10

Nine days later a package was delivered to Wayne Russell's large Greek Revival home near the corner of Carondelet and Foucher Streets in New Orleans.

"Postman brought a package for you Miss Kitty." Marcella, the house maid said, as she brought the mail to Mr. Russell's bedroom. The elderly gambler, lay amidst fine linen and satin comforter on a large four poster bed. His frail frame propped up by a multitude of pillows. His daughter, the former saloon owner; dressed in a blue gaberdine gown, was seated on a tapestry covered chair to his left, reading to him passages from the Bible.

"Thank you Marcella." She took the package and gave it a little shake. "I wonder what it could be?"

"Well open it my child, perhaps it's the present I ordered for you, that didn't arrive in time for your birthday."

"Perhaps," but, she saw at once and with a start, the handwriting on the box. Her heart skipped a beat and then did double time. She felt happy and giddy and her face lit with a light that even the failing eyesight of the invalid old man could detect.

"No, it's not from you Father. It's from Dodge City. Probably something I left behind, I'll open it later. Now, let's see about getting you cleaned up before the doctor gets here." She turned to Marcella, handing over the package. "Would you mind putting this in my room?"

"I'll see to it Ma'am and then I'll come back to help you with Mr. Russell."

It was sometime later before she had the opportunity to open the package in the privacy of her room.

She sat in the chair by the window holding the box in her lap, savoring the notion it was from Matt, yet chiding herself for being so giddy at the prospect he had sent her something. It could be anything, indeed it could be something she'd given him that he felt compelled to return, considering the circumstances of her leaving. 'But it's his hand writing, that means he got back to Dodge safe and sound,' beat the niggling voice of her heart. 'whatever it is, it's a precious gift, because he's alive to fight another day.'

She listened to her heart and carefully tore away the brown paper to find a box. She opened the box to find a gift wrapped package inside. Certainly not something Matt Dillon had wrapped, for the tissue had no extra folds or creases in it, other than the ones needed to accomplish the task, but it was the blue satin ribbon which caught her attention. Every birthday gift he'd ever given her had been wrapped by the same color ribbon. "Matches your eyes," was what he'd always told her. Now those blue eyes filled with tears at the sight of the ribbon, for it told her in no uncertain terms that he had been the one to chose the ribbon and tie the bow and it was most certainly a gift given in true sentiment. She took a deep breath and then undid the ribbon and loosened the paper. Stockings! He'd given her stockings, the most beautiful she'd ever seen. She smiled through the mist as she recalled that morning in January when he'd discovered she wore a pair of his old wool socks to keep her feet warm, and he'd vowed to give her new ones for her birthday. As she was examining the fine workmanship on each pair a slip of paper drifted to the floor.

She bent to retrieve it. Tears were flowing freely now, though she didn't realize it until she tried to read the words he'd written.

17 February 1888

Kitty,

I had Dottie Bender stitch these up for your birthday. I wish like hell, I could give them to you in person. This will have to do for now.

You take care of yourself too.

Matt

Then, as a postscript, printed, not written, were the simple words, that served to erase time and miles and bring him as close as a soft sweet whisper in her ear.

Distance doesn't change what's in the heart.

Her breath caught in her throat. She pressed the paper tightly to her bosom, crossing both hands over it, embracing the tender meaning of his words. For that moment, distance held no barrier and only love, replete and true filled her heart.

the end