Haunted Heart

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

Chapter Six: A Bottle of Bourbon and Two Full Glasses

POV: Hannah

Spoilers: "The Bullet;" "Hostage!;" "Hidalgo;" "The Disciple;"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: Not my characters.

Leaning against the open swinging doors of the Long Branch, Hannah watched the citizens of Dodge disperse, satisfied that their marshal was back, but uneasy that he had returned in questionable health. Doc stayed inside the jail for another few minutes, reappeared just as Festus came back from Percy Crump's. She studied them as the made their way down the boardwalk, deep in conversation, furrowed brows telegraphing the topic of their discussion. It was the first time she'd really seen Matt Dillon anything but in complete control, but she supposed there was only so much even the strongest will could take before it collapsed against the overwhelming power of too much pain and too much exhaustion and too much disappointment.

Doc had left the jail too soon to have tended to any serious wounds, so the marshal must not have been badly injured, even though he looked mighty rough. She remembered the clues Kitty had suggested to indicate if his back and leg were bothering him. This time, though, what she had seen provided considerably more evidence than pressed lips and a tight jaw.

As her gaze followed the marshal's two best friends, she considered what she had learned of Matt Dillon in the seven months she had been in Dodge. First impressions weren't always the most accurate, she knew, but in this case, very little had occurred to change her opinion about the lawman. Past the obvious physical attributes – and there were plenty – he possessed the courtesy of a gentleman, the honesty of a preacher, the courage of a soldier, the wisdom of a judge, and the skills of a gunslinger. Not for the first time, she wondered why Kitty had really left, wondered if her own suspicions were anywhere close to being true. If they were, by now –

Sighing, she eased the doors closed and stepped back down onto the floor of the saloon, her eyes just catching the quick turn of Floyd's head. He had been watching her as she watched Doc and Festus.

Making a sudden decision, she tossed a nod toward an empty table – it was early enough that most tables were empty – and said, "Bring a bottle of rye, Floyd, and join me."

If that request surprised him, he didn't show it. In fact, it almost seemed as if he had expected the invitation. In a moment, they were both seated and enjoying the first sip of the liquor. Hannah noted that Floyd waited for her to start the dialogue.

After a moment's consideration to give her brain a chance to change its mind, Hannah leaned back in the chair and studied the glass in front of her. "You've been around Dodge for a while, haven't you, Floyd?"

He nodded. "I have. Not with the Long Branch the whole time, though. I just became head barkeep after Sam died."

"But you've been in town?" she confirmed.

"Sure."

"Did everybody – well, did many people know about – about the marshal and Kitty?"

Floyd snorted a laugh. "'Bout all of Kansas, I suppose. It was the worst kept secret in Dodge, anyway."

"If everybody knew, then why – "

"I always figured the marshal was tryin' to protect Miss Kitty. Didn't want her to be used by any of his enemies – and he has plenty just waitin' to get their revenge on him. Sometimes just for roustin' 'em out of a saloon. But mostly for sending 'em to prison. It's a sure bet he don't sit with his back to the door."

What a burden to carry, she thought sadly. How tormented you could become, knowing at any time, at any place, someone might be waiting to kill you. But he didn't seem tormented. Grimacing, she amended in her mind that he didn't seem tormented by the possibility of dying. There was, however, definitely torment from a different source.

"So everyone knew, did they? How?"

"What do ya' mean?"

"I mean how'd everyone know? Kitty said – I mean, I heard they were discreet."

Again, Floyd chuckled. "Well, I suppose that's a relative term. They were careful, I guess. Especially in public."

She wondered how much he knew about them when they weren't in public.

"Ya' can't hide somethin' that's all over ya', though." At her lifted brow, he continued. "The way they looked at each other, the way she would lay her hand on his arm, the way –" He shrugged. "'Course, in my position, I may have seen a little more than most people."

The sudden pink to his cheeks let her know he had seen quite a bit more. "In the past few years, they haven't been exactly subtle. When he took that bullet in the back and Doc loaded him up on the train to Denver, she wouldn't even hear of stayin' behind. And not even Doc would try to talk her out of it."

Hannah's eyes widened. "Bullet in the back?"

"'Bout three years ago. Almost paralyzed him. Doc got it out. That's all I know, but I figure there was more to it than that. He tries not to let on, but you can see it still bothers him from time to time. Anyway, he was laid up for a few weeks; then he up and went down into Mexico chasing some bandito. Came back all shot up again."

"He's had a few injuries, has he?" Of course, Kitty had already indicated that.

This time it was Floyd's eyes that grew wide. "Oh, Miss Hannah, I don't suppose even Ol' Doc's kept count of how many bullets he's dug outta the marshal."

Well, that certainly explained the lawman's pain. After hearing from Kitty and now Floyd about the abuse Dillon's big body had endured, she wondered how the man was even walking at all.

By this time, Floyd had warmed to his subject and continued, his eyes looking over her shoulder and into the past. "'Course, after Jude Bonner, nobody had any doubts about him and Miss Kitty."

"Jude Bonner?' She'd never heard of him, but the ominous tone of his voice told her his tale would not be pretty.

The barkeeper's face changed, and she was shocked to see black hate darken those normally pleasant features as he launched into a terrible, heartbreaking story. Tears welled in her eyes when he told about what had happened to "the marshal's woman," and she remembered Kitty's simple statement to her: "Things have – happened – to me because of who and what he is. Bad things." As the horrors of the event unfolded, she decided that Kitty had quite a command of understatement.

Hannah could not keep the horror from her face as Floyd related the details of the ordeal, of the scene there on Front Street when Bonner dumped Kitty in front of the town and shot her down.

"Dear Lord," she whispered, nausea boiling in her throat.

Floyd's eyes were still seeing past her, still reliving that evening. "When the marshal got back, he didn't say a word, just ran up Doc's stairs. He stayed with her all night. We didn't know if she was dead or alive. Next mornin', he stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs. Miss Hannah, I ain't never seen such a look on anybody's face as I seen on his."

She could not begin to imagine.

"If Jude Bonner had been standing there, I don't doubt the marshal would have torn him to pieces with his bare hands."

"What'd he do?" Obviously, since Matt Dillon wasn't serving a life sentence for murder in the state prison, he didn't kill Bonner – at least not in cold blood.

"Well, he stood there a minute, long enough for most of us ta' see he wasn't wearin' his badge any more."

She tried to picture Matt Dillon without that piece of metal on his chest, had trouble doing it. The symbolism of his taking it off was not lost on her. "He went after him," she realized.

"He did. He went after him not as the marshal, but as – as a man." Floyd opened his eyes wider to emphasize his approval of Dillon's actions.

Maybe he did kill him, Hannah re-assessed.

"He rode out by himself, but Festus and Newly – then the most of the town – rode out after him. Sam told a few of us ta' stay at the saloon in case any of Bonner's gang tried to come back around."

"Did he – did he catch him?" She wasn't sure if she wanted him to or not.

"He caught him. Sam said when they reached them he and Bonner had 'bout near beat each other ta' death, and the marshal was fixin' ta' smash in that bastard's skull with a big old rock."

"And?" Hannah prodded, enthralled despite herself, halfway hoping Dillon had performed the execution right there.

Floyd sighed. "Festus stopped him. Sam reckoned it was a near thing."

With a disturbing pang of disappointment, she asked, "What about Kitty?"

The blackness had lightened in his face and he almost smiled. "She's a strong woman." Hannah heard the admiration in his tone. "Somehow, she recovered." Shaking his head, he added, "I don't figure the marshal let her get more'n ten feet away from him or Sam for months. Drove her crazy." But he quickly grew serious again. "You could see it shook him pretty good – and there ain't too much that can shake Matt Dillon."

"What he had always feared," she mused.

"Yes, ma'am. I reckon it was."

"And yet, after all that – now she's left. I don't understand."

"You and me both." His eyes grew sad. "Seems like they'd already been through the worst."

Her thoughts drifted again to Kitty's fears, to her supposed reasons for leaving. "The marshal's arm – how bad was it?"

"Bad enough. From what Doc said, he couldn't use it at all right after the shooting."

"It seems fine now."

A dubious brow lifted. "I suppose. Don't guess he's had to outdraw anyone recently. At least not in town."

"You figure someone will come gunning for him?" she asked.

Shrugging, Floyd said, "They always do."

"Can he take them?"

"Before, maybe, but – "

Hannah nodded in understanding. "Before his arm was hurt."

But Floyd shook his head. "Before Miss Kitty left."

Keeping her voice low so that only he could hear, she said, "He loved her very much."

The bartender nodded, his gaze drifting toward the doors as if he could see across to the jail. "He still does."

The stark statement struck her with its simplicity. "He still does."

Well, that did it. She had made a promise to Kitty six months ago, a promise she had questioned as soon as she had laid eyes on Matt Dillon, a promise she now knew she could no longer keep.

With a deep breath and click of her tongue, Hannah pushed up from the table and walked behind the bar. "Thanks for the talk, Floyd."

His eyes followed her movement, brow questioning. "Sure."

Reaching under the counter, she pulled out the very best bottle of bourbon they sold, gathered two shot glasses in her other hand and marched toward the doors. "If I land out in the middle of Front Street in a couple of minutes, drag me back in here, will ya'?" she threw out as she stepped into the daylight, not waiting to hear Floyd's response.

A couple of folks watched her curiously as she crossed the street. She ignored them.

Pausing just briefly at the door, she took a breath and eased it open, not sure what she might find, ready to back out if necessary, but a little too nervous to speculate about what might constitute "necessary." Although she had never been inside the jailhouse, she'd peeked in the windows before, out of simple curiosity, and she recalled that there was single iron bed to the left. The condition he was in when stumbled through that door, she didn't expect to find him anywhere else.

Sure enough, as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she saw the long, solid frame sprawled out on the mattress, legs stretching all the way to the edge and a little past, one arm flung out over the side. Quietly, she closed the door and set the bottle and glasses on the table between the marshal and her. Then, she stepped closer to study him for a moment.

Since it was not his practice to frequent the Long Branch socially anymore, she had seen him this close only on the occasions when he was breaking up fights. Looking at him now, she saw that he had aged in the past six months, the lines of his face etched more deeply, the touch of gray in his hair now overtaking the brown, the world-weariness that he occasionally allowed to show now invading almost every move he made.

She figured he had literally collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to clean up at all from the trail. He hadn't even taken the time to remove his gun belt. A three-days' growth of beard shadowed his jaw, dust and grime smudged his forehead. There was a cut just below his left eye and a couple of raw scrapes reddening his cheek. The knuckles of the hand that rested on his stomach were torn and bloody. Slim Gallagher had apparently not gone down without a fight.

Even though she had never had children of her own, Hannah felt the unaccustomed motherly urge to brush his hair back and whisper soothing words, trying to comfort him in some way, to provide a balm for the pain. Instead, she remained still, watching him. After a few minutes, her perusal was interrupted by a groan. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and forehead, his brow came down and his head turned one way, then the other.

"No – " he mumbled, legs moving slightly.

Unsure whether to wake him or not, Hannah watched as his agitation deepened, listened as his groans grew louder. He grew more restless, arms pushing through the air, as if he were fighting someone. When he started to thrash, she began to worry that he would injure himself.

Then, in an agonized voice, he cried out, "Kitty! No! Let her go – God, please, no!"

Spurred into action, the saloon owner reached out to him, touched his shoulder to shake him from the nightmare, to rescue him from the distress he was in.

That was a mistake.

With reflexes so fast she wasn't sure she had even seen them, his hand jerked the gun from the holster, and she found herself staring down the end of a Colt, its barrel black and cold and terrifying.

"Marshal!" she yelled, heart pounding harder and louder than she could ever remember.

He half-sat, his eyes wild, his mouth open, his breath coming fast. She tried to look at the trigger to see if he was about to pull it, but her gaze remained locked down that long, deadly tunnel.

"Marshal," she tried again, her voice cracking.

His chest heaved, his eyes bore into hers, his teeth gritted. Dear God, he was going to kill her.

Somehow, finding her voice once more, she said softly, "Matt."

For a long moment, the gun stayed trained directly on her heart, but finally, slowly, those blue eyes focused on her face. The steady hand that held the weapon began to tremble, a move that spread to the rest of his arm. He dropped the gun and fell back onto the bed, groaning either in emotional or physical pain – she wasn't sure which.

"Oh God," she heard him gasp as his head hit the pillow.

When she was pretty sure she was not going to faint or throw up, she pulled up a chair and sat, her own hands none too steady. "Marshal?" she asked quietly, gently.

Throwing an arm over his eyes, he mumbled, "Go away."

Putting on a much braver front that she could actually back up, she ignored him and said, "I, uh, I brought you a present."

For a moment, he ignored her right back, but after another minute, his arm lifted and he opened one eye. In answer to his unspoken question, she nodded toward the bottle. The amber liquid sat invitingly on the table, but he only groaned again and shook his head.

"No thanks."

Her thoughts brought back the image of him walking across Front Street from Doc's office the day after he had found out from her that Kitty had left, and she wondered if he'd sworn off the stuff after that. Certainly, she had never seen him drinking at the Long Branch. Of course, he'd only ventured into the Long Branch to break up fights and drag away ugly drunks.

"I figured you might could use a drink," she told him, forcing the casual tone.

"Go away," he repeated, the words a little more precise this time.

"It's my best bourbon," she added pointedly, wondering if he would catch on.

After a couple of beats, the arm came down slowly, and he pulled his body up onto his elbows, his gaze searching her face. "What?"

"Bourbon."

Their eyes met, and in that connection, she saw sudden comprehension, watched as the emotion flooded him, as his cheeks flushed and his eyes glistened. She saw him take a breath, swallow, and take another breath.

When he had regained control, he began, in a weary voice, "I'm not gonna discuss – "

"Oh, I'm not here to talk about anything," she assured him, having to glance away from his doubtful squint. "I just figured I'd drop by and be neighborly and show my appreciation for ya' helpin' me out with the rowdies at my place."

My place. Damn. She bit her tongue at those last two words when he flinched.

"That's my job," he told her, voice flat.

"Well, there's doin' your job and there's doin' your job. I ain't never seen a lawman that does his job like you." She raised her eyebrows to emphasize how much she meant the words.

Sitting up completely now, and swinging his legs to the floor, he dropped his head and ran a hand through his hair. Scooting the chair closer to the table, Hannah grasped the bottle and opened it.

"Look, Hannah, I appreciate it, but – "

"Kitty Russell loves you." Well, she had meant to bring that up with a little more finesse.

His head jerked up, anger firing from those eyes. "Damn it, I told you I'm not gonna discuss – "

"Who's discussin'? I'm just talkin'."

He stared at her, nonplussed. Before he could respond, she continued, "You're a fool, Matt Dillon."

That point didn't help his mood. He stood suddenly, and she bit back a gasp as the impact of just how tall he was hit her. But the pain that apparently swept over him claimed some of that anger. His teeth clacked together in a hard grimace as he reached behind to brace his back.

"I've – been – told that before," he grunted past the discomfort.

"Well, I'm just sayin' that that woman loves you with all her heart."

Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the exhaustion, but she thought she saw cracks in the shield he had erected. Instead of throwing her out into the street, he just muttered, "Not anymore."

Not one to waste an opening, no matter how narrow, Hannah, quickly opened the bottle and poured a generous amount of bourbon into each glass. "Sit. You look like you need to."

Indeed, he swayed precariously. To her surprise, he followed orders, his body falling heavily into the offered chair.

"Listen, Marshal, this is not really any of my business – "

"You're damn right, it's not," he snapped.

Now that she'd jumped in after him, Hannah was damned if she would let him drown. "But that woman is desperately in love with you and you've got to find her. Especially now that – " She stumbled to a halt, unwilling to tell him something she didn't know for certain herself.

His eyes narrowed. "Now that what?"

Damn. Not ready or willing to share with him her speculations, she played her trump card and said boldly, "I know about Jude Bonner."

He stood again, this time so hard and fast that his thighs caught the table and almost upended it. She had never seen such fury in any human being's eyes before, and she wondered if this were the face Floyd and the others had seen when Dillon stood at the top of those stairs, determined to find Jude Bonner and kill him. Unable to keep from shrinking back, she held her breath.

Hatred clashed with pain, twisting the handsome features. "Never say that name again," he spit out between clenched teeth. "Never."

Later, as she replayed out the scene in her mind, she realized she must have been crazy even to remain in there, much less keep pushing at the furious man. Nevertheless, that's just what she had done.

"I heard you went after him," she pressed, convinced, even in the face of his anger, that he wouldn't hurt her.

He turned away, his hands clenching into fists. Well, she was pretty sure he wouldn't hurt her, anyway. "I said – "

"You left your badge and went after him because you were Kitty's man, not because you were the marshal. You wanted to kill him."

The fists shook as he stood there, and she watched the motion spread to his entire body, saw those broad shoulders quake violently.

"You wanted to kill him," she repeated, somehow needing to know.

The big body shuddered, and the fuse she had lit finally reached power and exploded. Spinning around, he slammed his hands down on the table, leaned his weight on them and stared at her, his face only inches from hers.

"Yes! Damn it, yes!"he snarled. "I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill that son of a bitch for what he had done! I wanted to beat the hell out of him until I smashed him into the pile of worthless shit that he was! I wanted to tear him limb from limb for what Kitty – "

He choked on her name, his eyes widening in horror at the realization of what he had just done, of what he had just said, and who he had said it to. Stumbling back, he fell hard against the brick wall of the jail office, chest heaving, eyes closed.

Stunned, Hannah could only watch, mouth open, blood surging, heart pounding. Dear God, what had she done?

They remained where they were for at least five whole minutes, Hannah sitting at the table, the marshal slumped against the wall. Neither of them moved, neither said a word. Only the steady ticking of the clock gave any indication that time moved on.

Finally, her voice barely audible, Hannah said, "You were ready to give up the law for vengeance. Why couldn't you give it up for love?"

He didn't answer right away, didn't even give evidence that he had heard her. But after a few seconds, he slipped his right hand into the front pocket of his pants. When he removed it, he held a small bag, blue velvet and elegant. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the table in front of her. His eyes lifted to stare out toward the jail windows.

Slowly, almost reverently, Hannah let her fingers inch toward the bag, tugging open the strings that secured the top and emptying the contents. A gold band rolled onto the wood, taking her breath with both its simple, delicate beauty and with its obvious intent. Holding it carefully, she raised her gaze to look at him, understanding too much now.

"You could," she realized in a whisper. "You could give it up for love. You were going to after that last trip."

He didn't answer. Didn't have to. Oh, Lord, what irony.

"You have to find her," Hannah urged, suddenly desperate that Kitty know, that she understand what she had done. "You have to tell her."

His head dropped and he groaned, sinking back onto the bed, forearms resting on his thighs. "It's too late," he mumbled, his anger spent, leaving only exhaustion and despair in its place. "She's gone."

"You have to look for her."

His chest jerked in something that might have been a humorless laughed. "What do ya' think I've been doin' for six months?" One hand lifted, tugging through his hair. "I've looked – I've looked in Topeka, Lawrence, Kansas City, Saint Joseph, Saint Louis. I've sent telegrams to Springfield, Nashville, Philadelphia, Boston, even New York – nothing."

She hesitated only a moment on her next words. "She didn't tell me straight out, but –– but I think she was going home." She paused, waiting for him to jump at her revelation, the city's name on her lips.

But he only shook his head and looked down at his hands. "New Orleans was the first place I checked."

Well, of course. She wondered why on earth she hadn't realized he would know immediately that she might go there. But if he'd checked already, and hadn't found anything –

"I sent a telegram to the chief of police six months ago." His voice fell off as he added, "And five months ago, and four months – "

"Nothing?" Hannah asked, confused. She had been positive Kitty was there."

He shook his head again. "No Kitty Russell. No Kathleen Russell. I had him check all records, even – " He swallowed. "— even death certificates."

Resisting the urge to place her hand on a wide shoulder, she peeled back the layers of memory, searching for any clue she could give him, any key to unlock the door that barred him from her. A new idea crept in, one she at first dismissed, then slowly considered.

"What if – " she began, then stopped, uncertain.

He continued to stare down for a few moments. Then, as if he had just heard her, he raised his eyes. "What if what?"

The glimmer of hope he allowed to touch the blue gaze was almost painful. Hannah felt the weight of importance on what she might suggest.

"What if – she used another name?"

He pressed his lips together for a moment before he responded. "I've tried that, but it could be anything," he murmured, weariness creeping into his tone. She wished suddenly she hadn't said anything. "I've used names of some of the girls who've worked for her, names of folks from Dodge. And, of course, her own name – her 'maiden' name, so to speak – "

Abruptly, his body jerked straighter on the bed, and he lifted his eyes to her. "No – "

"Marshal?" she asked, alarm and excitement quickening her pulse.

"She might have used – but would she want – even though she – "

Hannah couldn't decide if his stumbling words were encouraging or not. He'd been through a lot, after all. Maybe he needed to lie down again. But before she could suggest it, he pushed up from the bed, letting the grimace show freely, too focused on his thoughts to worry about it.

"Thank you, Hannah," he said, rising to his full height, energy firming his moves in a way she hadn't seen in months. And he hadn't even had a drop of bourbon.

She frowned up, her neck craning to look at him. "What for?"

The smile that curved his lips was genuine. It was the first time she'd seen it, and she couldn't get over how beautiful it was. "For trusting me."

Any doubts she might have harbored dissolved. "So you're goin' to New Orleans," she surmised.

"I have another telegram to send first, but, yeah, I'm goin' to New Orleans."

"What about the War Department?" she reminded, knowing that in the past he had dutifully waited until he had an assignment before going out.

The eyes that look back at her burned with purpose. She had a feeling she was looking into the eyes of the real Matt Dillon. "To hell with the War Department."

Open-mouthed, she could only watch as he stuffed his boots back on and buckled his gun belt with the smooth dexterity of an expert. But she had to catch her breath at the way he strode – strode – to the door, the renewed focus overriding the old pain. Every move he made spoke of strength. As he lifted his hat from the hook, she rose from her chair and laid a hand on his arm, turning him back to her.

"Marshal," she began, then took a breath, wondering if she should do it, if she should share her suspicions with him, suspicions that had nagged her for half a year. But again, she wasn't sure, couldn't tell him for certain. What if she was wrong?

After a beat, she smiled at him and finished, "Be careful."

He hesitated, eyes narrowing, but she kept quiet, just nodding in reassurance. Finally, he returned the nod and was gone, leaving Hannah to her own thoughts, a bottle of bourbon and two full glasses her only companions.

If her suspicions were true, he'd find out soon enough.

TBC