Dark Reflection
Chapter 29
"The Strangest Sea"
by Lilyjack
Author's Note: Don't forget to check your ff account for PMs if you've written me a review. (You no longer receive email notifications when you get those. Boo.) And to guest reviewers, I'll thank you a bushel and a peck right here. I appreciate ever' last one of the encouraging, thoughtful notes you all leave here. They make the past six years totally worth it.
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"Can I, uh…get you some water?"
Kitty eyed with marked suspicion the big man with a deep voice standing solicitously at her bedside. Today was the first day she'd managed to get most of her breakfast down and keep it down. In addition, today was the first day she even recalled being conscious for any measurable length of time. The previous week was so cloudy in her mind-just fragments of voices and glimpses of faces, all blanketed in a haze of sickness and sedation.
And throughout it all, she had a vague recollection of this same man either sprawling in the cot next to her or at times actually tending to her, whenever Chester or the doctor weren't around. He was an awful big man, one of the biggest she'd ever seen, with a mop of untended curly dark hair and several days' growth of beard. The top of his head very nearly brushed the rafters of this dim little room. It was full of wooden racks of dusty bottles, which at first, she'd mistakenly believed to be her own storeroom in the saloon cellar.
Was this tall, broad-shouldered fellow the one that ol' heifer Phoebe claimed had caused a big ruckus when he tried to break Kitty out of the Long Branch? No…couldn't be. Silas Blackthorne had told Kitty the man had died. Hadn't he? Another blanket of haze swathed those infuriating, terrifying memories of imprisonment upstairs in the Long Branch from the moment Blackthorne began drugging her. She remembered the time before the drugs all too well. That bastard Blackthorne…she'd kill that twisted son-of-a-bitch if she ever got the chance.
Kitty groggily stirred from her speculation, rubbing at her bleary eyes as she recalled that the big man had asked her a question…did she want some water? She croaked in a sleep-heavy voice, "Yeah, thanks." The constant sweating and all-too-often vomiting made her awful thirsty, but nausea made it difficult to keep even water down sometimes. Through considerable effort, she hauled herself up on one elbow.
Water splashed out of an enamel pitcher. The man's hand dwarfed the small glass as he proffered it. She noticed fading green and yellow bruises on his knuckles and contemplated Phoebe's story again. Accepting the glass somewhat hesitantly, she examined the contents and then scrutinized his face.
He offered, "It's safe."
"How do I know?" Her words were blunt. She had good reason to be cautious.
"Well, I…I reckon you don't. But we've taken good…care of you so far, haven't we?"
She seemed to consider his reply, then gingerly took a sip. It tasted clear and cool on her raw, parched throat. She drank deeply, downing the contents, and wiped her mouth with the back of a hand before extending the empty glass. She asked flatly, "Do I know you?"
He sounded hopeful. "Do you?"
"No, should I?" Kitty watched the man's face fall. Who the hell was he? "What's your name, cowboy?"
He seemed somewhat taken aback at her question and tripped over his response a little. "M..Matt Dillon."
"My name's Kitty, but I reckon you already know that. I mean, you've been here with me all along so I assume you know who I am."
"Well, uh…" He stuffed a hand in his pocket and replied a little uncertainly, "Nice t' meet you…Kitty."
Kitty couldn't really read the expression on his face. That damn eyepatch that reminded her so much of Blackthorne made it difficult.
Matt Dillon stiffly lowered himself into a wooden chair against the wall, his entire face now a mask. He asked, "How are you feelin' today? This is the most alert I've seen you so far."
"You really wanna know?" she chuffed.
"Sure, I wanna know."
"I feel like hell. But I guess hell is relative when you've been where I've been." She tucked tumbledown hair behind an ear and briefly wondered if she looked like hell as well.
"You got a point."
Kitty watched one corner of his mouth quirk up regretfully. She could tell he'd been walloped good there in his kisser, too, by something or somebody, but it seemed to be healing up nicely. "How do you feel, Matt Dillon?"
"How do I feel?"
"Yeah, you've got some old bruises and cuts, and you hold your side when you move around." Her eyebrows, maybe the one part of her body that didn't ache so much, rose ever so delicately. "What happened to you?"
His explanation was dodgy. "I got mixed up with the wrong people. Kinda like you, I guess."
She rolled her eyes and instantly regretted it when her vision blurred and she felt dizzy.
"Are you okay, Kitty?" His voice was warm and he sounded genuinely concerned. She wasn't used to having men make a fuss over her. No men except Chester, of course. She could thankfully always rely on him.
"No, I'm fine. Just got a little carried away," she said quietly, eyes closed against the nauseating spin of the room. "Maybe I just need t' go back to sleep, huh?"
"Yeah, I imagine Doc would want you to rest. Do me a favor, will ya', and don't tell him I was keepin' you awake. He'd be madder than an old wet hen."
She opened her eyes again just as he gave her the first hint of a smile. She hazarded an educated guess. "I suspect I have him to thank for saving my life."
"I suspect you do. Doc kept you alive that first night." He scratched his stubbly cheek. "You weren't doin' so well."
"I have vague memories of that night. I know he did everything he could to help me. I…I kind of remember you were there, too."
"Yeah, I was there."
She lay back on the pillow, feeling drained. "I hope I'm feeling right as rain soon, Matt Dillon. I'll admit, it's been a little rough."
"You can say that again."
She shot him a look. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced you too much. I don't like puttin' people out."
"No! I didn't mean it that way. I meant…"
"I know what you meant, cowboy."
This time they both exchanged a cautious smile.
He offered, "Doc did say this mornin' before he left that he thought you…could take smaller doses of your medication now since you're keeping your food down. I imagine…that means you're on the road to recovery."
Kitty noticed that Dillon was having a little trouble catching his breath. She glanced again at how he was holding his arm close to his side. He must've been worked over pretty good by somebody. She had a sudden flash of Matt Dillon's face, enraged, attacking someone…Linwood? Linwood Chaney? She shook her head to clear it and hurried to answer, "He did, did he? The doc thinks I'm gettin' better?"
"Yep."
"The less medicine the better, I always say. No drops of Dr. Delacroix's though." Her face hardened.
"Oh, no, not that," he hastily reassured her. "Not sure what it's called, but this here…" Matt reached over to the small table and held up a glass bottle of tiny pills. "…I hafta give you in…" He dug a watch from his pocket. "…six hours. And that powder there, he said to just…give you half the usual amount in a glass a' water today."
"You a nurse?" she quipped, but his reply was gentle and earnest.
"Only when I need to be." He smiled reassuringly. "I'm your nurse."
"Oh…" She didn't rightly know what to say to that. She hadn't encountered too many big, strong cowboys who talked like that. Well, none, really…
There was silence between them for a moment, and then Matt cleared his throat self-consciously. "Why, uh…why don't you get a little more rest now? You look tired, Kitty." He gave her a sincere smile. "And I don't want Doc…catchin' me keepin' his patient up. He'd have my hide."
"Okay, cowboy." She pulled her covers higher, contemplating him, gazing into that one clear blue eye.
"You can call me 'Matt'," he smiled. "But you can also call me 'cowboy' if you want." He winked and pulled the sheet between their cots to give her some privacy.
But she knew she'd have trouble falling asleep.
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Matt Dillon lay wide awake in his narrow little bed, staring at the ceiling. His emotions curiously warred within him. No, Kitty had not recognized him. His last hope in regards to her somehow being the only person in town who recognized him had just been shattered without a doubt. But…it had been so good, such a relief, to talk with her at long last. He felt downright elated. Kitty was nearly her "old self," it seemed – she was sharp, sassy, and no pushover just like he remembered her, in spite of how desperately ill she'd been. She was a fighter, and he was confident she'd pull through this experience all the stronger for it.
But then he remembered - she would survive, all right, but to spend her life with whom? His own friend Chester Goode? His elation rapidly turned to bitter disillusionment at the idea. Just as quickly he reminded himself - Kitty was alive, and she would be well again. And if being with Chester would make her happy, then so be it. Matt Dillon lay quietly, listening to the nighttime sounds of the house around him, attempting to convince himself that he could be satisfied with this state of affairs.
tbc
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