

TBC