Haunted Heart

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

Chapter Four: East

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "The Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: I did not create these characters – unfortunately.

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Somewhere deep in Matt Dillon's brain, tiny miners drove pickaxes with disturbing regularity, over and over, sharp stabs behind his eyes, at the base of his skull, through his temples. Struggling up through the dark tunnel, he searched for the light, for his escape from the torture, but when he finally managed to gain the surface and open his eyes, the brilliant flash of pain shoved him back down.

"Easy now."

A familiar voice grounded him, and he focused on it, braving another peek – a very small one. Doc stood over him, face blurring but discernable.

"Try some of this."

Squinting against the glare, the marshal let his gaze scan around him, identifying the all-too familiar surroundings of Doc's office. Grimacing, he looked toward the extended hand and the glass of brown liquid held there. "What is – " The words shifted like gravel in his throat.

"Hair of the dog," the doctor explained.

Matt blinked, wondering why he felt like a team of mules had trampled him. Maybe he had been shot. That was certainly not outside the realm of reality. The miners began their digging again, and he considered the fact that he had been hit over the head, maybe pistol whipped by some outlaw. But the sensation that rumbled through his body didn't quite fit either of those scenarios. A long-forgotten recollection filtered through his muddled thoughts, and he groaned in realization.

Drunk? Son of a – of all the stupid things. He hadn't consumed enough liquor to pass out in over twenty years, and now he remembered one of the reasons why. What the hell had prompted him to –

Then it came to him, hit him with all the raw power and pain of that first moment. His body rebelled both at the burn of memory and the boil of alcohol.

"Doc – " he moaned.

The physician had apparently been around long enough to recognize the sound and hurriedly scooped up a basin, holding it as the alcohol and the pain came back up in wretched waves of nausea. When he fell back onto the bed, sweating and clammy, Matt mumbled an apology to his old friend.

But Doc shook his head and set the basin aside. "I suppose I ought to tell you I'm sorry for giving you the whiskey in the first place."

Matt let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. "That's kind like the gunsmith tellin' the outlaw he's sorry he sold him the gun that got him killed."

Doc chuckled. "Good to hear a little humor from you."

But the lighter mood vanished abruptly as Matt swung his long legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit. His side burned with the movement; as he looked down to see what was wrong, he noticed for the first time that he wore no pants and his shirt hung completely open. He tugged the sheet over his lap, even though Doc knew his body better than anyone, except perhaps –

His chest suddenly ached; he closed his eyes against the dizziness that physical pain, exhaustion, and emotional sickness brought on. Kitty was gone. Dear God, Kitty was gone.

"Matt?"

He felt a touch at his wrist and opened his eyes to see Doc hovering near him, his professional fingers taking note of the pulse of his patient. Gritting his teeth against all the forms of torture that assailed him, Matt looked at his friend.

"You really don't know?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Doc would have told him if he had any idea where Kitty was. He didn't doubt that.

The gray head shook sadly. "I don't, Matt. She – she left on the east-bound stage, if that helps any."

East. A lot of land lay east. "You mentioned something about the hair of the dog?" he reminded, knowing he would need a whole dog to help him drag his stiff body out of bed and down to the jail.

The physician smiled and handed him the glass again, watching as the marshal choked down half of it and somehow managed not to throw it back up. "Why don't you rest here a little longer, Matt? I'm sure that side of yours is smarting pretty good right now."

His hand dropped to his ribs, another memory returning. It was, indeed, smarting, but he wouldn't give Doc the satisfaction of hearing him admit it. "I'm okay. Thanks for seeing to it. My clothes around?"

Shaking his head at what Matt figured was his stubbornness, the doctor handed him a neatly folded pair of pants and underwear bottoms. "Couldn't get the shirt off without hurting you, I figured."

"Thanks, Doc," he replied, reaching for them. Then, he sucked in a quick breath of memory and froze. The pants had been cleaned, and in the pocket – Heart pumping harder, he struggled to sound as calm as possible, desperately hoping that Doc hadn't looked, didn't know. "I, uh, I had a bag in one of the pockets – "

The physician rubbed a hand over his mustache. "Oh, yeah. Blue or some such, fell out when I picked up your pants. I put it over there on the table." He gestured to the nightstand, and Matt looked where he pointed.

The velvet bag rested on the wood, strings drawn tight like he had left them, apparently undisturbed. Turning back to Doc, he studied his face, trying to read any comprehension, or – heaven forbid – any pity in those blue eyes. But the physician just shrugged and placed the pants in the lawman's hands.

"I can see you're not gonna take my advice – as usual. Just be careful. That wound's still susceptible to infection, you know."

Matt nodded and tugged on the rest of his clothing and boots, wondering how much Doc really knew and how much he just suspected. Not that it mattered anymore. Not that anything mattered quite as much anymore.

"I need to see about Buck," he said, more guilt pouring through him as he remembered he had left the horse tied up outside the Long Branch. Another move out of character for him.

"Oh, I had Moss come get him last night," Doc told him.

With an attempt at a smile – one he didn't think he quite succeeded in – he scooped up the elegant bag, trying not to feel the small ring inside, and shoved it in his pocket. "Thanks, Doc. Thanks for – "

The older man nodded and blinked. "Sure."

Each step from Doc's office to the street jarred him in all the places that hurt, his legs, his back, his ribs – and now his head and stomach. The vile concoction that was intended to sooth had offered only minimal relief. He supposed it was more than he had a right to expect. The morning sun glared down, its blinding rays adding their own torture. He tugged the hat down low over his eyes in an attempt to mute the effect on his pounding head, and he paced himself as normally as he could across Front Street toward the jail.

He needed time to think, to sort everything out. Kitty's timing, as usual, was perfect. He let his hand slip into his pocket and finger the bag, almost laughing at the irony. But Matt Dillon was not one to wallow in self-pity. Then, the miners struck again, and he winced, reflecting that maybe he did wallow for a while.

Logic told him that, at the moment, he couldn't do anything about the headache; he couldn't do anything about Kitty; but he could at least take care of the mound of paperwork that surely awaited him after a month on the trail. That small action would allow him at least some semblance of control. He issued up a thank you that it was still early enough for only a few citizens to venture out. That cut down on the need for putting on a civil face, which was just about the last thing he felt like doing.

Ducking inside the jailhouse door, he was met by the strong odor of Festus' coffee. Over the years, he had become accustomed to the deputy's stout brew, had even grown to like it – almost. But even tolerance was too much to expect this morning, and he swallowed, fighting back the unpleasant sensation the smell had produced.

"Well, if you ain't a sight fer sore eyes!" Festus pushed himself off the desk where he had been propped, the genuineness of his smile the first real welcome Matt had received since his return.

"Festus," he answered, hoping he managed somehow to mask both the emotional and physical turmoil he was in. Still, there was nothing he could do about the half-grown beard that scratched at his jaw and the haggard lines that creased a little more deeply into his face than they had yesterday.

Peering closely, the deputy offered, "Kin I gitcha a cuppa coffee?"

Barely resisting the urge to dash out back and heave out what little was left in his stomach, Matt grunted a "no thanks," hung his hat on the peg by the door, and did the same with his gun belt on the other hanger. Pressing his lips together against the aches, he let his body drop into the desk chair.

"You feelin' arright this mornin'," Festus asked, his frown clear evidence that he already knew the answer. "You wont me ta' git ya' some vittles from Delmonicos?"

"No," he snapped, more abruptly than he had intended. Trying to soften the impact, he added, "Maybe later. I need to catch up on some of this." His hand swept over the pile of paper. He purposely avoided asking Festus what had been happening in his absence.

"Ain't nothin' that in particular. Leastwise, nothin' that needs tendin' to before lunch."

Matt started to nod, but cut the movement short with the warning of pain from the back of his head. He stretched out his leg in an effort to relieve the throbbing there, but hissed as his boot kicked something hard beneath the desk and sent a jarring flash through the knee.

"What the – "

"Oh," Festus said, his voice falling. "That come fer ya' right after – " He stopped, unable to meet Matt's eyes . "Well, right after – "

But Matt had heard what he couldn't say. Right after Kitty left. Jaw tight, he pushed up from the desk and walked around to the front, dragging out a small – and all too familiar – trunk. "Who brought it?"

He heard Festus swallow hard. After a moment, the deputy said quietly, "Floyd."

Floyd. Then it came from – from the Long Branch.

"This chere's tha' key." Festus handed the small piece of metal to Matt, who took it between his forefinger and thumb. Bracing himself with a deep breath, he knelt on his good leg, released the straps, and eased the key into the lock, wishing he were alone for this moment.

When it clicked, he lifted the top slowly, letting his eyes fall on what he knew was there – but what he wished with all his heart wouldn't be. Sure enough, he looked down on a pile of neatly folded clothes. On the top lay three shirts, one rarely-worn light blue one, one white dress shirt, and a faded red work shirt. Just beneath them were a pair of dark dress pants and a newly-mended pair of tan pants. Under it all stretched his gray dress coat. He knew if he checked he'd find his best string tie in the breast pocket.

Another kick in the stomach. He fought not to double over from the impact, wrestled with that moment of breathlessness and nausea. But a man could get over a kick in the stomach. This kick he wasn't so sure he could overcome quite so easily.

"Matthew?" The concern in Festus' voice cut through his pain, and he glanced up, realizing that he gripped the table so hard his knuckles were white. Taking two breaths to steady himself, he rose, ignoring the ache in his knee. It seemed insignificant to the new pain that had settled in his chest.

"Lock that back up and have it sent to the Dodge House, will ya', Festus?" he asked, jerking his gun belt back off the hook and striding toward to door.

"The Dodge House? But – "

"The Dodge House," he repeated, letting his voice send a warning not to ask again.

Festus took the hint. "Sure. I'll do 'er, Matthew. You don't worry 'bout ennything."

He closed the door behind him, willing his legs to move, to take the steps he needed to take. Somehow, they obeyed, and only a couple of minutes later, he walked into the lobby of Dodge's best hotel, his saddlebag thrown over his shoulder.

Mr. Dobie himself stood at the front desk and offered him a friendly smile. "Well, Marshal," he greeted. "Welcome back. Didn't know you were – "

"I need a room." It was rude, he knew, but he needed to be alone, needed to deal with the emotions that drove through him, that threatened to rip away the layer of solid, reasonable lawman he had carefully protected for so many years.

Dobie stopped, momentarily nonplussed. Then he nodded and reached back to the keys as Matt lifted the pen by the register.

"Oh, you don't have to sign in, Marshal," Dobie protested.

But Matt had already written his name in bold script. "There's a trunk comin' over later. You can send it up."

"Certainly. Uh – is number nine all right?" he asked, peering up in obvious expectation of a response.

"Fine." He didn't care, as long as it was ready right then. "I'll need some water and soap sent up."

Dobie's voice fell. Matt had disappointed him somehow, but he didn't have the time to worry about it. "I'll have someone bring them up. May I ask – how long you'll be using the room?"

The marshal took the key Dobie handed him. "Put me on the monthly rate," he told him, ignoring the surprise in the manager's eyes.

Only on a rare occasion had he stayed at the Dodge House. If he wasn't bunking at the jail, Matt's nights had usually been spent in Kitty's room. Even though he certainly hadn't advertised it, he figured everyone probably knew that by now. Some years ago, he had taken to leaving a change of clothes with her, kept clean and fresh away from the dust of the jail. He supposed he'd have to find another place. For now, the Dodge House would do.

Climbing the stairs, he pretended not to see Dobie's curious gaze follow him up, decided he wouldn't worry about the hotel manager spreading the news that the marshal had taken a room. He didn't have the energy to spend on it. As he opened the door, though, he realized why Dobie had been so solicitous and eager for his response. Number nine was one of the Dodge House's biggest rooms. Generous. Well, he'd have to thank him later. Tossing his hat on the bed, he dug through his saddlebags, pulling out his shaving kit and laying the razor and brush on the tall dresser. His vest followed. Then he stripped off his shirt and let it drop onto the vest. The bandage across his ribs pulled, and he took further note of Doc's handiwork, almost smiling.

Someone knocked at the door, and he stepped to answer it, but all he found were the basin of water, a square of soap and a stack of towels. Grunting against the pain in his back when he bent, he lifted the basin and placed it on top of the marble top of the dresser. The towels and soap didn't demand quite so much effort.

Standing before the mirror, he found that, as usual, he had to bend his knees a bit and tilt the frame to see. With practiced motions, he lathered the cream, spreading it across his chin and jaw, and scraped the razor carefully across his skin. It would take more than one time as heavy as his beard had gotten, but it was a normal act, one he had been doing since he was fifteen. Somehow, now, it seemed painful. With a shudder he suddenly realized why. Something –- someone – was missing.

Kitty. When he had stayed the night with her, and hung around long enough in the morning for her to awaken, as well, she would perch on the end of the bed and watch him shave. Once he had asked her why, and she said it was the most inherently masculine thing a man could do. He had laughed and disagreed, promptly demonstrating to her what he thought the most masculine thing as man could do was. Afterward, as they lay entwined on her bed, she had stroked his chest and agreed with him. Abruptly, he wondered if she had found someone else to watch shave, or to –

"Damn!"

The razor slipped, nicking his chin and drawing a well of blood to mix pink with the white lather. He pressed a towel to the cut and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Twenty years. Twenty years he had known – and loved – Kitty Russell. In the early days they were both just kids, brash and eager and full of possibilities. As they matured, their relationship grew into mutual respect and understanding – and love. He knew what Kitty really wanted, knew what she had waited for, had hoped for. And he had every intention of giving it to her – one day.

It figured that the day he decided to give her what she wanted would be the day she decided she couldn't wait any longer. Unexpectedly, the burn of anger began deep inside him, building until he felt it pushing at him, demanding release. All of his life he had fought to keep his temper even, to regulate his reactions, to control his situations. It was probably the reason he was still around.

But the memories that he had fought back all morning bubbled up with the anger, shattering his attempt to keep them bottled. With a fierce growl, he swept a hand across the dresser top, sending the contents crashing to the floor. In the next second, he heard another crash and felt a sharp pain in his left hand. Breath heaving, he swayed against the unaccustomed fury that gripped him, closing his eyes to drag together the remnants of his control. When he opened them again, he stared at the mirror before him, its splintered shards of glass reflecting bizarre images of his own face. Stunned, he looked down at his left hand and watched, as if he were someone else, as the blood streamed over it from his sliced knuckles.

He exhaled heavily and let his shoulders slump. The moment had passed. The anger had been swallowed up by pain and regret. Cursing softly, he wrapped one of the towels around the wounds and leaned against the end of the bed, watching as the white cloth soaked red. How many stupid things could he do in one day?

But with the release of anger came the ability to think more clearly. East, Doc had said. She had taken the east-bound stage.

Jaw setting, he ignored the throbbing of his hand, the dripping of the towel, and jerked open his saddlebag again to pull out a clean shirt. It took some fumbling, but he managed to slide into without too much trouble. After another round of one-handed attempts, his gun belt was buckled and his hat was on his head. It took him only a few more seconds to stomp down the stairs and stride past a bewildered Mr. Dobie.

Bursting into the jail, he caught Festus in mid-sip, the coffee cup poised at his lips. "Can you get Buck saddled for me?"

A grin split the deputy's face, and he set the cup down quickly. "Now, I kin shorely do that fer ya', Matthew," he declared, hopping off the desk. His eyes fell to the bloody towel still wrapping the marshal's hand. "What in tarnation – "

"It's nothing," Matt said, waving off any concern. "I'm gonna get Doc to look at it while you're at Moss Grimmick's."

"Whar ya' goin'?" he asked, squinting up hopefully.

Matt turned to him, held his gaze with eyes that were no longer pained and weary, but hard and determined. He drew a breath and lifted his chin. "East."

TBC