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

"Promises given

And promises broken

Words stain my lips

Just like blood on my hands

"And words are like poison

That sinks down inside you

And some things you do

You just don't understand

"I offer no reason

I ask for no pity

I make no excuse

For the way that I am"

-- "Promises" by Lyle Lovett

Chapter 8

Most of the townspeople in Dodge City reluctantly accepted the fact that their marshal's grave condition required him to be in Kitty's care. Doc Adams had, as promised, quelled the worst of the gossipmongers with a few choice words of his own. In response to concerns about continued enforcement of the law, Festus and Newly had taken up the habit of appearing more often on Front Street, armed and wearing their badges. In spite of their efforts, a palpable aura of unease had settled over the town. It was as though everyone expected trouble but no one knew quite what form it would take or when it was coming.

Festus squinted as his hazel eyes scanned over the people walking along Front Street. His whiskered face wore a troubled expression. "Plumb peculiar," he commented to Newly. "There's folks is wearing guns now what got no more business carryin' 'em than I'd have marryin' my mule."

"Don't let Doc catch you saying that," Newly laughed, giving the hill man a good natured clout. "He'll never let you hear the end of it."

"That ole scudder," Festus muttered with a scowl, though there was no real hostility in his words, "he don't know nothin' about nothin', always jawin' and carryin' on like a hound with a bee in its snout."

"Folks are scared," Newly said, commenting on Festus' earlier observation. "With the marshal down, I'd imagine they have reason to be."

"Sceered folks is apt to do sommat hare-brained," Festus predicted. "Let's keep an eye peeled for trouble a-brewin'."

The two of them finished their rounds and ended up, as they usually did, at the Long Branch. Old habits died hard, even though Doc Adams was usually too tired to talk and Kitty rarely came downstairs now. The saloon suffered a bit from the lack of her presence, but it was still one of the better establishments in town and most of the tables were filled. Both deputies, out of habit, scanned the patrons and mentally noted which were local and which were new in town. "Now that's trouble," he said darkly, recognizing some of the more prominent townspeople and Burke at the center of the agitation. "We better find out what they're up to."

Burke's voice, querulous and demanding, carried to the deputies as they made their way across the saloon. "…ought to be sendin' for a new marshal, if you ask me. Marshal Dillon's dyin' and if we don't get the law in here, things are gonna go to hell in a hand basket."

Lathrop took a pull at his beer before he commented, "There's some sayin' the Marshal's already dead and Dodge is ripe for the pickin'. I've sold more guns to folk in the last week than I have in the past year."

Newly shook his head and said to Festus, "Time to put a stop to this before it causes some real trouble." Pointedly ignoring their protests, Newly pulled up a chair and inserted himself in the center of the group. "The Marshal's not dead and I don't want to hear any more talk like that."

"How would you know, boy?" Berke retorted. "No one's been allowed to see him but that…woman." That wasn't quite true. Kitty and Doc Adams had discovered that although Matt wasn't capable of making any decisions, he tended to rest more easily when he heard his deputies' voices. This had led to Doc amending his instructions about visitors and every evening either Newly or Festus went upstairs to quietly recite the day's events.

"Now you see here," Festus interrupted, "you're barking at a knot. I don't care fer your tone. You cain't talk about Miz Kitty like that."

"Leave off, Festus," Newly said, though he felt like punching Burke himself. "Doc would have told us if there was any change in Marshal Dillon's condition."

"Well, let's ask him then," Lathrop suggested. "Here he comes. Hey, Doc, come over here for a minute, would ya?"

"Evenin', Festus. Newly." The doctor nodded to the two deputies and then squared his shoulders in preparation for the confrontation he'd been anticipating for some time now. Trouble was, he didn't have the answer they wanted. "Make it fast," he said curtly. "I need to see to the Marshal."

"Well, it's the Marshal we want to ask you about," Burke said.

"Burke says he's dying," Lathrop volunteered.

Doc Adams' glare burned through the group before pinning itself on Burke. "What did I tell you about that blame fool mouth of yours? You just keep it shut and let me be the one to give out the medical opinions. The Marshal's not dying." Not yet anyway, he amended to himself. He swiped nervously at his mustache and continued, "Matt's doing as well as can be expected. At his age, living as he has, it takes a bit longer to shake off a serious illness. He'll be all right if he's given the time to recover. Now if you'll excuse me?"

He kept his shoulders straight and his manner confident until he reached Kitty's rooms. Once she opened the door to admit him, Doc Adams allowed the weariness, worry, and defeat to show. His shoulders slumped as he sat down in the wing backed chair near the fire and gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Kitty offered him. "How's he been?"

"Talkative," Kitty said wryly with a tight smile. She suspected Doc Adams knew about some of the things which weighed so heavily on Matt's mind but didn't feel the need to invade his privacy any further than necessary. "Fever's down a bit but he's still delirious. He doesn't cough as much and he ate three or four spoonfuls of the broth with a little water. Maybe Matt's finally getting better."

"Kitty." Doc set his coffee cup down. "Sometimes these illnesses aren't just physical. Matt…well, he's getting tired. He's put in a lot of years of service for this territory and sacrificed a lot of his own needs in the line of duty. He may not…well, he may not feel like coming back to us. This may be the one way he can let go without feeling he's abandoning his obligations."

What about me? Kitty wanted to shout. She already knew the answer from the things Matt had said in his delirium. Locked in the prison of his own recriminations, he thought he had lost her and unless she could somehow make him understand, make him feel that she was still there, still waiting and always would be Kitty knew Doc Adam's words to be the truth. Matt was tired and without the one thing that made it all worthwhile --- Kitty's presence --- he didn't have much reason for recovery. "I'm not about to give up," she said instead. "What can we do about it?"

"Well," said Doc, extracting his spectacles from his vest pocket, "let's have a look at him."

As Kitty rose to join him, she experienced a wave of vertigo. All the color left her face and if Doc hadn't caught her by the arm she would have fallen. "I'm fine, Curly, I'm fine," she insisted as he guided her back into a chair.

"My foot, you're fine! When's the last time you ate, young lady?" he asked sternly.

"I…I don't know," Kitty responded, honestly surprised. "Where are you going, Doc?"

Doc thrust his arms into his overcoat and then jammed his crumpled black hat onto his head. "To Delmonico's," he responded, shaking his finger at her, "and I expect you to eat every speck of food on that plate when I come back!"

When she was certain her legs would not give out on her, Kitty went back to Matt's bedside. Alone, without the implied need to be brave for a friend's sake, Kitty had to admit that Matt's condition was no better than it had been when he first collapsed. In spite of the warm blankets, he shivered so hard his teeth chattered. Much of the time he slept or at least, thought Kitty as she held those long, strong fingers entwined in hers, he was in some sort of unconsciousness. On the rare occasions when Matt roused from his sleep or coma, sometimes he looked at Kitty as though he knew her. More often he stared at her unknowing or disbelieving.

Sometimes he talked, as she had cryptically informed Doc earlier, and each fragment of conversation broke her heart anew. So many burdens he's taken upon himself over the years. Had there been no joy among the sorrows, no sharing of those griefs? She knew the answer to that as well and knew those times for a mixed blessing, something Matt felt he had to keep discrete in order to protect it. She was at the center of those memories, when he cried out as he had during their lovemaking, those stolen intimate moments between one crisis and the next.

Kitty seated herself on the edge of the bed and leaned over him, examining his face. It was one of those times when Matt was still --- strained and listening with eyes half open. Listening for trouble in the town, she thought, marveling at his dedication. Was he conscious at all? Or dreaming again?

"Matt," she murmured in a low voice, "my dear cowboy, you've got to live for me, my love. It's not time yet." She'd whispered that to him so many times, a prayer begging to be answered. He responded with a soft sigh and relaxed into her touch as Kitty lovingly wiped his face with cool water. She liked to think that somewhere deep beneath the delirium he knew she was still there and would hold on.

"Kitty?" His voice sounded rough and raspy. The simple effort to form that single word left him sweating and gasping for breath. "Kitty…oh, Kitty, where are you? What have I done? What have I done? Kitty, my beloved…I love you. I always have."

Torn between ironic laughter and tears, Kitty stifled a sob. Now he finally says what I've waited so many years to hear. "I know, Matt," she told him. "I've always known, even when you behaved like it didn't matter and I wasn't worth a damn to you." Understanding that it was part of his job, she'd forgiven him those times long ago but she never dreamed he hadn't forgiven himself.

When Kitty heard Doc's tread on the back stairs, she felt such a strong sense of relief that she covered her face with her hands for a moment before getting up to let him in. Matt was tossing and muttering; he didn't respond to Doc Adams' calming voice. "You," Doc said to Kitty, stabbing a finger at the tray he'd set on the table, "sit and eat. I'll take care of Matt." She thought about arguing with him about it but the enticing smell of the food caused her stomach to give an embarrassing and clearly heard rumble.

He watched to make certain Kitty was going to obey his instructions and then examined the marshal. Matt shrank away from the light and refused to open his mouth. Sighing in exasperation, Doc said, "Kitty, give me a hand here when you're finished. Maybe he'll cooperate for you. He blamed sure isn't listening to me tonight!"

Laying aside her napkin, Kitty sat down again beside the marshal. With a calm but firm voice she coaxed Matt, drew him back from wherever his mind had wandered. "C'mon, Matt, let Doc do what he needs to do and then you can rest."

Obedient, almost lucid now, Matt let Doc examine his throat and look into his eyes. He looked his patient over closely, observing the rapid straggling rise and fall of Matt's chest as he struggled to breathe through dry parted lips. His eyes were closed now, closed against the intrusion and the pain. "He's a very sick man," Doc said with no pretense. "If we can get that fever down, the digitalis might do its work yet."

Deep in thought, Doc swiped at his mustache and yanked absently at his iron grey curls. "There's something we might try…it works for heat stroke, it might work for fever…." He explained what he wanted and Kitty found what was needed: a large basin full of water and some old, clean cotton sheets. With Kitty's help, they stripped the marshal of all his clothes and then covered him with the water soaked sheets.

For a while, it seemed as though Doc's idea might work. Although Matt protested both the wetness and the cold, it brought the fever down. His eyes, when they blearily focused on Kitty's worried face, recognized her. "Kitty…"

"No, Matt," she said. "Don't try to talk right now. Save your strength. You can tell me what's on your mind when you're feeling better."

He tossed his head in vehement denial of her words. "Kitty…Kitty, I never meant to…to deny you…a life with me…."

Alarmed, Kitty watched him struggling for breath. The bluish tint to his skin had deepened and the pauses between breaths became longer. Her eyes widened as the full impact of his words hit her. "You didn't, Matt," she said softly. "We'll talk about it later. You need to rest. Doc, he's not breathin' very well."

"I'm…I'm gettin' awful tired…."

"I don't think I can give him anything else," Doc said. "He's had as much digitalis as is safe. Any more will kill him for sure."

"There has to be something else you can do," Kitty insisted, tears clouding her eyes. "I can't let him go. He's fought too hard…."

"I can make him a bit more comfortable," Doc said doubtfully. "Here, Kitty, help me get 'im up." With strong, sure hands Doc Adams stacked the pillows behind Matt's back and propped him up in a semi-reclining position. He was rewarded by a receding of the bluish color tinting Matt's lips and an easing of his breathing. The doctor reached into his bag and grabbed a powder and a glass vial of liquid, both of which he mixed into a glass and forced Matt to drink. "Here, son, this'll help."

"What did you give him?" Kitty asked. "I thought there was nothing more you could do medically."

"A mix of quinine and aconite," Doc explained. "It's my last hope. He'll either turn the corner sometime tonight…or we'll bury him in the morning."

Kitty's pained expression, quickly covered with her poker face, cut through the doctor like a knife. "Can I…will it hurt him any to hold him?"

"No…no, Kitty, I can't think why it would. You can hold him; it might give him some measure of comfort at least. You won't be hurting anything anyhow."

She curled up beside Matt on the bed and settled him into her arms. She cradled the shaggy head against her breasts as she stroked the hair out of his eyes and caressed his cheek. The words she spoke were for him alone. "Sleep, Matt. It's all right to let go, Matt. I'll…I'll understand."

Doc Adams settled back into his chair and prepared to keep a lonely vigil over the two lovers. He had no idea whether or not Matt would still be with them when the sun rose but he knew with deadly certainty that if Matt did die it would only be a matter of time before Kitty lay beside him. The thought that he might lose both his friends, whom he held as dear as if they were his own children, was unbearable.

"C'mon, Matt," he whispered. "Don't you dare give up on me, damnit!"