The West Wind

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes."

Percy Bysshe Shelley

"Ode to the West Wind"

1819

Chapter Eleven: Even One

POV: Kitty

Spoilers: None

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters (but I wish I did).

A dagger, piercing straight through her heart.

That's what Kitty Russell knew must be happening. She had never felt such pain, and she wondered if that vulnerable muscle could actually be ripped in half, because that's what it felt like to her as she watched Doc withdraw the useless syringe from Matt's side. Aching deep inside, she stared at that broad chest that she loved so much, willed it to move. Not since Mace Gore's men had pumped four bullets into his body had she been so scared, so heartsick, so empty. But she had been granted a reprieve that terrible, terrible night; a miracle had occurred, had rescued her from despair, had brought Matt back to her.

Now, though, as her eyes blurred from the tears that burned them, she fought back all sorts of urges wrestling inside her: the urge to scream, the urge to throw up, the urge to sob, the urge to beat on that still chest and make it rise again. Surely there would be a miracle again. Surely he wasn't – gone. Not now. Please God, not now.

But the seconds ticked by and there was no miracle, no reprieve. Matt was dead.

Impossible.

A cry of disbelief was wrenched from her throat, and she threw her arms around his chest, burying her head against the firm muscles that had held her, soothed her, ignited her passions for so many years. Vaguely, she felt Doc's hand on her shoulder, and knew that even his strength would not be enough.

Matt was dead. Dear God. Matt was dead.

What would they do? What would she do?

The stunned onlookers had not moved or spoken, and the silence lengthened, the sheer lack of noise accentuating the blunt impact of death. His death. She felt herself spiraling away from reality, her disbelieving mind seeking solace in some dark, removed corner, as if she could escape the terrifying finality of what she had always feared.

Her head spun as grief pulled her deeper and deeper into that vortex, so deep that she almost didn't feel the body jerk beneath her. Almost. As the dimming ember of comprehension sputtered back to a flame, she fought her way out of the darkness, clawed her way back into the world of reality.

And just as she broke through, the body beneath her jerked again – followed by a gasp.

A harsh, labored, ugly gasp – but a gasp. And it was the most beautiful sound Kitty Russell had ever heard.

Because it came from him.

Her head snapped up, her eyes focused, staring down at him, watching as the broad chest filled, listening as the air rushed into his lungs, wheezing and hard, but there. And then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

In. Out. In. Out. Until it became a steady rhythm.

"Oh, my God!" She pushed up, her eyes searching his face, her hands caressing the thick, scattered waves of hair. "Doc! Doc!"

But Adams was already leaning over them, his fingers on Matt's wrist. Kitty looked up at him, and the depth of relief she saw in those lined features pulled the dagger from her heart.

"Thank God," Doc sighed, not bothering to hide the tears that slid down his cheeks.

It was as if the entire room could finally breathe as well, and they all took a common gasp of relief and joy.

Kitty closed her eyes and buried her face against Matt's chest, reveling in feeling it rise and fall. "Oh, Matt," she whispered. "Oh, Matt."

As the overwhelmed citizens of Dodge gathered around their marshal – and their friend – she felt another hand on her shoulder. Looking up, expecting to see Doc's kind face, she was startled to find herself staring instead into Solana Satterfield's eyes. This was just about the last person she wanted to see at the moment, but even the sight of that woman couldn't quell the elation of Matt's revival.

The blonde woman nodded to her, her face devoid of its usual calculating mask. "Miss Russell," she began, and Kitty was surprised not to hear any sarcasm at all. "I'm glad he's all right," Solana told her, truthfully. "I'm glad you're both all right."

That might be a nice sentiment at any other time, but at the moment Kitty Russell didn't give a damn what Solana Satterfield thought.

"Look, I didn't – realize," the woman admitted. "I didn't know it would – turn out this way. I just wish it hadn't – " She lowered her eyes, an uncommon expression of something akin to humility crossing her fine features. "Anyway, I just wanted you to know that."

With a tight nod, Kitty acknowledged the half-apology. "I hope you understand now why you can't write that article."

Raising her head again, Solana held Kitty's gaze steadily. "Marshal Dillon undoubtedly saved my life, and I'm grateful." She sighed, a regretful smile crossing her smooth lips. "But despite all this, I am a newspaper woman. And I hope you understand now why I have to write that article."

Kitty stared at her, incredulous, but before she could say anything – or slap her, Solana gave another courteous nod. "Goodbye, Miss Russell." Kitty could only watched in disbelief as the other woman pushed her way through the crowd and out the door of the saloon.

But her ire, clashing with disappointment, shattered when another ragged breath drew her attention back to the man who still lay beneath her touch, and she decided she couldn't worry about Solana now. Suddenly, the woman's advances and her threats didn't seem nearly as important anymore. Matt was alive. Matt was alive!

There was yet another touch at her shoulder, and she turned to smile at Doc, but when she looked up, she saw a new crease in the furrowed forehead.

"Doc?" she asked quietly.

"Let's get him upstairs, now," the physician urged, motioning to the men who had placed the marshal's body on the tables a few moments – an eternity – ago.

"He's all right, isn't he, Doc?" she asked, reluctantly letting go of Matt as he was carefully lifted into the capable hands of his fellow townsmen. Her gaze sought the reassurance of the older man.

But Doc's hesitation was anything but reassuring. He sighed, and rubbed at his mustache.

"Doc?"

Finally, following the men up the stairs, he said, "Wait until we get him settled, and then – then we need talk about some things."

Things? The surge of joy that had lifted her now receded with the somber tone of his voice. "What – what do you mean?" she asked.

But Doc merely shook his head. When they reached her quarters, she stepped in front of the men with their burden to fling open her door, not paying any attention at all to the wide-eyed looks her opulent furnishings received from everyone except Sam and Festus.

Once Matt was settled on her bed, Doc instructed two of the men to remove his boots. "I'll cut his shirt and vest off," the physician told them. "No need to jostle him any more than we have to."

Finally, she and Doc stood alone next to Matt's bed, and she realized that these two men who meant the most to her in the world were both suffering – just for different reasons. Placing a hand on the older man's arm, she asked, more calmly than she would have thought she could, "What is it, Doc?"

Her dear old friend turned to her, and the sorrow in his eyes almost broke her heart. "Kitty, we don't – know much about the brain and how it works, but we do know that it needs oxygen on a regular basis. If it goes too long without – it starts to shut down."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that – that Matt wasn't breathing for – for a long time, Kitty. I just hope it wasn't – too long."

"What if it – was too long? What does that mean?"

"When the brain goes without oxygen, there can be – damage."

"Damage?" she managed to echo, somehow hearing him over the sudden pounding of her heart. "What – kind of damage?"

Adams swallowed, stepping to the window before he answered. "Loss of certain functions, abilities."

"You mean like he might not be able to – to ride a horse or shoot a gun or – or— "

Gently, the doctor said, "Those might be the least of his worries, Kitty."

"What – kinds of abilities, then?"

"Memory, maybe. Or reasoning. Speech. Mobility. He might not be able to talk, or walk, or to – think clearly."

"Dear God."

Stunned, she sank into a chair by the bed and stared down at the man who was considered by many to be the strongest, sharpest, most courageous, and most skilled lawman in the country. He was certainly the most impressive man she had ever known. How on earth could he not be those things anymore? How on earth could he not be – Matt Dillon?

"Of course," Doc allowed, his voice even heavier, "that's assuming he – wakes up."

She swallowed. "Assuming?"

"He could – he could be this way for the rest of his life, Kitty. There's no easy way to tell you that, but you have to know."

"What are the chances that – that he'll be perfectly fine? That there is no damage?"

The gray head shook. "Don't know. The brain is such a mystery, still. He could come out of it just fine, just like himself again. Or – "

"What will we do if – "

"I don't know, Kitty. I just don't know."

Dragging in a decisive breath, she said, "I'll be here."

"What?"

"I'll be here with him. No matter what. If – if he doesn't wake up, I'll take care of him. If he does, but he isn't – the same, I'll take care of him."

"Kitty, you can't – "

"I can." She raised her eyes to look directly into Doc's pale ones. "And I will."

XXXX

It was difficult night. Kitty spent most of it shifting from her uncomfortable perch in a chair to her place by the bed, wiping Matt's fevered brow. Except for an occasional groan, the marshal had not made a sound beyond the harsh wheezes that at least let her know he was still breathing. Sometime just before dawn, sheer exhaustion took over and threw her into a fitful sleep, which lasted only until the irritatingly persistent squeak of a milk cart shook her from dreams she would much rather not remember.

She shrugged the heavy drape of sleep from her shoulders and blinked, her first sight Matt's long body, still lying motionless in her bed. The sunlight caught the stubble that scratched over his strong jaw, and she took a moment to notice the interesting play of colors, mostly dark brown, but some red, and even a few blond. She wondered how long it would be before any of them turned gray, wondered if he would live long enough for that to happen. He needed a shave, something that had come second nature to him before, something she enjoyed watching him do. A pang of sadness touched her as she considered the possibility that he would never be able to shave himself again.

An abrupt feeling of selfishness swept over her. She had wanted Matt Dillon to live – no matter what, regardless of his condition, but as she watched him lying there, helpless, she realized at what cost she might have her wish. A man like Matt, strong, controlled, independent, could not bear such a fate. She knew he would rather be dead than live as he was. She knew that.

But, God help her, she was not ready to let him go. Not yet.

His mouth was slightly open, the breath he had fought so hard for a few hours earlier finally coming easier now, almost like normal. Her own breath caught at how the expression made him look like a little boy. If he could have smiled, she knew the grin would be toothy and endearing. She loved his grin.

She wanted him to open his eyes and grin at her now. His eyes. The first time they met she had decided that she had never seen eyes so blue, and she hadn't changed her mind in the 13 years since. And when those eyes held hers, whether it was with the mask of casual courtesy in the midst of the Long Branch crowd or with the blatant flame of passion when they were alone, she lost herself in them.

His right hand lay on top of the covers, the fingers long and slender, but strong, capable. She thought of his hands, could still feel their touch on her body, sometimes gentle and tender, sometimes firm and insistent, but always exciting, always loving.

And she wondered. Would her breath ever catch again with the thrill of his grin? Would her heart ever pound again with the flame in his eyes? Would her body ever tremble again with the touch of his hands?

She wondered about these things – and more. Would breakfast yesterday morning become the last meal they would share? Would the kiss she had given him as he slept become their last kiss? Would the night before he left for Ellsworth become the last night they made love? There were too many "lasts" to think about.

Even one was too many.

TBC