All characters are copyright to CBS, I'm just borrowing them.

"Promises are like little diamonds

Promises are like little hearts

We meant to give away

I thought you'd want them back someday

I've kept them for you anyway

But I know when I've been given hard promises to keep"

-- "Hard Promises to Keep" performed by Trisha Yearwood

Chapter 3

Matt spared a moment to straighten his clothes and brush the dried mud from his vest before he entered Judge Brooker's office. Hiding pain was second nature to him by now, after so many years on the job. He wanted the judge to see a professional, confident law man and not the bone weary man Matt knew himself to really be. Snelling, cowed by Festus' threats, made no trouble but stood sullenly beside Matt as both listened to what the judge had to say.

"It's clear cut, Matt," Judge Brooker was saying as though he expected an argument from the marshal. "He's still in the army and we have to return him to Fort Dodge."

If Matt had felt better, Judge Brooker might have had the confrontation he expected on his hands. Matt forced some semblance of hardiness into his voice as he leaned casually against the judge's desk and said, "Well, what about all those people he killed in Mertilla?"

Judge Brooker shook his head emphatically. "He's an escaped prisoner and under the government's jurisdiction. Now we have no choice but to return him and let the higher courts decide. I suggest you take him back to prison just as soon as possible."

He couldn't hide his expression of dismay. He didn't care who had jurisdiction over Snelling's trial, he just wanted to be rid of responsibility for the man. Fort Dodge wasn't far away, but it was too long a ride for an exhausted wounded man guarding a dangerous prisoner.

Snelling had a disrespectful smirk on his face; Matt could tell he was already plotting escape. "Long way back, Marshal. Lotta things could happen if'n a body isn't careful."

"Shut up, Snelling," Matt snapped. Even if it was the last thing he wanted to do, he'd do his best to carry out the judge's orders.

He was almost grateful when Judge Brooker shook his head and objected. "He's right, Matt. That arm doesn't look very good. Maybe you ought to let Festus and Newly do it."

"No. No, I'm all right, Judge." He wasn't all right but he didn't want the Judge to think he would put off important responsibilities on his two less experienced deputies.

Judge Brooker struck his most officious pose. He'd known the Dodge City marshal a number of years and had developed ways of countering Matt's stubbornness. "The court requests you assign deputies to it," he stated firmly. "And get yourself some sleep, would you? You look terrible."

Matt sighed. "I'm getting tired of people telling me that," he said but he didn't say it loud enough for Judge Brooker, who might have interpreted it as disobeying orders, to overhear.

The day went to hell in a hand basket from there. He returned to the jail to find Festus gagged and bound to a chair with his own handcuffs. The wayward pie thief, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Festus had plenty to say once he'd been released. Matt had leaned up against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to drown out the deputy's furiously indignant babblings. It helped that the pounding in his head created a roaring in his ears which made it difficult to pay attention anyway.

Before setting out again for Doc's, Matt decided he might as well make his rounds. He made a few discrete inquiries regarding the origins and whereabouts of the little boy and then charged Burke with the duty of rounding him up. Burke too commented on the marshal's apparent state of unwellness and that was bad because Burke told anyone and everyone who cared to listen about the things he noticed, whether what he noticed was correct or not. He had a well established reputation as the town gossip.

In spite of his best efforts to appear otherwise, the citizens of Dodge were noticing how ragged and worn down their marshal looked. They kept casting surreptitious glances in Matt's direction, their faces showing concern and worry. A few of the braver and nosier souls even inquired after his health. Matt redoubled his efforts to appear less tired and to stand straighter. He was finding it difficult enough to not fall to the boardwalk unconscious.

How did I get myself into this mess? It wasn't as though the townspeople demanded he be superhuman or that he never take a day's rest. Matt, however, felt a self imposed obligation to them which ran deep into his lawman's soul. He was their marshal, the literal embodiment of the law, and any weakness in the law --- in Matt's mind, anyway --- meant potentially putting citizens who depended on him in danger. He couldn't allow that.

He was concentrating so hard he almost ran Kitty down on the boardwalk outside the mercantile. Matt couldn't help smiling when he saw her, no matter how tired he was and how awful he felt. Today she wore a dark blue skirt which matched her eyes and one of the loose silk blouses with the tapered sleeves he so loved. The cameo at her throat was one he'd given her many Christmases ago. She was probably getting ready to work at the Long Branch, since her coppery hair was done up in tight business-like ringlets. Matt preferred it down past her shoulders or loosely coifed, the way she sometimes wore it after one of their evenings together. "Hello, Kitty!" he said, favoring her with one of his shy smiles. No matter how often they were together, she always made him feel like an awkward adolescent with his first girl.

Kitty didn't even acknowledge him. Head held high and a miffed expression on her face, she walked right past him. Matt knew then he'd forgotten something, and something fairly important it seemed, but his head was so muddled he couldn't for the life of him recall what it might be. Abruptly Matt didn't feel like keeping appearances up any more. The wound on his arm hurt, he didn't feel well, and he just wanted Doc to take care of it all so he could get back to his cot and finally get some sleep.

It took every bit of willpower he had to make the climb to Doc's office. Doc Adams, reading a medical journal at his desk, saw the lawman come in and immediately surmised all was not well. "C'mon in, Matt, and tell me what's on your mind," he offered. "Say, that looks like it was done with a fork!"

"It was," said Matt through gritted teeth, "and I've about had all the complications I can stand for one day, so if you don't mind…"

That was Doc Adams' cue to ask no further questions about the wound or any of the other scrapes, cuts, and bruises he was going to have to disinfect and dress. Whatever was bothering Matt evidently had nothing to do with these. "You look like you've lost your best friend," he commented as he got out his supplies and began working.

"Something like that," Matt muttered. He found himself telling Doc Adams about Kitty's strange behavior toward him earlier.

"Hmm," mused Doc as he finished with the last of the scrapes and gestured for Matt to roll up his sleeve so he could work on the wound Snelling had given him. "So you think her behavior is very strange and I think it's very strange. But evidently she doesn't think it's strange." He soaked a wad of cotton in alcohol and pressed it into the wound.

Matt, ordinarily stoic about aches and pains, actually flinched and jerked away. "That hurts, Doc."

"Hold still!" Doc commanded in a tone few could get away with using on Matt Dillon. "Well, I'm sorry," he continued without much sympathy, "but Job Snelling cut you pretty good and it has to be cleaned out."

Forks…Kitty's anger…promises to keep…PICNIC! Matt groaned and it had nothing to do with the pain in his arm or how awful he felt physically. He had thought his picnic date with Kitty was tomorrow because his sense of time was askew from so little sleep. That hadn't been the case, however, as he clearly remembered he had promised to go on a picnic with her…yesterday. "Well, it was just a picnic, Doc," Matt defended himself. "Why would she be mad about that?"

"Let me tell you something, Matt," Doc began in a fatherly tone, " there is no such thing as 'just' a picnic where a woman is concerned, especially when promises were made."

"Well," Matt began, exasperated, "I was trailing Job Snelling. I couldn't very well stop in the middle of that to go to a picnic!"

He anticipated Doc Adams' response before he said it because he already knew it to be true. "You shouldn't have made a promise you knew you might not be able to keep. That's a sure fire way to earn a woman's ire. She'd gone to an awful lot of trouble for 'just' a picnic. Why, good heavens, she had fried chicken and apple pie she'd made herself. Oh, it was delicious."

Now Matt knew for certain he was in hot water and would have to do a lot of work to get back in Kitty's good graces. The proprietress of the Long Branch didn't cook often and when she did, it was a special occasion. Matt had never eaten so well as the times when Kitty had blessed him with her own cooking. "You mean, you went with her?"

Doc Adams favored Matt with a glare. Just about everyone knew he had a soft spot in his heart for Kitty Russell and loved her like a daughter. Anyone hurting her feelings earned Doc's wrath. "Someone had to," he said grumpily. "Someone had to after she went to all that trouble and waited all day for you."

That explained why the normally compassionate doctor had been so rough dressing those wounds. While it distressed Matt to know he'd inadvertently made another friend upset with him, he was glad it had distracted Doc enough that he didn't notice what rough shape the marshal was really in. The last thing Matt wanted to hear was yet another scolding and lecture about his health. "Doc, do you think she was really mad?"

"Oh. I…oh!" Doc didn't know how to answer that. Kitty had had some choice words to say about Marshal Dillon's forgetfulness. It would likely be quite a while before the redhead deigned to talk to him for any reason any time soon. Instead, he changed the subject. "One more thing, Matt. Before you go see Kitty, I want you to get some sleep. You look…"

"Yeah, I know," Matt grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I look terrible."

Head hanging low and bad leg dragging, Matt stumbled his way back to the jail. He'd just taken his boots off and was about to lie down on the cot when Kitty burst through the door. He could tell by the way she held herself that she was in an angry, confrontational mood. Great, just what I need. She looked at him, fire snapping in her eyes, and uttered only three words. "Long Branch. Fight." She turned her back on him without another word and marched off with an angry twirl of her skirts.

It took Matt a few minutes, sitting on the edge of the cot with his head in his hands, before the room stopped rotating enough for him to pull his boots back on and make his way over to the Long Branch. He didn't feel the need to hurry; if it had been anything truly serious, Kitty would have been worried or panicked, not angry. He found what he expected: two oldtimers in rough prospecting clothing going at it with their fists. The saloon was busted up some but nothing like he'd seen it during major brawls. In no mood to put up with anyone's shenanigans, Matt used his height and brute strength to pull them apart. "Hey, now, break it up. What's going on here? Who started this?"

The smaller, wiry built one of the pair looked at the Marshal as though he'd asked a stupid question --- which, in his current state of mind, Matt had to admit he probably had --- and said, "You got eyes, ain'tcha? Him an' me's fightn'?"

The older, heavyset man responded, shaking his fists, "Lemme go, I'll rip 'im apart!"

It took the marshal quite a while and lots of confusing interruptions to figure out what the two were fighting over a woman with whom they had both been corresponding. The woman was supposedly coming out on the stage, but whom the woman had consented to marry was in dispute. Matt looked at Kitty in mute appeal. A look of concern crossed her face when she saw how tired and worn he looked but she wasn't quite ready to make up with him yet. Schooling her expression into its usual businesslike demeanor, she helped Matt sort it out. The two prospectors agreed to pay for the damages and then left the establishment.

Kitty gave Matt a dirty look and went back behind the bar to begin mopping up. Matt stood there awkwardly with his hands on his holster feeling like a heel. He wanted to say something, anything just so she would talk to him again, but he had no idea what would induce her to forgive him. "Uh…Kitty…"

She didn't look up from her cleaning. "Yeah, I know, Matt. I'm sure you had a good reason but I don't care to hear it." Kitty knew she was being cruel to him but she hardened her heart against his sad, wistful expression. He'd done this to her too many times and he just had to learn that promises, when made, had to be kept if they were to be worth anything.

"I was out chasing Job Snelling," he offered tentatively. He figured that, at least, would convince her it had been a legitimate call of duty. Snelling's dastardly deeds had been well publicized all over the territory. Matt searched her face for some sign of interest, some sign of forgiveness.

"Is he the one that killed those families in Mertilla?" He might have been imagining it, but he thought her voice had softened just a bit. She leaned in his direction unconsciously, waiting for him to answer. That was all the encouragement Matt needed.

"That's the one."

Her quick eyes noted the blood stain on his shirt sleeve and the way he was favoring it. She jerked her head toward it. "He do that to her arm?" Same tone, no warmer and no colder. She might have been asking about the weather or the price of whiskey. But she did notice and she wouldn't ask about it if she didn't care, would she? he wondered. He wished he could think more clearly; it seemed important to be able to read the nuances in Kitty's voice and body language right now but he just couldn't concentrate. Maybe I need more than sleep.

"Yeah, but it…it's not as bad as it looks." Now why had he told her that? Doc had specifically told him it was a bad wound and he needed to get some sleep before he did anything else today. He took the risk, praying he'd read Kitty right, of approaching her at the bar. Truth be told, he needed to lean against it or he was going to fall down. That's no way to impress her and she'd be even madder at me when I woke up!

She didn't encourage him further but she didn't move away from him or slap him either. "Well, I suppose that means you'll be leaving right away to take him to Hays or some place." She allowed a tiny bit of the exasperation and disappointment she'd been feeling to color her voice.

"No. Newly and Festus are going to going to take him over to Fort Dodge for me." He deliberately left telling her that Judge Brooker had ordered him to do it that way out of concern for his health.

"Does that mean you're actually going to stay in town for an hour or two?" The shrewishness hadn't left her voice but there was something else, an element of coyness there now.

It struck at Matt's heart like an arrow; it pained him greatly to know how deeply he'd hurt her feelings but he was grateful to know the damage wasn't permanent, even if she was stringing him along now in order to get some of her own back. "Look…Kitty, let's just start this thing all over again. How about dinner tonight?"

"I'll think about it!" She turned her back on him once more to indicate that the conversation was over. Matt watched the rigid muscles in her shoulders relax and knew she was about to give in. He wisely kept the grin off of his face until she turned back to him saying, "All right." Her voice softened to its normal dulcet quality. "But not at Delmonico's. I'll fix dinner here."

Matt couldn't help grinning. Oh, she was still plenty mad but he felt worlds better just knowing that eventually Kitty would forgive him and talk to him again. "Good. I better get some sleep." She raised her hand, a small helpless gesture, but he answered before she could speak. "Don't say it, I already know. I look terrible."

"Seven o'clock all right?" she asked.

Matt nodded, suppressed another cough. Nothing was going to keep him away this time. "I'll be there."

He barely made it back to the jail before yanking off his boots for the second time, carelessly tossing the holster aside, and collapsing on the cot. He never knew whether it was sleep or unconsciousness which took him.