Blood Moon 2

He trod softly through the house in his sock feet. The wooden floor was smooth and sturdy, so it made few creaks as the man travelled warily from window to window, then paused, and stared outside. The wind howled as it had for three days. Unexpected high pitched, eerie whistling wraith like sounds still managed to find ways through tiny, invisible cracks around windows. The snow reflected the bright glow from the moon that seemed suspended right above him on the open prairie. That kind of bright light always gave him comfort. If anything was out there, it would easier to spot.

The horses were snug and safe from predators in stalls, in the barn, so the corral near the barn was empty. Without perceiving any discernable threat nor seeing anything that appeared out of place, the big man inhaled deeply and unconsciously relaxed his shoulders, which he had instinctively pulled up in a defensive posture. He turned from the windows and could make out the outlines of a large rock fireplace and wide hearth with artfully curved rocking chairs nearby, all thanks to that waxing moon outside. Walking over to the fireplace, he stacked logs on the fire and then went to shove a couple of smaller ones in the large cook stove to keep the embers going until morning.

He was grateful to have a warm place on such a bitterly cold night, and he paused to appreciate it. Too many nights spent alone on the prairie or in a cold, stone US Marshal's Office, or with prisoners, helped hone that gratitude. Pulling one of the oak rockers closer to the fire, he took a seat and listened to the soothing sounds of the cracking and popping of the wood. The wind still gusted and roared like a beast around the house, but it was tight, built with quality workmanship, to protect the family inside. He still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that possessed him. An unerring prescient sense of impending trouble had saved his life more than once, yet he could find no tangible reason for his edginess.

The Dillon ranch, Shooting Star or The Double S, had been established for almost two years. Their home was comfortable, accomplished with Kitty's loving, knowing touch. The fields produced fine crops of corn, wheat, and hay. Their herd of Herefords had been chosen from the best breeding stock. Their prize bull, Twister, had been purchased from one of the largest and most prestigious ranches in Kansas, his sire shipped from England. After the great blizzard of 1886, some farsighted ranchers had decided to move from the famed Texas Longhorn cattle to other breeds. Allowing herds to roam was now a thing of the past, as well, also a side effect of the great blizzard. So many cattle had died far from home that it was too big a risk to the herds and financially for the owners to allow them too far from home, so fences were now common. No longer were there heavy streams of big herds, and free grazing was limited. Local ranchers had replaced a big chunk of the need for Texas cattle.

The Dillon's were more than lucky; they were smart. Nothing happened by chance if they could avoid it. They'd both endured too much heartache and loss from lack of foresight. Matt discussed and studied new breeds of cattle, as well as other livestock, before investing. Kitty's attention to detail, through reading and vast contacts, along with her meticulous bookkeeping, contributed greatly to their choices and success thus far.

Matt and Kitty Dillon were not youngsters anymore and couldn't risk big losses in their first years. There might not be enough time for course corrections.

One thing that his missus insisted on was Matt's hiring of dependable help around the ranch. She wanted her husband around-a long long time. He acknowledged her concern, and, though it dinged his pride some, he knew she was right. He couldn't manage it all alone, nor did he want to. Kitty deserved to have him home now, and he wanted to be there with her as much as possible. He'd wasted too much time already. So far, his worries about old enemies coming back to haunt him or his family were wasted.

They'd hired Festus Hagen as their ranch foreman, and he had a small house of his own. It was away from the main house, but close enough to the bunk house to keep order. The bunk house was home to three other men at the moment, but if fortune kept smiling on them that would have to change.

With Lena gone back to New Orleans now, the house seemed much emptier. Their daughter would finish up her studies this coming summer, and it was their hope that she would make a permanent home in Kansas, with them, instead of choosing to stay in Louisiana.

"Matt."

His wife's concerned voice swiftly pulled him from his musing.

"Is something wrong," she asked. "I woke, and you were gone." Kitty Russell Dillon, wrapped in a blue robe, sat down on the hearth near him. Her long hair was pulled in a braid over her left shoulder, and the firelight enhanced the red color.

"No, Kitty. I'm just woolgathering. Just an old man's habits, I reckon." His gray hair was tousled, and, of course, he was in his night clothes.

"Are you worried about Lena?" She placed her hand on his knee.

Her husband placed his large hand over hers and squeezed. "No, honey, no." He released another deep breath, and said, "It's just…. I'm allowed to worry about my daughter traveling alone, all the way from Kansas to New Orleans, aren't I? After all, you've certainly had your share of incidents while travelling," Matt said, only half teasing. It had been two days since their daughter had left Kansas to New Orleans. Her Christmas visit had been too short.

"I can't argue with that, now can I," she answered ruefully. "She'll be fine. You know good and well that Lena can handle herself pretty darn well. She said she'd wire us as soon as she arrived."

"Come here," he said, pulling her to him. She settled into his warm lap and leaned her head against his shoulder. The firelight danced and twisted, reflecting across their faces.

"Are you worried?" He asked her, wrapping his arm around waist tighter.

"What do you think, Cowboy?"

"Well, there's the pot calling the kettle black." Rising to his feet, Matt carried Kitty back to their bedroom. Once settled in bed, she pressed her check into Matt's chest and felt the worn softness of his undershirt and the warmth underneath. "I got cold when you were up," she said softly. "I missed you."

He grinned in the darkness. "You're only using me to keep your feet warm, huh," he said.

She kissed him firmly on the cheek and murmured, "I also have other uses for you."

"Such as?"

Kitty kissed him on the cheek. On the neck. Rubbed her hand across his wide chest.

Turning on his side, he buried his face in the fresh scent of her hair, and the soft, supple curves of her warm body forced other worries to the back of his mind. Matt sought and found her lips, kissing her tenderly, while his fingers untied the ribbon holding the top of her gown together. Kitty smiled in the darkness and ran her fingers through his thick wavy hair, allowing her nails to lightly scratch his scalp and then his neck. When he paused to take a breath, she undid her nightgown and dropped it to the floor. Her husband was undressing when she turned back to him. They were still strongly attracted to each other physically, and it took only seconds for sparks to flare to a blaze.

Kitty ran her hands over his body, touching and remembering almost every scar or indentation. Many of which, she'd witnessed when inflicted. He stroked her soft skin, allowing his fingers to trail lightly over her body. When her heaving breathing turned to gasps and moans, he rose above her.

Matt shifted his long body over hers and gently nudged her legs apart. She welcomed him, more than ready. Kitty reveled in knowing that right now, he was hers alone, and the whole wide world was locked outside, away from their world.

She began moving in rhythm with him, first slow and deep. Matt kissed her on the lips, on her neck, and nibbled adown across her breasts, his hands gently tangled in her hair.

The sounds of their heavy breathing and moans mixed with words filled the room. Their bed became an orchestra playing a timeworn tune that they knew well. The rhythm became faster and more frenzied. Kitty loudly cried out his name, and her body tightened around him, her hands clutching his arms. Matt thrust only twice more and suddenly he was only aware of a rushing, blindingly intense pleasure in his groin.

Falling onto his back, he murmured her name. Her answer was to snuggle up next to him, satisfied, and curl her long slim leg over his. His wife's even breathing settled him as felt his own tension melt away. His fears cast aside for the night, he lay and savored the scent of his wife, their lovemaking, and enjoyed the contentment that he'd denied himself most of his life. In no time at all, he fell asleep.

**************************************Gunsmoke*******************.

The same night that Matt found himself prowling from window to window in his home, Festus also found he couldn't sleep. An uneasiness came over him that made him want to put his boots on and go outside, to reassure himself that nothing was there.

"P'shaw," he finally muttered to himself. "Festus, you're gettin' old." Peering out the window one more time, he climbed back into his warm bed and tried to put his restlessness aside.