She had heard it said in so many ways and with so many different inflections and reasons over the years.
Curiously, rudely, accusingly, questioningly, enviously, matter of factly, and even threateningly.
From the age of seventeen, Kitty Russell had mastered keeping an expressionless face in response to all of the things said to her and about her.
Her usual response to "Are you the Marshal's woman?" was "That's none of your business," said in a flat voice and accompanied by a dangerous look in her narrowed blue eyes.
Tonight she sat at her dressing table, facing a mirror, and giving her lustrous, thick red hair the first fifty of the usual nightly one hundred brush strokes, automatically counting out loud. Her thoughs went back over the years since she had arrived in Dodge, appalled by the muddy, ugly town, and eager to be on her way again.
Fortunately, the schedule for the next stage west gave her time for breakfast. Sitting in the crowded diner, desultorily picking at her food, she had looked up and into the pale blue eyes of a handsome young man across the room.
A moment that had changed both of their lives.
She was still looking into those eyes as often as possible and feeling the same instant, and now deep, connection.
He belonged to her as much as he could ever belong to anyone. They shared their thoughts, bodies, deep friendship and love, honestly and without obligations or paperwork.
Yes, she used to dream of a wedding ring, babies, a home, and a husband who was there with her every day. One who she didn't have to worry about every time he was not in sight, her heart beating "still-living?," "still-living?," "still-living?," awaiting his safe return.
Now she could ruefully smile at the thought of their younger selves both giving up who they truly were in an effort to force a life they never could have sustained.
Matt without his badge and duty would not be Matt.
Kitty without her strong sense of independence and the ability to make her own way in the world would not be Kitty.
Maybe someday when they both were too old to safely, for him, and gracefully, for her, continue in their current occupations, a calm home life might beckon.
Deep in her musings, Kitty did not hear the door unlock and the booted feet enter her room.
She smelled him before hearing or seeing him. That wonderful aroma that was only his. An aroma that always stirred her. A rich mixture of leather, horse, prairie, sweat, and man.
She smiled at him in the mirror, their blue eyes meeting.
He walked over and put his big hands on her shoulders. Then bending down, he softly nuzzled her neck, lightly kissing the sweet spot where her graceful neck met her soft shoulder, his right hand now gently cupping her right breast.
She put her slender hand up against his stubbly cheek, and he kissed her palm.
They did not speak.
They had never needed words.
Now the big man picked up the brush and began to brush her glossy red hair, counting aloud the strokes still needed.
"Fifty-one." (I love you.)
"Fifty-two." (I love you.)
"Fifty-three." (I love you.)
Closing her eyes in bliss, Kitty understood why a petted cat purred.
Yes, she WAS "The Marshal's Woman."
Since their eyes first met so long ago in the diner.
Over the following years.
Now.
Forever more.
End.