Here is the long-ago promised epilogue. I had a heck of a time settling on what I would do, but decided that I'd keep it in Sam's POV, and it turned out to be longer than the story itself, so maybe it's just part two instead of an epilogue. It's still not too deep, but hopefully enjoyable.

If a Tree Falls Before Bedtime

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda

Epilogue: Can You Still Make It Into a Chiffonier?

POV: Sam

Spoilers: "A Quiet Day in Dodge"

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation.

As he surveyed the empty saloon, it occurred to Sam that the Long Branch was a bit like a woman: wild and passionate one moment, calm and demure the next. In the quiet of the morning, he almost had trouble picturing the rowdy crowd that would transform the room only a few hours later. Although he liked the early hours, they weren't what had interested him in the business of tending bar. He supposed it was people – the chance to meet all representations of his fellow man, good and bad, loud and quiet, happy and sad, responsible and irresponsible. Sam was an observer. He observed them all.

The clink of a glass made him grimace, and he shot a look toward the stairs, hoping he hadn't been too loud. More than once that morning, he had found his gaze wandering up the stairs. He'd heard no sounds from Kitty's quarters since he arrived and smiled at the thought of the two getting their deserved rest – or not.

A noise drew his attention back past the outside doors. The town was waking. The clopping of horses, the jingling of wagons, the muffled voices of merchants and customers vied for dominance in the streets. Boots thumped down the boardwalk outside the doors, heavy and light, even and uneven. The sounds of another day in Dodge City.

Through those familiar noises, though, one in particular caught the bartender's notice and pulled a quick frown to his face. It had encroached on his thoughts, faint at first, then growing louder as it drew nearer to him. With a keen stab of disappointment, he realized he heard the unmistakable footsteps of Matt Dillon on the wooden planks. It was his usual stride, long but unhurried, the sound of a dutiful marshal making his morning rounds.

Sam's gaze flashed back up the stairs, then swung back to the outside doors. He was not a man usually prone to profanity, but the implication of the marshal being out and about already brought a curse to his lips. "Damn," he muttered.

He must have left early, which meant no deserved rest and probably nothing else that would resolve the tension between the two people he cared most about in Dodge. With a touch of guilt, he found himself irritated at Matt Dillon, despite his own defense of the exhausted lawman the night before. If he had been in the marshal's place –

He stopped himself, embarrassed at the vision that popped into his mind. Besides, it wasn't any of his business. And maybe he was wrong. Maybe the footsteps didn't belong to –

But at that moment, the familiar tall, broad frame passed by the Long Branch doors without even a hesitation and continued on down the street. Shaking his head, the bartender wiped at the counter and began the task of bracing himself for Kitty's mood when she came downstairs. It would be a long day, he figured.

XXXX

It was nearly an hour later when she emerged. He watched her descend the stairs, wincing in anticipation of her attitude. Not that she would take it out on him. She was always kind and tactful. Sometimes, though, if her temper was riled, she didn't bother too much with diplomacy.

"Good morning, Sam," she greeted casually, carefully, her face composed and unreadable.

"Good morning, Miss Kitty," he returned, unable to keep his eyes from cutting up toward the balcony. Bravely – or maybe foolishly – he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

But if he had expected any revelation from her response, he was disappointed. "Fine," she answered vaguely, and after a polite, unrevealing smile, stepped toward the office. "I'm going to work on the books for a while, Sam. I'd rather not be disturbed."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, heart heavy for her. "Uh, Bill Caldwell came by this morning and brought you that last order from Kansas City," he said, both for information and to give her something innocuous and commonplace to divert her attention.

She stopped and looked back, expression mild, business-like. "Could you check it against the inventory? Last time he forgot the brandy."

"Yes, ma'am," he assured her before she nodded and closed the door behind her.

So that's how it was. He reminded himself again that it wasn't his business, but he couldn't help but wonder a bit at the marshal's sanity.

Of course, he couldn't do anything about that. Still, even if he couldn't magically make her dreams turn out the way she wanted them to, he could do his job and keep her from worrying about work. So he headed down into the cellar to count cases from the drummer's latest delivery. Bill Caldwell had been a good supplier for the past three years, but recently he had acquired several new – and rather large – accounts, and they had noticed a slight reduction in the quality of service. Kitty was right to second guess the count.

Picking up the ledger and a pencil, he began with the first case, marking off the order as he accounted for them. He couldn't help but hear Kitty's soft footsteps echo on the flooring above him and just to the left. She moved across the office, stopped for a moment, then moved again. It gave him comfort to be able to know where she was without crowding her over-protectively. Since Bonner, he'd had to fight the impulse not to hover over her.

He had just reached for a case of whiskey when he heard a second set of footsteps join Kitty's. He froze for a moment, poised to pound up the stairs to help in case she needed it, but only the low sound of muffled voices followed. The visitor was male, his deeper register easy to distinguish from hers, but they weren't talking loudly enough for him to make out an identity. Still, he didn't really worry. Kitty was a busy businesswoman.

When he didn't hear anything else from above, he returned to his inventory. Finally, satisfied that Caldwell had not shorted them, he began climbing the cellar steps to finish preparing the saloon for business.

The unexpected crash from above jerked his head up in alarm. "No!" he vowed through gritted teeth. It was not going to happen again. Not again. He would not allow it.

Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the top in time to hear an agonized cry from behind the door: Kitty's cry. Kitty's door. It took only another five seconds to wrench the shotgun from its perch behind the bar. He heard a rough scrape on the floor, wood on wood, as if someone had moved a chair or a desk. Sam hadn't attempted to break down a door in years, but the motion came automatically. Bracing his left leg, he lifted his right one, prepared to kick down the barrier, prepared to protect her whatever the cost, prepared to –

Another cry cracked through the door, but this time he could hear the thick emotion behind it; emotion thick not with distress – he realized suddenly – but with desire.

"Oh, Matt – "

In mid-kick, he froze, eyes wide; then, off balance, fell back against the hallway wall.

Matt? Matt.

He heaved a breath, impossibly grateful that she had chosen that moment to – well, that she had chosen that moment. If he had managed to break open the door, if he had burst in on them –

His heart pounded, his mouth went dry. Forget the embarrassment he would have caused; much more sobering was the realization that, had he followed through, he would most certainly have ended up sprawled on the floor, plugged dead-center with Matt Dillon's bullet before the door had shuddered completely open. The awareness drove the strength right out of his legs, and he slid down the wall, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain control over the shocked muscles.

In the moment of quiet, he became aware of the result of his not breaking in on them: uninterrupted, the occupants continued their activities, blissfully unaware of the near disaster. Deep groans mingled with soft cries. Sam closed his eyes and tried to remove himself from the moment, but only succeeded in creating a very vivid picture of what was most certainly happening in that office. When his legs recovered enough to support his weight again, Sam stumbled back to the bar, replacing the gun and moving as close to the outside entrance as he could.

Humming to distract himself from the occasional moan that made it through the wood, he had just finished checking the beer supply when another sound brought his attention back to the doors. Matt Dillon's walk wasn't the only distinctive one in Dodge. The familiar clanging of spurs was enough to alert anyone to the imminent arrival of Festus Haggen. Sam looked up as the trail-weary deputy pushed into the saloon.

"Morning, Festus," he greeted rather loudly, forcing himself not to look toward the office door. "You just get back?"

"Yep," Festus answered, as he jingled up to the bar. "I'm a tellin' ya it's a fur piece longer ta Hayes than ya think. Newly n' me jest now rode in and I'm a lookin' fer Matthew. Hev you eyeballed him ennytime today?"

Matthew? Matthew who?

He concentrated on wiping an area of the bar that was already spotless. "He walked by here a little while ago, Festus. Morning rounds, looked like." He told himself that was the truth, and that he shouldn't feel guilty for only providing part of it.

"Wael, I hope he got hisself some sleep," the deputy said, cocking his head. "I knowed he wuz pure tuckered out yesterdee when Newly an' me took at' thar prisoner to Hayes fer him. I figgered I'd find him flat out on his bunk in th' jailhouse."

"You didn't," Sam guessed easily.

"Don't look like his bunk wuz mussed a bit." The other man shook his head and pushed his tattered hat back, exposing a ragged thatch of dark hair. "Miz Kitty around?"

Kitty? Kitty who?

"Uh, well, she's, uh, she's in the office," Sam supplied, then hastily added, "working."

"I orda say good mornin' to her – " he decided, stepping down the bar.

"No!"

Festus turned, frowning. "What's wrong with ya, Sam? I jest wanna say hello."

He scratched for a coherent answer. "She's – she made me promise not to disturb her. She's, uh, she's behind on the books." The deputy should have recognized that as a flat-out lie. Kitty Russell was never behind on the books.

Fortunately, Festus seemed oblivious to his panic and just scratched absently at his beard. "Oh, well, mebbe I'll jest go on down ta the jailhouse an' catch a hour or two of sleep."

"Why don't you do that?" Sam agreed, trying to not sound too eager for him to be on his way.

"Hate ta do it, though, 'till I find Matthew – "

He was headed toward the doors, but another scuff from Kitty's office stopped him. Sam flinched, eyes widening at the sound, all too similar to the scrape he had heard as he prepared to break down the door. Only this time, it continued in a consistent, rather rhythmic pattern. With a soft gasp, he realized it was the office desk.

Festus squinted toward the door. "What in tarnation is that?"

"What is what?" Sam asked, then winced at the feeble attempt.

"That thar scrapin' noise."

The desk jerked again, a hard, quick sound, followed by a grunt. Sam scrambled for an explanation. "Uh – I think Miss Kitty's moving some furniture around."

The deputy nodded. "Mebbe we orta hep her," he pondered. "Sounds like she's havin' a hard time."

The bartender pursed his lips. That was most likely exactly what was happening. "You look right thirsty, Festus," he said quickly. "Been riding all night. You could use a drink, I'll bet."

The deputy hesitated. "Well – "

"Miss Kitty won't do anything foolish." Then again, maybe she already had. "We'll both help her in a minute."

"I am a bit parched – " the deputy agreed.

For once grateful that Festus wanted to mooch a drink, Sam heartily concurred. "Sure you are. Let me get you a beer."

"Well, now I'm much obliged, Sam."

"It is much too early in the day to imbibe!"

They both turned, faces shocked at the sight of Edsel Pry peering sourly at them from just over the top of the swinging doors. The pious old woman, who had given the marshal such misery the day before, had never darkened the door of the Long Branch, as far as Sam knew, and he couldn't imagine what would prompt her to do so now.

"Ma'am," he greeted politely, exchanging bemused glances with Festus. "How are you this morning?" he asked pleasantly, ignoring her warning of temperance.

"Considering I was accosted and almost suffocated just twenty-four hours ago – " she began as she stepped gingerly inside.

The desk grated another a few inches across the floor in the office. Sam plunked down a whiskey glass to cover the noise. "Yes, ma'am."

"I am attempting to ascertain the whereabouts of Marshal Dillon," she announced primly.

Festus' brow rose.

"He walked by here a while ago," Sam told her quickly. "I haven't seen him since." Heard him maybe, but not seen.

"I wanted to inform him that I am about to send that telegram to my good friend the Attorney General and would like to afford him an opportunity to make amends before that occurred."

"He'll be plum tickled ta hear that." Sarcasm sharpened Festus' tone.

"Mister Haggen, I do not believe that I was addressing you – "

With a muted crash, something fell in the office.

"What was that?" Ms. Pry asked, eyes narrowing.

Sam opened his mouth to give her the same line he gave Festus, but the deputy beat him to it. "Oh, Miz Kitty's movin' some furniture," he explained easily, drawing a long sip on his beer.

"By herself?"

"Well, yeah." Then he seemed to become aware of her glare and added, "But I'm a gonna hep her terrekly. Jest as soon as I git my muscles liquefied back up."

There were several scrapes in a row, followed by another cry from Kitty. Festus thunked down his drink and headed toward the office.

"Festus!" Sam called.

"Didn't ya hear that, Sam? Miz Kitty's havin' trouble. She might need our hep."

"I don't think she needs our help, Festus," Sam assured him.

"How d'ya know? That thar furniture coulda fell on her an' busted – "

"I think everything's fine. Maybe we could just knock – "

Aghast, Festus scolded, "Sam, where's yer chiverry? Ifn a lady's in need ah hep, it's a feller's duty ta be seein' to her, dontcha know."

"Well, yeah," Sam agreed, "but I don't think Miss Kitty really wants – "

Thankfully, before he was forced into blocking the door, it opened, and Kitty Russell stepped out into the main room. She stopped short, her eyes widening at the sight of the three people staring back at her, but she recovered almost immediately and smiled. Despite her calm, it was not difficult to notice that her face was flushed, her hair a bit scattered. Sam thought he saw the reddish tint of whisker burn on her neck.

"Miz Kitty, you arright?" Festus asked, frowning.

"Why, sure, Festus," she answered easily, tucking back a strand of hair. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His spurs jingled loudly as he crossed the floor. "Well, Sam here said – "

But before he could finish, the door opened wider and the familiar broad shoulders of Matt Dillon emerged. Sam studied him a moment. He held his hat in his hand, which allowed his thick hair, way past due for a trim, to spill over his forehead in a tangle of waves. He had managed to tuck most of his shirt back into his trousers, but Kitty seemed to have missed a couple of buttons, and the bartender tried not to stare at the smear of lip rouge visible on his exposed chest. He wondered if the other two noticed.

"Matthew!" Festus exclaimed, then turned to Sam. "Why didn't ya tell me Matthew wuz a hepin' Miz Kitty move that furniture?"

Dillon's eyes narrowed, darting between Sam and his deputy. "Furniture?" he asked, voice shaded with suspicion.

"I wuz headed in ta hep," Festus explained, waving his hand vaguely, "but Sam here saw how parched I wuz after my ride and all but set on me ta have a drink first. If I'd a knowd you wuz hepin' her, I wouldna worried sa much."

"Furniture?" the marshal repeated.

Clearing his throat pointedly, Sam interjected, "Uh – yes, sir. That – uh – that desk you were helping Miss Kitty move. It was – uh – kinda loud."

His eyes caught Kitty's, and he marveled at her poker face. She returned his gaze blandly. The marshal, however –

There was no arguing that Matt Dillon was a cool character – everyone in the state of Kansas recognized that. Sam had watched him wade into brawls and efficiently dispatch the drunken participants without hesitation. He had seen him, outnumbered six to one, face down infamous gunmen on Front Street without so much as a flinch. He had heard tales of exploits of unrivaled courage and strength and sheer will from all over the territory.

But now Sam watched that coolness melt with the flame of realization. The heat that swept across the strong features turned the marshal's cheeks crimson before rushing down his chest. Sam couldn't resist a wink, and fought not to laugh when Dillon dropped his Stetson.

"Marshal?" Mrs. Pry observed, her face screwing up as she peered at him more closely, "you look flushed. I told you yesterday you needed to take better care of yourself."

"Ya do look a mite feverish," Festus noted, eying the marshal as he picked up the hat. "If'n yer sick, ya orda not be movin' furniture around. That kin take a heap outta a man. Sounded like you n' Miz Kitty wuz havin' a hard time. Ya shoulda called me."

Dillon merely stared at him.

Gliding closer to the nonplussed man, Kitty assured Festus, "Oh, Matt moved things around just fine all by himself." Somehow she kept her face perfectly straight.

"We wuz worried," Festus told her in complete seriousness. "Sounded mighty like you needed hep."

It took all the control Sam possessed not to choke right here.

Dillon cleared his throat, regaining at least a semblance of his usual control. "Kitty helped," he said, face innocent. "She helped – a lot."

Kitty grinned. "I did, didn't I?"

"Marshal," Mrs. Pry interrupted, oblivious to the underlying exchange, "if you spent as much time catching criminals as you did moving furniture, maybe the decent citizens of Dodge wouldn't have to put up with such shinnanigans as I did yesterday."

Apparently overcoming his embarrassment, Dillon drew a breath to respond. "Mrs. Pry," he began, but Kitty flowed in between them and interrupted.

"The marshal was just helping me this morning, Mrs. Pry," she said sweetly. "Like Sam said, I needed a desk moved."

"And the marshal is good at moving furniture?" Mrs. Pry wanted to know.

Her smile widening, Kitty said, "Oh, he's very good."

Dillon's gaze caught Kitty's, and Sam was surprised they didn't all just burst into flames from the heat that threatened to combust between the two.

Mrs. Pry seemed to be reconsidering her priorities. "I have a chiffonier that needs moving," she announced.

The marshal's head jerked up, and Sam had to turn away at the look of sheer horror that flashed across his face.

"You do?" Kitty asked, her lips pressed together hard.

"I suppose I could reconsider my complaint to the Attorney General," Mrs. Pry decided. "That is if you can spare an afternoon to rearrange some furniture for me."

Dillon paled, looking as if he might be sick. "Not if you were the last woman on earth," he muttered.

"What was that, Marshal?" Mrs. Pry asked.

Kitty jumped in. "Uh – he's promised to move some more of my furniture later today. But I'll talk to him about it."

The older lady frowned. "Well, just so you know that I still have that telegram to – "

"Your friend the attorney general," the marshal finished for her.

Seeing the need for a little diversion, Sam said, "How about a little brandy to settle your nerves, Mrs. Pry?"

She opened her mouth in indignation. "I wouldn't dream of – " Then Sam set the bottle of amber liquid on the counter, and she cleared her throat. "Well, maybe just one, for medicinal purposes you understand. Since I survived such an ordeal yesterday."

"For medicinal purposes," Kitty agreed amicably.

The all watched as she downed the drink in one gulp, nodded curtly, and stalked out of the bar.

Clicking his tongue, Festus declared, "Ah guarantee that woman is as ornery – "

"Uh, Festus," Kitty cut in.

"Yes'm?"

"You must be exhausted, riding all that way to Hayes and back."

The deputy tilted his head. "I am right tuckered."

The saloon owner patted his arm. "Why don't you go on and get some sleep. I'm sure Matt will take care of things here."

"I wuz thinkin' on it." He turned to the marshal. "At arright with you, Matthew?"

"Oh fine, fine," Dillon agreed quickly.

"Well, I'll be to the jailhouse if'n ya need me."

After the jingling of spurs had died down, and only the three of them remained, Kitty placed a hand on the marshal's shoulder and offered in a warm, husky voice, "How 'bout a drink, Cowboy?" Sam thought how magnificent it would be for a man to hear that tone directed at him.

With a sigh, Dillon settled his hat on his head and tugged it over his eyes, avoiding the barkeeper's gaze. "I'd – uh – I'd better check on things since Festus is taking a siesta."

She didn't seem too disappointed, but let her hand close on his shirt for a moment. "Remember that promise," she reminded. "I have a few things upstairs that need – rearranging."

The marshal reddened and grinned at the same time.

"'Course, if you'd rather help Mrs. Pry – "

The grin collapsed into a grimace. "Kitty, I swear that's not even halfway funny." With a grunt, he headed to the swinging doors, but paused just before he pushed through them. "You'll have that furniture ready to move?" he asked, blue eyes teasing.

"Oh, yeah," she assured him, a twinkle in her own eyes.

Sam watched him leave and listened to the solid footsteps until they faded. Seeing that Kitty still gazed at the spot the marshal had just left, he gathered up whiskey glasses to wipe out.

Finally, she sighed and turned, regarding him warmly. "Thank you, Sam."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he shrugged.

"Sam – "

"Caldwell sent the brandy." It wasn't that he didn't want her to talk about it, but he figured there was no need. They had conveyed all they needed to know already.

She paused, smiling. "Okay. But thank you, anyway." With much more energy than she had the previous night, she sprang up the stairs, but stopped three from the top and turned back to the barkeeper. "You were right, by the way."

He looked up. "Right?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"The marshal doesn't need much sleep."

Sam stared at her a moment, then swallowed, his face heating.

Her smile softened and grew private, intimate. "Not much at all," she whispered, almost to herself, as she continued up the stairs and into her room.

The bartender let his own smile tug at his lips, and listened as the marshal's footsteps sounded again on the boardwalk, denoting his path back toward the jail. In a few hours, the world would be alive with dancing and singing and gambling and fighting, the sounds of another night in Dodge City.

As he looked around the empty room again, he remembered his earlier comparison of the Long Branch to a woman. It seemed even more relevant now: wild and passionate one moment, calm and demure the next.

And he wouldn't change a thing. He didn't figure Matt Dillon would either. Whistling, he picked up another glass to polish.