Words.
Everyone seems to want more words from me. Everyone but her.
Ever since I was a boy, I've been more of a doer than a talker. It's only gotten to be more so, the older I get. The less I say, the more other people seem to talk, and that can come in handy when the other person is guilty of something. My "Uh huhs" make them say more than intended, often proving their own guilt.
She is the only one who never needs wordy explanations. Yes, there was one time some years back when she had been so disappointed in my work coming before us that she had made some regretted and dangerous decisions concerning a volatile man named Ad. Even then we didn't need words to explain.
And before that, when she had hidden young Thad Ferrin from his vicious outlaw father, and then had to shoot and kill him, I had trusted her and waited for her to tell me the story.
"We've never needed explanations," was what I had said and still believe.
I have subjected her to many of my old ex-girlfriends over the years that somehow turn up in town. She has always come through for me and helped them. Maybe with a little grumbling at first, but her innate goodness and kindness would shine through. She cannot help wanting to help others.
The roughest time had been when I had lost my memory and succumbed to the charms of a woman so like mine that they could have been sisters. She knew something had happened as soon as I got back to Dodge and our eyes met, but even then, waited for me to explain. I knew that I had hurt her deeply, but she had taken in a deep breath and kissed me tenderly, knowing I had only shared my body and not my heart.
"Matt, our physical needs are just that, and yes, I wish it had not happened, but we…you and I together… are so much more than that."
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I wake up with the birds, lying on my blanket as the first bloom of dawn appears. I am alone. Lem has headed out for the Army post to turn himself in, and the sheriff at Hays City has the two surviving bank robbers who attacked us in custody. I am two-thirds of the way from Hays to Dodge now.
Dodge.
My home for about twenty years now. Home. Home is where the people you care about and who care about you live. Yes, Dodge is and will always be my home. I now know that my severely injured right arm WILL heal and the muscle instinct will reawaken. I'm a pretty good left-hand-draw, I have found, and that will get me by for the time needed. I am still a lawman. Still a U.S. Marshal. And still the caretaker of Dodge…my home. I will know when the time comes to retire, but that is not now. I have responsibilities.
As I enter the outskirts of my town, I see the usual early morning people stirring. I nod at Burt Stevens on his milk wagon, his old speckled horse Betsy clopping along, automatically knowing where to stop.
It has been forty-eight hours since I have spoken to another human being, and it has been a restful feeling. But now one word that has been forming in my mind over the last long miles floats from my brain down to my mouth, and dances on my tongue with a building eagerness.
When I dismount in front of my office, my right arm in the sling gives a painful twinge. I loop my faithful Buckskin's reins around the hitch rail, look into his liquid amber-brown eye and promise he will soon get a rubdown, oats, and a well-deserved rest. But something else must be done first, and I stride across the dusty empty street towards the Long Branch.
As usual, I stop at the batwing doors, and look in over the tops, searching for those sky-blue, welcoming eyes. Somehow I know she is near.
She is alone, sitting at our table, staring down at the ledgers. I cannot fully see her face, but the slump of her shoulders conveys a sadness that fills me with a mix of pain and joy. I stare at her perfect profile, and she suddenly straightens her head and neck and turns towards me. The sadness falls from her face like a veil. The bluest eyes I have ever known fill with the look that is only given to me, and a gentle smile glows on her face.
The word I have been savoring on my tongue like a precious pearl leaves my mouth in a low, warm tone:
"Kitty."
End.