Imperfection

A Gunsmoke Story

by MAHC (Amanda)

"Imperfection is the greatness of man."

Ernst Fischer

1899-1972

Chapter Three: Law

POV: Lucero

Spoilers: "Hidalgo"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters. Shoot.

"He was not ready. He should not have gone."

"And how were you to keep him here?"

Sleeves pushed up above her elbows, arms deep in the basin of water, hands clenched around the blood-stained sheets, Lucero stopped scrubbing and looked up at her grandfather. He was right, of course. She could not have kept the gringo lawman there, not even if she had tried to use the talents that had made her Mando's woman. He had other responsibilities, other – interests.

With a sigh, she shoved the sheets back down into the dark liquid and continued washing. "He was not ready," she repeated needlessly. They all knew it.

"He will be all right," Lucho said confidently. "He is a strong man, a great man."

She smiled fondly at her brother's blatant hero worship, and didn't blame him a bit. She, too, had seen the big man's strength, his greatness – and even more important, his goodness. None of them could even have imagined anyone could free them from Mando's cruel control before Matt Dillon came into their lives. But now they lived as their own people, ruled their own lives.

The young boy's face fell slightly as he fingered the shining badge on his chest. "I wish he could have stayed, though. We needed him here."

Agustin ruffled his grandson's hair. "Such a great man is needed many places, Lucho. Do you not think there are those who want him back where he came from?"

"I know. But I will miss him, Grandfather."

"I, too," the old man admitted.

Their words brought heaviness to Lucero's heart. They would not be the only ones to miss the big man. She wondered if he would remember her in years to come, wondered if she could claim – if only in her own mind – some part in his future triumphs. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she wrung out the rough fabric, satisfied to see that the stains from his blood had not been completed removed. It was strange, she knew, but it gave her some piece of him still.

Of course, she knew he truly belonged somewhere else – to someone else.

Kitty.

She had never heard of such a name before, not for a human, and wondered if it had some significance or if it were simply a name. Whatever the origin, it was certainly a name that meant a great deal to him. He had groaned it over and over in his delirium as she wiped the fevered sweat from his face and chest. He had whispered it in his sleep even after the fever fell and he rested more calmly. And he had said it quite clearly yesterday evening as he packed his saddlebag in preparation for his morning departure. She wasn't sure who he was talking to – his horse was the only creature near him to listen – but she had heard the name often enough to recognize it.

Kitty.

What kind of woman could command such feelings from such a man? And he was a man. Quite a man. She had suspected that early on, but after what she had witnessed in that town square, she knew for certain.

XXXX

Not quite able to believe her eyes, Lucero braced on the balcony overlooking the square where Mando's body lay crumpled and still in the dirt. He had killed him. The gringo lawman – weak, injured, clinging to his horse – had killed Mando. It was not possible.

Yet, there it was, right in front of them. She watched as one of Mando's men stumbled over to their dead leader. He rolled the body over, stared at it for a moment, then turned to look at the big man, who was by that time hanging on with both hands to the saddle horn, his legs bent, his head against the leather. A chill ran through her as she realized what was about to happen. The bandito growled and dropped his hand to the holster. Lucero did not hesitate.

"Law!" she called.

As Dillon's head came up, his right hand swung down, and his gun was firing as it cleared the belt. Mando's man froze, his pistol not even completely out of its sheath. He teetered for a few seconds as the town watched, then crashed back onto the ground only inches away from his equally dead leader.

The remaining men of Mando's broken regime did not need further incentive to disperse, most of them rather quickly, as the townspeople gathered around the two bodies, felled by two shots that had simultaneously broken the chains of control.

But Lucero wasn't watching them anymore. She had moved her gaze to the lawman and gasped as he lost his grip both on the horse and on consciousness and collapsed onto the ground. Scrambling downstairs as quickly as she could, she raced across the square, praying that he still breathed, that he had not sacrificed himself for them.

Taking his head in her lap, she felt for a pulse, leaned in to hear his heartbeat, swallowing in relief when both were there still. With shaking fingers, she opened his shirt to assess the damage to the injuries Agustin had tried to mend, frowning when she saw that the bandages were soaked in fresh blood.

"Portadillo!" she called to the old blacksmith who stood watching. "I need your wagon."

At first she thought he would refuse. She had been, after all, Mando's woman, had a connection with the cruelties he had wrought through the years. But the old man simply nodded and disappeared into his building, reappearing a few minutes later with his two sons, who pulled out a sturdy cart and somehow managed to haul the big marshal into it.

By the time they reached Agustin's house, she had exhausted every prayer she had ever learned as a child. They must have worked, though, because he still breathed, despite the disturbing amount of blood that pooled beneath him.

But he was with friends, now, in caring hands, and she could do nothing else except believe he would survive.

XXXX

The fever lasted three days and threw him in and out of some level of consciousness the entire time. They took turns sitting up with him, afraid to leave him in case he needed more laudanum for the pain or quinine and alcohol for the infection. Even little Lucho cared for him, perhaps with even more dedication than the rest of them.

Lucero learned his face well during those long hours, studied the strong, handsome angles, tried to see into his soul and discover what kind of man would risk his life for people he barely knew. She also wondered what kind of life he had back where he came from.

It could not have been easy, she realized, as she tried to relieve his fever by bathing him with cool rags. The two scars he had gained from Mando's men were merely the latest additions to a body well accustomed to such marks. She had never seen so many wounds before and wondered how he had survived them all: his chest, his shoulders, his side and back, even his legs. But the harsh imperfections could not disguise the fitness and strength of his form, and she found herself blushing – she, Mando's woman – as she ministered to him.

On the evening of the second day, as she dozed fitfully in a chair by his bed, she heard his moans and immediately shook off the light sleep, bending over him. The words were hard to distinguish, but he seemed to be fighting someone, struggling for something. She tried to rouse him with a gentle hand, but he only struggled harder, his arms reaching for something or someone.

"No!" The cry echoed through the room, drawing Agustin and Lucho from their beds.

"What is it?" the old man asked, guiding the boy away.

"He is dreaming."

"Stop! Don't hurt her!" He thrashed now, unaware that he was only tearing open the wounds again. "Kitty!"

Lucero put one hand against his cheek, rested the other on his chest. "Shh. I am here, Law. Stop moving."

But he groaned, calling out again. "Kitty!"

Agustin looked at her. "Tell him you are her."

"What?"

"This Kitty. Tell him you are her. Maybe it will calm him down."

"Law," she soothed.

"She would not call him that," the old man observed. "If she is who I think she must be, she would most likely call him by his name."

Lucero grunted as she tried vainly to keep him from hurting himself further. Firming her grip on his rough jaw, she said, "Matt."

He groaned again, but his arms stilled.

"Matt," she repeated, then tried more. "It's – Kitty." She didn't figure she sounded much like this Kitty, but maybe he wouldn't notice in his delirious state.

"Kitty," he whispered, reaching up.

Catching his hand, she placed it back on his chest, but allowed her fingers to entwine with his. "Yes," she told him. "I am here. Go back to sleep."

"Kitty." His body relaxed, his breathing grew even again.

Gently removing her hand from his, she went about fixing the bandages, wondering who this Kitty was and what hold she had on the big lawman. Whatever it was, it was strong.

XXXX

Lucero threw out the dirty water from the basin and turned it up to catch any rare rain that might fall, knowing it was foolish, but figuring it would do no harm, regardless. Agustin stepped out into the heat from the cooler house. She was still getting used to the kindness that had replaced the accusations on his lined features. It was good to be home, good to be accepted again.

"You really think he will be all right?" she asked him, knowing that Lucho was off tending to the goats and not around to hear the real answer.

"I can only hope," the old man answered. "It is a long journey he will make."

"He is weak, still. Not as much as before, but some still."

"Yes. But he had to go."

She knew that. It didn't make things easier. "I wish he had someone with him, in case – "

"And who would go, Lucero?" Agustin questioned softly. "You?"

She flushed, knowing he saw through her. "I could have – helped him," she argued, but it sounded weak even to her ears.

"And what of his – Kitty? Did you not hear how he spoke her name?"

Of course she had heard, had asked him about her when he was able to talk again. Kitty was his woman, not like she had been Mando's woman. Not at all like that. She had seen the tenderness in his eyes when he acknowledged his love for her, had heard the emotion in his voice – even in the throes of fever – when he said her name.

She wondered what it would be like to love a man like that and to be loved by him. But experience told her there were very few men like that in the world. She counted herself lucky to have met this one. She wished –

Even knowing she could never hold such a place with him, she still wished he had not gone out alone, not yet. "There are many dangers out there," she told Agustin, forcing her voice to sound casual. "I would feel better if he had a companion, that is all."

That was not all, of course, but it didn't matter now. "Until the next time," she had said to him in farewell as he took her hand that morning. But she did not really fool herself into thinking there would be a next time.

Her grandfather allowed her the ruse and simply shrugged. "Well, I am too old, and Lucho is too young to go with him. He will be fine. You have seen his strength."

She nodded. Agustin was right, he was strong. But even strong men needed help sometimes. Letting her gaze search the horizon, she hoped that he remained strong, that he made it back home, back to the other people who needed him.

And despite the conflicted emotions the wish brought, she also hoped he made it back to Kitty.

TBC