Thanks so much to everyone for the great feedback! Here's the second chapter. Hope you enjoy!
Haunted Heart
A Gunsmoke Story
By Amanda (MAHC)
"In the night though we're apart,
There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.
Ghost of you, my lost romance,
Lips that laughed, eyes that danced.
Haunted heart won't let me be,
Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.
Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,
And thrill my haunted heart.
Be still, my haunted heart."
"Haunted Heart"
1948
Lyrics: Howard Dietz
Music: Arthur Schwartz
Chapter Two: He Needed
POV: Doc
Spoilers: "Hostage!;" "The Disciple"
Rating: PG-13 (Teen)
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, but I love to play with them (especially Matt).
XXXX
The door to Galen Adams' office flew open, slamming back on its hinges with the force behind it, but the noise didn't startle the doctor, nor did he have to look up to see who was there. He had recognized the heavy footfalls as soon as they hit his stairs, had heard the same distinctive gait for the past twenty years. The pace had changed some in recent times, was not quite as even as it used to be, but it remained individual to the man. This time, though, he had gained the top of the stairs more quickly than usual, and Doc determined he had taken the steps two – or maybe even three – at a time.
Taking a breath, he turned toward the door, bracing himself for what was coming. The brightness of the outside created a silhouette of his visitor, but there was no mistaking the massive frame of Matt Dillon. The marshal stood in the doorway, head almost touching the top of the threshold, shoulders filling the space across. Doc could hear his breathing coming hard and fast after what must have been a sprint from either the Long Branch or the jail. Willing an artificial calm across his features, he hooked an arm over the back of his chair and prepared to face the man he considered both friend and son.
He had once told Matt Dillon that he had the best poker face he'd ever seen. And that was true when the stalwart marshal faced deadly gunslingers on the street. But his strong features could also melt into the most expressive face Doc had ever seen – especially when Kitty Russell was involved.
Now, as his vision adjusted to the light, and he let his gaze trail up past the unshaven jaw to those blue eyes, he saw fear and fury flash from them, only to be followed by pain so visible he felt almost as if someone had punched him in the stomach.
Matt continued to stand, unmoving, in the doorway. Finally, he drew in a calmer breath and asked, "Where is she?"
It was the question Doc had dreaded for three weeks, the moment he had already lived out in too many restless nightmares. "Sit down, Matt," he said quietly, knowing just as well that his friend wouldn't obey.
He was right, of course. "Where – is – she?" the marshal repeated, each word emphasized precisely and impatiently.
Adams took a breath, looked Matt in the eye, then swallowed and turned away. How could he do this? How could he tell this man she was gone? Coward, he scolded himself. Drawing from some inner strength, he looked back, held his gaze steady, and said, "I don't know."
It was the truth, although he saw immediately from the sudden dark scowl that Matt didn't believe him– or maybe he couldn't believe him. The marshal broke his stance then, took two long strides into the room, stopping only inches away from the doctor.
My God, he's tall, Adams marveled, not having given that fact much thought the past few years, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he decided that Dillon had never looked so powerful – or so helpless.
"Where is she?" he ground out again, voice too close to falling completely apart to sound like Matt Dillon.
Doc lowered his head and fumbled toward the desk, opening a flask of whiskey and pouring a generous portion into a shot glass. Without a word, he handed it to Matt. The marshal looked past it, staring still at the doctor, but Adams shook his head and pushed the drink closer. After another few heartbeats, Matt grabbed it, unconcerned as the golden liquid sloshed over his hand. He downed it in one gulp and closed his long fingers around the glass.
"Doc?" he asked, voice hoarse, losing some of its demand. Then his long body seemed to fold, and he collapsed into a chair, slumping in fatigue and pain. Tugging the hat from his head, he ran a hand through his unruly hair and, in a whisper, almost pleaded, "Galen?"
Adams blinked. Matt had never called him by his given name. Hell, he hadn't even told anyone what it was until a few years before. "I really don't know, Matt," he said gently, pouring the marshal another drink.
Dillon took it without protest and drank it just as quickly as he had the first one. Doc decided he could use one, as well, and took his own good slug.
"When?" Matt managed after the third whiskey. His eyes had taken on a haunted look, their brilliant blue dull and unfocused.
In all the years he had known Matt Dillon, Doc had never seen him drunk – not really drunk. The conscientious lawman never let himself lose control. In his line of work, it was simply too dangerous. Plus, it was completely out of character. Now, though, the physician was seriously considering prescribing both of them a bottle of the hard stuff and a night of dreamless sleep.
"Three weeks ago," he heard himself answer, and the memory of that day came back with gut-wrenching clarity.
XXXX
"Kitty, don't do it now," he had pleaded, watching her buckle the strap on the last of her trunks. "Wait until he comes back. Give him that much, at least."
Matt had been gone less than a week when she sent for Doc to come to her room, and he had arrived to find her packed up and ready to leave Dodge. Stunned, he tried everything he knew to convince her to stay – for Matt, for himself, for the town. But she had shaken her head, the sadness in her eyes almost unbearable.
"I can't, Doc," she had sighed heavily. "I just can't do it anymore, and if I wait, if I see him again, I won't be able to go – and I have to go."
Desperate to find some way to reach her, he caught her arm gently. "Why?"
When she looked at him, he saw something he hadn't seen since Jude Bonner. Surrender. She was giving up.
"Kitty, after all these years?" he asked. No need to pretend he didn't know about them. "After everything you've both been through – after what you have been to each other? Why now?"
She turned away, facing the window, her arms wrapping around her waist as if to protect herself from the pain of her own words. "I asked him not to go. Not yet. He's not – his arm's not – "
"He'll be okay. You know Matt. Somehow, he always finds a way to survive." The words rang true, but hollow.
But she just shook her head. "I just can't do it anymore. Not now that – not now. I can't wait for someone to send a telegram telling me that that beautiful body is lying on some undertaker's slab in El Paso, or Topeka, or Pueblo, or – or – I just can't do it anymore. Not now – especially not now – "
She hitched in a breath, barely keeping her composure. He reached for her, but she waved him off.
"I thought – " he began, then faltered.
She lifted her chin. "You thought what?"
"I thought you loved him."
She whirled on him, fury in her eyes. "How can you say that to me? After all these years, how can you – I love him. Dear God, I love him so much. And it hurts so much when – " Swallowing, she admitted, "I get sick every time he rides out. Did you know that? Every single time."
He hadn't known, and marveled that she could have kept it from him for almost 20 years. Dropping his outstretched arms, he asked quietly, "What about the Long Branch?"
"I've sold it." A simple declaration, but it did more than anything else to convince him she really meant it. Besides Matt, the Long Branch was her life. If she was giving it up –
Feeling as if he might be sick himself, he asked, "Where will you go?"
A shrug lifted her shoulders. "I can't say."
"You can't say or you won't say?"
Her mouth turned up slightly. "I'm not sure. Maybe both."
Adams closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to hang on to his own tenuous control. When he opened them again, Kitty had moved across the bare room. "Kitty," he said, unable to keep from trying one last time, "please just stay until Matt gets back. You can talk about it with him – "
But she cut him off. "No. I can't bear to watch him ride off, knowing it might be the last time I see him alive." Her voice quavered and threatened to break. "I can't take the pain that rips right through me every time some damn gunfighter struts into town to kill Matt Dillon."
The honesty of those last words choked her and the tears that had already welled suddenly burst out in heavy sobs. Doc stepped toward her to hug her to him, to comfort her, but she jerked away, anger clashing with fear.
"Get out."
Her command stunned him. "What?"
"Get out," she repeated, and even though her voice remained low, it held a warning of desperation. "Please."
Heart sick, he reached for the door knob, stopping when she whispered, "I'll – I'll come see you before – before I leave."
Without looking back, he nodded and, moist-eyed, not caring who stared at him, shuffled through the Long Branch and back up his stairs.
Two hours later, after kissing his cheek and hugging him hard, she slipped onto the afternoon stage. It was the last time any of them had seen her.
XXXX
Sometime during the retelling, Matt had leaned forward, his arms braced on his thighs, his eyes staring at the empty whiskey glass clutched in his hand. Doc waited for him to speak, but the silence continued.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, the physician cleared his throat and asked, "How's that arm doin'?"
He hadn't told Kitty, but he'd been just as concerned about the wound as she had. Six months of agonizing work on Matt's part had brought it back much faster than Adams could have ever dreamed. But it had still been a significant injury. The sheer loss of blood had weakened his entire body and had especially caused problems for the tissue of the forearm. He wouldn't have given two cents for Matt bringing it back so far and so fast. Of course, he also conceded that if anyone had the determination to do it, Matt Dillon did.
The marshal hadn't answered him, still stared at the glass. Adams wished he'd look up, wished he would talk it out, come up with a plan of some kind, wished the marshal would jump up and crash out the door and down the stairs in anger or in pursuit – or both.
Then Dillon did raise his head, and Doc caught his breath. The confident, unwavering gaze, the sure eyes, the stoic expression had all been replaced by something he had never seen from Matt Dillon – something he never dreamed he'd see: despair.
Without a word, the marshal reached for the flask and knocked back three more long swallows. He was a big man, and it took more alcohol than most men could handle to affect him. But the doctor saw the slight glaze of his eyes and knew it was time to step in.
"Why don't you lie down for a while, Matt? You look beat." That was, of course, an understatement.
"No." The voice growled out from an even deeper register than usual, rough with the effort to form even that one word. After a heavy breath, he managed a complete sentence – almost. "I can't, I have to – "
"Not tonight," Doc insisted, seeing how close the lawman was to collapse. As gently as possible, he said, "It's been almost a month, Matt. You can start tomorrow, after you get a good night's sleep."
He expected more protest, and was both alarmed and relieved when he didn't get it. After a few moments, Matt looked at him – or toward him anyway – and pushed slowly to his feet. When he swayed, Doc slid an arm around his waist to steady him, drawing back when the marshal hissed abruptly.
"You okay?"
But big lawman didn't answer. Instead, he pushed out of Adams' grasp, stumbled through the bedroom door, and dropped onto the bed, legs and arms flung wide. Doc ambled in after him, shaking his head. With a sigh, he unbuckled the gun belt, jerking it out from under the heavy body. Dillon didn't budge; he was out cold.
Taking advantage of the rare situation, Doc started to unbutton the dusty shirt to see what might have caused the marshal's obvious pain. Even before he finished, he spied the rip in the material and blood stains. As soon as he bared the broad chest, Doc ran a gentle finger around the wicked gash that sliced upward across the ribs of his left side, almost five inches long. A bullet had done that, and he was damn lucky it hadn't hit an inch over. It probably should have taken a few stitches when it was fresh, but Doc contented himself with spreading a thick salve over the partially healed flesh. Matt grimaced at the sting, but didn't come around.
After bandaging the area to keep the salve in place, Doc rolled up the shirtsleeve and bent to examine the older injury, the arm that Dillon had nearly lost. Except for a rugged scar, the place appeared to be in remarkably good shape. The muscle tone was good, firm, not quite back to normal but better than he would have ever thought it could be again. Still, even gentle pressure brought a wince to the marshal's face.
"Sorry, Matt," he muttered, easing the arm back onto the bed. With no small effort, he tugged off Dillon's pants and boots, figuring he could at least get them cleaned of the trail dirt while the marshal slept. Throwing a blanket over the long legs, the doctor fell back, exhausted, in a chair and contemplated what would happen next.
Marshal Dillon, the icon, was a loner who needed nothing and no one. But Doc knew that Matt Dillon, the man, was very different. He needed. He needed friendship; he needed challenges; he needed happiness.
But mainly, he needed Kitty Russell.
Doc closed his eyes, his thoughts flying back to those agonizing hours when Kitty hovered between life and death after Jude Bonner had gotten through with her. As Matt knelt by her side, her delicate hand cradled in his huge ones, Doc had heard his roughened voice admit it.
"I need you, Kitty. I need you."
It wasn't anything Adams hadn't known already. But now Kitty was gone. Gone. It seemed impossible.
Unable to deal with the renewed realization, he forced his eyes open and pushed up from the chair to gather the marshal's clothes. Better to be doing something than to wallow uselessly in a problem he couldn't resolve right then. He dragged Dillon's pants off the end of the bed, but stopped when he saw something fall from a pocket. Frowning, he bent to pick up a small, deep blue, velvet pouch. That certainly didn't look like something Matt usually carried around with him. Curiosity prompted him to spread open the top and peer inside, but he didn't see anything, so he carefully turned it upside down and let the contents empty into his hand.
His mouth dropped open, and he stood there, stunned, as he stared at the shining gold band that lay in his palm. It was delicate, with inlaid diamonds, not too gaudy, but not skimpy, either. And there was no doubt in his mind about the intended recipient.
Heart aching anew, he felt moisture fill his eyes as he gazed down at the sleeping figure, watched the bare chest rise and fall, and pondered how a grown man who had seen so much, who had been so strong, could look so innocent and vulnerable.
"I'm so sorry, son," he whispered, turning the ring over in his hand. "I'm so sorry."
"I need you, Kitty."
Matt Dillon needed. And now what was he going to do?
TBC