Thank you all so much for the great feedback! I'm a die hard Original Spock fan girl but Dillon is giving him a run for his money. I was too young to enjoy Gunsmoke when it was on air. I vague recollections of hearing the theme music while laying in my crib (late 1960's). My mother LOVED Dillon. I started watching it when she died as a way to help process my grief. I fell in love two minutes into the very first episode. I wanted to know all of these people. I wanted live with them. I love Doc like he is my father. Chester is my brother. Festus is my best friend. Kitty is so, so, so beautiful and tough and smart.

I want Dillon to beat up everybody and save me from everything. Damn, I love that big ass cowboy!

Anyway. Bear with me. This story willearn it's M rating apace.

~~Chapter 7

I puttered around the barn until after dark, mucking out the stalls, oiling the tack and scrubbing the water troughs. I still had a bad cough but I was tired of inactivity and I wanted to give James some time alone in the house. I even stacked the hay in the loft and sharpened the tools. I lit a lamp in the barn and walked around the outside to see if any light shone through any holes that needed to be patched or loose boards that needed nailing down. The neat little barn was snug as a new boot. I looked at the house. James had lit the porch lamp. I figured that was my signal that it was safe to come back in.

Buck rumbled and fluttered his lips at me when I went in to snuff the lamp. I walked over and scratched his ears. The burro and goats crowded into Clyde's stall with him even though they had their own pen in the opposite corner.

"Looks like this is home for now, boy," I said. Buck turned in a circle then lay down on the hay and soft sand in his stall. He lifted his tail and broke wind. "Okay, then," I laughed. "Don't get too comfortable. We might be sharing that stall."

xxxxxx

I climbed the porch stairs but hesitated at the door, not sure if I should knock or just go in. I decided to split the difference, rapping the door twice with my knuckles as I opened it. James sat with her back to the fire, reading a book. She'd cleaned herself up and now wore a simple brown dress made of heavy wool. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, damp but drying into a thicket of spirals. In spite of my earlier hesitation, I found myself closing the door and hanging my coat and hat next to it as if I'd lived there my whole life.

James didn't look up as I entered. I walked to the fireplace and stood at a careful distance, not wanting to crowd her. Mortimer ambled over and used my leg as a scratching post. Something simmered aromatically in a Dutch oven set over some coals. I stifled a cough.

"I hitched up the guide ropes," I said.

You could get lost in your own dooryard during a blinding snow storm if you didn't string up guide ropes. The ropes were fastened at each end to rings embedded in the walls of each of the outbuildings. There was a smaller rope with circle clamps on both ends – one for the guide rope and one for the belt of whoever needed to go to the barn or to the woodshed.

"Thank you," James said quietly.

"I think this will be the storm that snows us in."

"Yes."

I sat down in the other armchair. James looked up at me sharply then ducked her head and frowned severely at her book.

"What is it," I asked.

She gave a tiny negative shake of her head.

Since she had her back to the fireplace, we were facing each other. I reached over and rested my fingertips briefly on her knee. She didn't pull away.

"Talk," I said softly.

"That's my father's chair," she whispered. "He -. He was a big man. Not like you but still very broad. It was the only chair in the house in which he was truly comfortable."

I flinched internally. To my great shame, the last way I wanted her to think of me was in a fatherly way. I changed the subject.

"You have a large collection of books," I said.

Her chin started to tremble and she blinked back tears. Well, shit. That was the wrong thing to say. Those were probably her father's books, too.

"Yes," she said. Her breath hitched in her chest.

I leaned back in my chair which started a coughing fit. It was like magic. James's mood changed instantly.

She set aside her book, reached out and pressed the inside of her wrist against my forehead. She went back to doctoring, chiding me, fussing with medicated tea and soup and bullying me into bed early.

"You must obey my orders, Marshal. You could still have a set-back that might kill you this time," she scolded.

I protested weakly, just to make her angry at me. Truth be told, I might have over-done it by stacking the hay in the loft. The other tasks were light work. Pitching hay and breathing in dust and chaff was probably not a good idea.

"I can manage," I grumbled.

She slapped my hands away because, apparently, I couldn't manage taking off my own boots. She straightened the bed and beat the pillows into shape while I undressed. I was pulling the nightshirt down over my head when she turned back to me.

"Give me your johnny," she said.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Your undergarments need washing."

"Oh," I said. I have no idea why I thought she meant something entirely different.

She stood watching me expectantly. I turned my back, even though I was sufficiently covered by the nightshirt. James made an exasperated noise.

"I know you've already seen me," I snapped. I turned back with the "johnny" in my hands. "Someone has to maintain a sense of decorum around here," I said.

"You are being ridiculous," said James. She snatched the garment from me and pointed sternly at the bed.

James bustled around, in her element when she was caring for someone else. I grumbled and harrumphed just to keep her going. I lay back on the pillows and let her rub the pungent salve on my chest. She pulled up the heavy quilt and tucked it under my chin. The warm weight of the quilt and the drugged tea turned my limbs to jelly. James left and came back with a pan of steaming water that she placed on the bedside table. She leaned over me to adjust the pillows. I fancied that I could smell her, even over the sharp odor of the salve.

Her scent was warm and sweet like a cedar wood fire.

"You must stay in bed tomorrow, Marshal."

"Whatever you say, cowboy," I said.

She pressed the inside of her wrist against my forehead.

"Your face is very flushed," she said.

I was feeling slightly feverish. Some of it was from pushing too hard doing chores; the rest, from the feel of her hands on my body.

xxxXXXxxx