3

Morphine was the only 'thing' that mattered. It made the old man's life tolerable; not the devotion of his daughter, his grand home, servants or wealth, none of these mattered. He was a man who'd never committed himself to the encumbrance of loving another human being. His ambition had always been for himself, if someone else benefited from his gain, so be it, but the grace of a selfless love had never driven Wayne Russell. Now at this final juncture of life, it was the drug, which provided all the solace he desired; an escape from pain and the reality that was his impending death.

Dr. Fletcher had told Kitty her father had only a short time to live, "just months really. All we can do is see that he is comfortable."

Noticing the exhausted state of Mr. Russell's daughter the doctor suggested nurses be hired to relieve some of her load. The nurses never lasted more than a day before Mr. Russell's charm wore thin. Inevitably, the task of caring for her father fell to Kitty.

She lived in that vague and weary land known to caregivers; ruled by schedules that couldn't be followed, meals that went uneaten and sleep that came only in restless spurts. Yet, through all the turmoil in her life, the thought of Matt Dillon was always near the surface, like the proverbial itch that couldn't be scratched.

Throughout the hours spent at Wayne Russell's bedside, she would compose letters in her mind, but when she sat down to actually write them, she was too weary to find the words. Thus, her thoughts remained her own, unshared, unspoken, and when all was said and done, she decided that was probably for the best.

It was several days after she received the birthday stockings that Matt Dillon's letters started to arrive.

As was the practice now, Margarite had placed Kitty's mail on a side table in her room.

Bone weary, Kitty had slipped into her suite shortly after dark that evening. There was a small stack of letters waiting for her. Several of them were in connection with her father's business interests, but there was also one from Doc and to her great surprise, one from Matt Dillon.

She read Doc's letter first. It was filled with news and kind council, for he knew Kitty would work herself weary with the effort to nurse her ailing father. He spoke of Newly's new love interest. Festus' latest battle with gout and the Roniger family's chicken pox. He didn't mention Matt, nor did she imagine he would, for he was ever careful not to cross the point the pair had delineated in the sand of their relationship. His ending sentence was as close as he came, "You are missed dearly by all of us who love you."

Then, she picked up the sealed envelope which contained Matt's letter. Just for a moment, she savored the delicious thought that for a blink in time he was with her. Wanting to mark the occasion, she poured herself a small glass of brandy and then sank down on the cushions of the Eastlake boudoir fainting couch that occupied a corner of her room. She took several sips before opening the letter. She didn't expect much, for she'd received letters from him over the years. Most contained a timetable at best, or a request that she do something for him in his absence. Rarely did he share his experiences or any words of love or even friendship. Still, she sorely needed this connection with him to shore up her weakening defenses.

She smiled at the brevity of it, but in a few sentences he had filled her in on everything she'd needed to know. Most certainly Newly's new girl was a pretty young thing, but he made no mention of her looks except to say, she had brown hair. Matt was a man who appreciated physical beauty, yet he wasn't looking beyond the obvious. She read the short note again and again, each time his voice became clearer and by the time she finished her third class of brandy she felt transported to the back table of the Long Branch with Dillon at her side.

She held the letter in hand and leaned back against the chaise, closing her eyes as she did. Her exhaustion, the spell cast by the liquor, and the unexpectedness of the letter filled her with a bittersweet warmth, and as happens in times such as those, she was lured into the memories of her time in Dodge.

Before she could pull back to reality, she was caught in the web of those seven tenebrous hours to dawn, when Mace Gore's gang took over the town. The image of Matt Dillon's bloodied body, lying lifeless on the dusty streets of Dodge City, was one that had haunted her nightmares; brought on the pounding of her heartbeat and sweat to pour from her body. It was recurrent, coming to her in hours of weakness and fear. She fought past the abhorrent image, recalling how, after several hours of leaving her to grieve alone, Doc, had returned to escort her to Ma Smalley's Boarding House, where he and that kind lady had sat with her at the kitchen table. She hadn't wanted to leave her room, had seen no reason to, and couldn't understand why Doc insisted he stay at her side. Numb with grief, she had said nothing, and Ma, having lost her own man, many years before had sat with them, quiet and calm, offering little more than a pot of herb tea as comfort. A rapid succession of gunshots, coming from the Long Branch had roused them from this solemn reverie. She had jumped to her feet and run to the front of the house. Doc followed, moving between her and the door. With his hand on the knob, he ordered "Stay here until I come back for you, until I know it's safe."

Safe? She cared not for her safety, for nothing of this world mattered, her heart and soul had been blown to irretrievable bits on Front Street, seven hours before. They could shoot her too, it would be a relief, a blessing, not to have to bear this mantle of grief, but to be lying by his side in the dank cold of Percy Crump's back room. In her moment of hesitation, obsidian with hopelessness; Doc left her, racing toward the saloon in his old man gait, medical bag in hand. She ran after him. "Get back to Ma's." he ordered in breathless voice.

"No." She declared defiantly.

He stopped at the batwing doors of the Long Branch, gazing inside before taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Then, he walked her through the swinging doors.

Nothing had prepared her for what she saw. Her heart reacted with such a violent jolt that it took her breath away. Matt Dillon sat there on a bar chair, hunched in pain, hand clutched to side, blood seeping from the bullet hole, staining his fingers red; his battered face, ashen, his eyes dull, barely focusing; but alive. He was alive! He looked up and their gaze locked. She tremulous; wiling with all her might, that this mirage before her, never fail. He needing her, yet, unable to find the reserve of strength, to lift his wounded body from the chair.

She ran on unsteady feet, her heart jumping in her chest, as if pulled free from internal restraints. She knelt to the floor beside his chair, wrapping her arms around him, feeling the heat that meant life, emanate from his dear, dear body. He was alive, and not the figment of desperate hope or Ma's magic potion tea.

She turned to Doc, suddenly angry with his betrayal, "Why, why did you let me think he was dead?"

It was Festus who stated the truth, she would have eventually figured out once her brain and heart synced to a sensible rhythm. "He had ta Miss Kitty. Doncha see, if he hadn't they'd a finished Matthew off fer sure."

Afraid to ask, yet needing the truth, she questioned Doc, "Will he really be alright?"

Doc's gaze was infinitely kind. In his eyes was the apology for the hurt he'd inflicted by not being honest with her. He found a smile, knowing the right of his answer would begin to heal her heartache, "He says so, and I think he will, that is, if he gets an awful lot of special attention for the next two or three weeks."

Tears, unabashed filled her eyes,"I'll just see what I can do about that." Matt's weak grip on her arm tightened, urging her closer. As they cleaved to one another, he repeated the refrain of what was their life song together. 'It's alright Kitty, everything's going to be alright."

"Kitty, I need you, Kitty." The sound of her father's sickbed cry, jerked her rudely from that tender recollection. She was reluctant to leave, for the memory, always so rooted in terror and grief, was now replaced by the power of Matt's unconquerable selfless strength. A strength of heart, which never admitted defeat, and always held tight to the unfailing refrain; everything would be alright. For the unspoken truth, which bound them together and gave them the strength to endure, was love. It was love, which was the 'thing' that mattered.