Skip My Rounds Tonight
by
Lilyjack
Overblown Author's Note: This romantic fic is NOT realistic. It contains wagonloads of sweet lovin' and UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension to those uninitiated in ff jargon) so if you are put off your feed by either flights of fancy or smut biscuits drippin' with butter and honey, vamoose while you still got the chance, Gunsmokers. Don't say I didn't warn ya'. I'm partial to my Matt and Kitty sweet n' hot.
On the Golden Rule: I believe there's room on the wide prairie for every fic writer's own interpretation of our favorite couple. Please just take a moment to gift writers you enjoy with a vote of confidence when you do happen to approve of their hard work. It requires major courage to put yourself out there. Trust me, I know. If amateur authors were publishing their fics and hearing nothing but crickets in return, then the publishing would soon stop. No money *and* no feedback? What's the point in hitting "post?"
And if you have constructive suggestions for becoming a more successful writer, please send the author a kind, helpful PM. That's a Private Message—you've gotta be registered here to send those PM's so please join us if you haven't already. Seriously, no one enjoys being corrected in the public eye—it is humiliating. Just remember the Golden Rule and nobody'll get hurt. "Do unto others…" are words everyone should live by. These United States would be a whole lot better place to live nowadays if everyone did. Just sayin'.
I realize I am preachin' to the choir for 99.9% of Gunsmokers, and you all are predominantly a gracious, thoughtful bunch of people. I've been blessed with the acceptance of this community and for that I am endlessly grateful. I've spent hours of personal pleasure crafting these stories and earn no rewards save your enjoyment. When I get a thumbs up review from a reader, be it extravagantly written or just a few simple, sincere words, it is the absolute cherry on the cake of my day, the speckledy gravy on my crunchy-bottomed biscuit. And I am purdy dadgum sure it is likewise for any fanfic writer putting their heart and soul smack dab on the screen for your personal enjoyment, as nerve-wracking as that is for them to do.
Lastly thank goodness, this little fic is dedicated to my girlz. It is chock full of references from our chats and was written in ten-minute fits and starts, back and forth in its timeline as I was inspired by our hilarious and somewhat ribald discussions of our favorite tv show. I've never written a story in such a crazy quilt fashion before so I hope it makes a lick of sense. Also, I am writing this fic WITHOUT A NET. Yikes. Yes, Gunsmoke fans, NO BETA because I wanted it to be a little surprise for those who usually beta for me. So, here we go, girlz – anotherredhead, BigMommaT, broncomap, DodgeCityAngel, gsobsess, gunshy1, gunsmokecats, ladybrit, moonstone maiden, Picajc15425, rosebudlady, smokey (BF), TennBlueBelle, tjp, and in memoriam to two beloved girlz we lost in one devastating week this summer-we miss you so much it's like a sucker punch in the midsection to realize you're gone forever, dear Reese and Lady of Dodge. This romantic piece of fluff is for you all, an amalgamation of hours of uproarious speculation and nonsense with my GS besties. I've outed you all that you hang out with a reprobate rabblerouser like me. Please don't be too awful mad at me and I hope this little story entertains you and reminds you of some of our best chats.
Let me apologize, dear readers, for the extreme ranginess of this "author's note," but you should know from experience that I carry on for a bit when I've got the podium. You've read my fics before, right? Ramblers, one and all… Now without further ado, let's get on with this here horse opera…
Chapter 1
or
"Hard, Lonely Prairie vs. Kitty Russell's Warm Bed? You Decide."
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Matt Dillon lay on the unforgiving prairie earth, a thin bedroll precious little protection for stiff limbs that'd taken too damn many bullet hits throughout the years in the name of duty. As he tossed and turned, he could hear Festus softly snoring a short distance away on the opposite side of their tiny crackling campfire, murmuring in his sleep. From the sound of things, his deputy was arguing with Doc in his dreams, and from the occasional small chortle he emitted, the grizzled hillman must be winning, hands down. The restless marshal sighed enviously. He firmly believed Festus could sleep on a rickety picket fence in a thunderstorm.
The aging lawman gazed up at the bewitching moon waxing very near its climax, wispy black clouds scudding across the etched pearly surface. It hung, silently eloquent in the night sky, accompanied by a mute chorus of countless glimmering stars, a sight he'd never wearied of in all his years of travel on the western plains. Listening to the sad serenade of a lone coyote, he dragged his big, calloused palm tiredly across a perspiring forehead that was tanned and furrowed with lines from hours spent in the unforgiving Kansas climate. He grumbled to himself – how could it be so late and still hot as blue blazes out here?
Staring up at the night sky, chewing idly on a thumbnail with one elbow propping up his head, Matt lay wondering what Kitty Russell was doing right at that particular moment, as was his customary habit when he was traveling the lonely grasslands. He was missing her something fierce tonight. He and Festus had been gone two solid weeks, and Matt was hankering for her gentle touch, the whispered words of comfort she always offered after a particularly difficult job.
He and Festus had spent an arduous journey tracking down two murdering bank robbers who'd left a bloody trail of innocent victims along their getaway route. In the end, the tenacious U.S. Marshal and his deputy had caught up with them both, but Matt Dillon deeply regretted the loss of life, including the criminals themselves who'd fought the lawmen to their deaths. Such a senseless waste of human life from beginning to bitter end.
They had strapped the two dead outlaws to their horses and hauled them to the Hays City sheriff for official identification. The suspects had been wanted there as well in connection with yet another robbery and murder. After positive identification from Hays witnesses, the deceased were photographed for posterity, a custom which had always made Matt wince, and sent to the undertaker. Matt just hoped the bodies weren't placed on public display before they were buried, a practice he personally found distasteful and had never tolerated in Dodge City.
Now that Matt was heading home empty-handed and with a hollow heart, he felt an overwhelming need to replenish his reserves in the company of the love of nearly twenty years of his own life, the spirited, titian-haired owner of the Long Branch Saloon. She would be waiting patiently for him, or pretending to wait patiently as she could never be certain he'd make it back in one piece from these official trips, or if he'd come home wrapped in a gunny sack, tied across his own saddle, himself a body to be planted six feet under.
He knew how hard his job was on Kitty Russell, and it distressed him that he didn't know how to make it any easier on her. He also admitted he worried his fool head off about her when he had to leave her for very long. Cruel experience had proven on many occasions that awful things could happen when he wasn't there to protect her. Those were the facts. It was the bitter price they both paid for loving each other.
Matt pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped at his perspiring face and neck. It had been hotter than hell all day, riding poor Buck beneath the unrelenting sun heading for Dodge. But he and Festus were exhausted and eager to get home, no matter how scorching the heat. Matt reached for his canteen, popped out the cork and took a deep drink of lukewarm water. Regardless of its temperature, it felt mighty soothing on his parched throat.
Jamming the cork back onto his canteen, Matt settled back onto his bedroll with a sigh and closed his eyes, returning his thoughts to Kitty to take his mind off his current troubles. He imagined her when she was just a young girl working for Bill Pence. She had worn risqué dresses with short skirts that showed off her bare legs and décolleté necklines that plunged a mite lower than your average rancher's daughter's dress. He hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her, she was such a pretty thing with those daring expanses of creamy skin, soft and round in all the right places. She had a smile that knew how to welcome a man and eyes that encouraged him to look into their depths, not glance away shyly as he'd sometimes done with the girls when he was younger. He'd hoped nobody noticed him staring – he didn't think they did anyway. He even worked up the courage to actually tell her she was pretty once in a while. He thought she knew how he felt; he'd never been one for fancy words and it was hard to express himself eloquently. But Kitty always seemed to understand what was in his head and in his heart, even when the words he spoke were plain and simple.
One sweltering night it had been as scorching as any in memory in Dodge City. It was smack dab in the middle of a week-long heat wave that had wilted the starch of even the stubbornest troublemaker in town. Pretty much everyone was too listless or just downright exhausted with the overbearing temperatures to venture out into the myriad saloons, poolhalls, dancehalls, and other night spots to stir up much in the way of trouble.
Matt effortlessly strode down the abandoned boardwalk and right up to the battered batwing doors of the Long Branch, pausing to search inside for one special girl. His hand unconsciously scrubbed over his stubbled face, and he hoped he wasn't covered in too much trail dust this evening. With the way he was sweating, it would look more like mud. Usually he tried to get cleaned up before coming to see Kitty, but he'd been gone for several days and was anxious to see her, if only to just say hello and come back again later after a proper bath and a shave. He knew she wouldn't mind – had even teased him that she liked him looking kinda scruffy sometimes, whatever that meant.
His stomach fluttered inside at the sight of her sitting alone at a table with her back to him, playing Solitaire, a habit she had picked up very recently to occupy herself when she was bored. The place was nearly deserted; Red the bartender was there, having a quiet conversation with a lone customer wearing a yellow and black plaid jacket with striped pants and smoking a fat cigar at the end of the bar, clouds of gray puffing up from time to time like steam from a locomotive engine. One other patron was present in body only, a drunken young cowpoke at a small table close to the wall, his hand still clutching his empty glass. A nearly full bottle of Old Crow was open next to it, and he softly snored with his forehead and nose pressed against the tabletop. Apparently, the young man did not handle his liquor well, Matt thought. He realized he would probably have to provide the boy lodgings at the jail for the evening if he didn't wake soon and get along back home under his own steam.
Matt ambled on into the saloon silently, heading for Kitty's table. Her posture immediately changed although she hadn't turned around. She continued playing her hand with her eyes on the table and greeted him amiably, "Evenin', Matt."
He sidled next to her, looking down. She was wearing a softly shining satin dress with the flimsiest of straps to keep it on her bare shoulders, and it reminded him of the color of ripe peaches in July. Matt was staring at the small, sweet, intriguing amber freckles on those bare shoulders, following them along her collar bone and on down, wondering exactly how much farther down they…
She interrupted his train of thought, "What brings you here this fine scorcher of an evenin'?"
He started and was glad she still had her eyes on her game instead of looking at him. Instead of looking at him looking at her. "How did you know it was me…just then? Walking up behind you? I coulda' been anybody."
"I heard you walk in."
"You know what my footsteps sound like, do ya'?" His voice held a tinge of surprise and more than a bit of approval.
"There aren't too many six foot seven cowboys that come in here, Marshal. You've got a distinctive gait, I guess you could say." She tilted her face up and gave him a radiant, if somewhat wilted, smile. "Sit down." Laying her cards on the scarred table, she attempted to blow a sticky curl off her damp forehead, snapping open a beaded brown silk fan to cool herself.
Matt folded his tall body into a chair close to her, returning her smile. But then he leaned even nearer, advising soberly, "Next time, Kitty, you might consider sitting facing the door to keep your eye on who comes in here. I wouldn't want you surprised by someone whose footsteps you don't know."
"Alright, Matt." She gave a surprised nod, meeting his suddenly earnest gaze, but murmured her easy agreement, "I will."
The pensive moment passed just as suddenly as it began, and he good-humoredly asked, "Why are you still here? Looks like all the other girls have vamoosed for the night. This place is dead." Leaning back in his chair, Matt removed his sweat-stained hat, placed it on the table, and dragged a blue chamois sleeve over his perspiring face.
"I've been closing for Bill the past few nights. He was hot and tired and decided to head on home and leave everything to me. Think I might even tell Red to take off, too. No sense in both of us hangin' around here with the place nearly empty like this."
Matt's dark eyebrows nearly touched his curly hairline. "Bill Pence sets quite a store by you, Kitty, doesn't he? First letting you take over his books and now leaving you to close up for the night?"
"Why?" Her expression turned slightly defensive, maybe a little hurt. "Don't you think I deserve his trust?"
"Course you do!" Matt rushed to clarify. "I only wanted to say that I…well, I'm proud of you is all."
The look on her face instantly softened. "You are?"
"Sure I am. I'm awful proud of you, Kitty. You think he would ever trust ol' "Mean Green" Olive with his accounts?"
Kitty laughed. "No, and she and I've nearly had it out over me being in charge the last couple of nights. She hasn't liked it one bit."
"Ahhh, she'll get over it. You'll straighten her out, Kitty."
"You think so?"
"I know so." His eyes twinkled slyly. "Besides, I've seen you fight. You'd beat that rabble-rouser Olive, hands down."
Kitty gave an unladylike snort. "You seem awful sure of yourself."
"Yep."
She just smiled at him wordlessly, tiny wayward curls sprung by the humidity from her normally neat coiffure bouncing as she fanned herself. Finally, she simply stated, "I'm glad you're back, Matt."
He had to shake himself from admiring how his companion's dewy skin and soft, loose red curls set off her startlingly blue eyes. Instead he retained the good sense to remark, "You, uh, you think something could come of all this?"
"Too early to tell." She leaned her chin in her palm, elbow on the table. "But…a girl can have hopes, can't she?" She absently tucked a wayward lock behind her ear.
"Hopes?" He was intrigued and sat forward in his chair, steepling his fingers. "What kinda hopes, Kitty?" Watching her smooth her hair back, Matt suddenly wished he could just reach over and lift that pearl comb out of her hair, the one that seemed to be holding it up, so that it would all tumble down around her shoulders, blazing fire in the lamplight. He had seen it down a few times when he had caught her en déshabillé; the sight was enough to drive him to distraction. He had tried to act perfectly normal, but in reality, he was consumed with wanting to touch it, run his fingers through it, inhale its fragrance… Kitty's voice jerked him back to the present. He focused on what she was saying instead of schoolboy daydreams; she was sharing her hopes with him.
"Oh, well maybe I don't always see myself workin' for somebody else. Maybe I might wanna be the boss someday." She ceased when she noticed the look on his face, equal parts admiration with an epiphanic moment thrown in for good measure. She laid her hand on his arm and gave a gentle squeeze, "Oh, I'll tell you about it sometime, but right now let's have a drink. I've been sittin' too long. Come on up to the bar with me."
Pushing aside his disappointment that Kitty wasn't quite ready to talk to him about her plans for the future, Matt pulled her chair out, grabbed his hat and, as usual, placed a hand in the small of her back as they walked companionably the short distance to the bar. Right away, Matt realized something was amiss. Kitty felt different. Something really was missing—those multitudinous layers of "ladies' armor" of various and sundry thicknesses that usually stood as a barrier between Matt's hand and Kitty's feminine charms. His eyes widened—he detected no bustle, no petticoats, no corset, as far as he could tell. My oh my, she felt so soft with nothing between his hand and Kitty's warm skin but a thin layer of satin. It sent his imagination soaring.
tbc
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