Haunted Heart

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

Chapter Seven: Strand of Steel

POV: Kitty

Spoilers: "There Was Never a Horse;" "The Badge;" "The Disciple"

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Matt and Kitty are not my characters, although I did create a few new ones for this story.

XXXX

The cards slid from her fingers with long-practiced dexterity, quick and smooth. If she had any reason to cheat, she could have done it without a single person in the room being any the wiser. But she was dealing straight tonight – and only for a couple of hours, she had promised herself. Already, she was feeling the need – both physically and emotionally – to get home, or at least to get to the Creole townhouse that Ira owned on Dauphine Street. It was still hard to think of it as home.

Of course, she would not even have considered stepping onto the New Orleans Lady so soon, except that they were in a bind what with Michel Rousseau coming down with The Grippe on their busiest night. Ira had tried to talk her out of it, had assured her they could make do without their main dealer, but this was her investment, too, and, besides, it was only two hours. But her body kept telling her those two hours were already up.

Even though the House had won most of the hands, her table seemed to draw the biggest crowds, mostly of men of varied ages who took more interest in the dealer than in the game. Accustomed to male attention for most of her life, she barely gave the hovering gents a nod, having no desire to entice.

"Everything all right, Kitty?"

The quiet voice drew her gaze up to find Ira Pennington's soft brown eyes frowning down at her, concern playing in them. His raven hair was slicked back in the style of a gentleman, his matching mustache smartly waxed. She smiled fondly at him, forever grateful for his kindness toward her. "Sure."

"Not too tired?"

"I'm okay."

He leaned down, his shoulder brushing hers. "I'll call for a carriage. You shouldn't have come tonight."

"I'm fine, really," she insisted, but her words sounded thin. At Ira's raised brow, she capitulated. "All right. I'll call it an evening after this next hand."

His smile told her he would make sure she followed through, but he didn't need to worry. Neither her body nor her heart would let her stay long.

The riverboat had been hers and Ira's for three months, and had proven itself profitable. In the beginning, when she was still able to move about easily, she had been a familiar – and popular – presence, traveling up the Mississippi to Natchez and back. Later, she decided to forego the cruises and visit only on the nights they kept the Lady in port. This was the first time she had been out in six weeks, and while it felt good to escape the house for a while, her heart longed to be back with the only piece of Matt Dillon she had left.

She sighed, forcing back the melancholy that invaded her with each reminder of him. It had been over half a year, almost eight months in fact, since she had left Dodge, but the pain was just as sharp, just as intense as it had been that first day. A strand of steel tied her to Dodge, un-severable, even though she had tried desperately to cut the link. That part of her life lay behind her, but the remnants clung like beggar lice.

Despite her efforts not to let it, her mind wrapped around those last memories, that last time. She thought frequently of her talk with Hannah, telling the new saloon owner about wondering every time she and Matt were together if it would be the last time. Now there had been a last time, and she couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop feeling him around her, against her, inside. She ached with the pleasure and pain of that memory, clutching at it, treasuring each caress, each kiss, each movement of his long, hard body against hers. She wondered if he remembered, too, wondered if he thought of her often – or not at all. Or if the hurt she had seen on his face that morning had suffocated the love he had once breathed.

As the months crept by and Ira left her alone long enough to let her thoughts wander, they always flew to Matt, no matter how hard she tried to distract herself. In the most torturous moments, she wondered if he had found someone else, wondered if his new woman rubbed his back at night, if she gave him bourbon to dull the ache, if she shivered when he ran his long fingers up the insides of her thighs, if she cried out when he touched her center, if she wrapped her legs around his waist when he sank deep inside her. The agonizing visions tormented her night after night as she lay torn between sleeplessness and restless nightmares.

During the day, she thought saw him on street corners or stepping out of carriages, but closer looks revealed that the man was too short, too thin, too fat, too – too not Matt, and after her brain cleared, she wondered what had ever made her think it could be him in the first place.

Ira had been good to her, more than good, and she felt a little guilty that she hadn't been completely honest with him. But what would it matter? She hadn't been honest with Matt, either. Occasionally, she wondered why she hadn't told him. It might have made a difference. Then, she reminded herself that she hadn't wanted it to make a difference, didn't want him to stay out of obligation. And of course, there was the danger. It was bad enough that even as his woman she had been used to get at him. How much worse would it be for him to carry the weight of a wife – and more? What she had told Hannah was true: If something happened to a child of theirs because of who he was, he would never forgive himself. The rest was true, too: Maybe she wouldn't forgive him, either.

Matt Dillon was a man driven to uphold the law, to do what was right, regardless of the cost to himself. She had realized that finally, had understood a few weeks too late that the day she had dreamed of all those years – the day he turned in his badge – would never come. He would live and die a lawman, and while she could deal with him living as a lawman, it was that dying part she couldn't face anymore.

A thought tickled her mind, one she entertained way too often. What if he were dead already? She had left partly for the very reason that she couldn't continue to live with the terror that he would be shot down right before her eyes, or brought back into town in the back of a wagon, long, lean body stiff with rigor mortis. She had told herself she wouldn't worry about that anymore, that it didn't matter. But it did. Would she open a newspaper one day and read that some tinhorn's lucky bullet had finally taken out the great Marshal Dillon? Would Doc send a telegram? Then she remembered that she hadn't told Doc where she'd be. In fact, she had taken pains not to be easily traced. It occurred to her from time to time to wonder if anyone had tried to find her. It was ironic that she chose the one name she had waited years for, but had never been offered. Ironic that she'd be safest in New Orleans with the name that would have made her the most vulnerable in Dodge.

Anger flooded her chest anew with the haunting thoughts. Damn him! Damn Matt Dillon for what he had done to her. Damn him for burrowing into her heart and not having the decency to climb out when she told him to. Damn him for his loyalty and dedication to that damn badge. And damn him for leaving her with a reminder so precious that she would never be able to forget him.

"Two pair! Aces and eights!"

Driven suddenly from her thoughts, she looked up at the gambler to her left. His dark eyes held her, challenged her to beat his hand. Glancing down, she spread out her cards. A seven of clubs marred the attempted straight. She had nothing.

"Dead man's hand wins," she said, nodding toward him.

"Thanks, Red," he leered, his teeth showing white under a rakish mustache. "But I ain't no dead man, and I'll prove it to ya'."

Although her expression didn't falter, she felt a twinge of irritation at the name. Only outlaws and no-a-counts called her Red. Although there was the rare occasion when Matt –

"How 'bout you an' me cuttin' outta here someplace more private?"

The smile still curving her lips, she returned, "Sorry, mister. I'm kinda busy right now."

"When ya' get off?"

With you? she thought. Never. "I said I'm sorry, mister."

His easy grin collapsed into a pout. "Come on, Red. It'll be quick."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," she shot back.

He flushed, and dark rage swept over his face. Kitty winced as he grabbed her wrist and squeezed. "Stop it," she ground out, her natural brass not intimidated by the physical show of strength.

"I'll stop it when I'm good and ready. No riverboat whore's gonna insult Elliott Randolph and get away – "

But he didn't finish. Kitty felt his hand squeeze tighter and looked down as another hand closed on top of it, a hand that covered the gambler's and folded all the way around it. A strong, long-fingered hand that was very, very familiar. With a cry, Randolph broke his grip as his entire body was jerked away from her. She looked up to see him hurl across the room and land with a crash, splintering a gambling table ten feet away. Trembling with relief and anticipation, she looked up to thank her unexpected savior – and froze.

"Oh my God."

"No, Kitty," came the answer. "It's just me."

He stood there, as tall and handsome as ever in his dark dress pants and gray jacket, hat in the hand opposite the one that had just sent her aggressor flying. The sheer physical impact of his presence hit her like a fierce Kansas wind, and she had to lock her knees in place to remain upright. The blue eyes fixed on her, looking her up and down in that old way of measuring her that took her breath.

"You okay?"

She could only nod, still rooted in place, her brain sifting through a dozen responses but not managing to hang onto one. The memory that had haunted her for eight months now returned, hitting her with the full force of the pain and fear and anger of those last moments they had spent together.

XXXX

She opened her eyes to slits until she realized it was still dark outside. He had lit a far lamp, turning the flame low so it gave only enough light in the room to keep him from stumbling into the furniture. Lying still, she watched as he slipped on his shirt then tucked it into his pants. His final move was to slide the right-draw gun belt around his waist, and she thought grudgingly that it seemed to greet him like an old friend. They had been so focused on other things the night before that she had not noticed it was his old belt. The sight pushed her heartbeat faster. Surely he wasn't still going out. Surely after last night he would wait.

She had almost pleaded with him, had appealed to common sense. His arm wasn't back to normal yet. She didn't know if it ever would be, but she didn't tell him that. Surely, though, he knew. Surely, he realized the limitations of that serious injury. Surely he could tell the difference after the sweat and pain he had put himself through the past six months trying to rehabilitate it.

But he had cheated, had countered her argument with the most powerful weapon he had: his body. Her protests dissolved beneath his lips; her reasoning disintegrated with his caress; her fears retreated at the sight of his hard body eager for her. She cursed herself for being weak, for letting her passions take control, but she couldn't stop the inevitable from happening.

But now, in the hour before dawn, she realized nothing had changed.

"Matt?" she asked, voice tight.

He turned. "Hey." Smiling, he sat gently on the bed next to her and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "Go back to sleep."

"What are you doing?"

He chuckled. "It's morning, Kitty. I'm heading out. I'll see you in a week or so."

She sat suddenly, completely unconcerned about the sheet falling from her bare breasts. His eyes lowered involuntarily to take in the sight.

"What do you mean, you're heading out?" She used the tone that he knew all too well, and it was about the only thing that could have shifted his attention.

"What?"

"You're still going?"

"Kitty, you know I'm still going. Why would you think – "

"After – after last night?" Nausea churned in her stomach, and even though she had gotten used to that the past few weeks, this time it was for a different reason.

A frown drew his brow down. "Kitty, I'm not sure what you mean. Last night – well, I think you could tell how much I enjoyed last night, but what does it have to do with me leaving – or not leaving?"

"I told you I didn't want you to go. I – I practically begged you, made a fool of myself to get you to stay. Don't you remember?"

Comprehension flowed over his face. Sighing, he stood. "Kitty, I have to go."

Knowing him well enough to realize he meant it, she quickly suggested, "Take Festus with you."

"I need him here." He reached out to caress her arm. "I'll be okay."

A fury whipped up by fear swept over her, and she jerked away from him. "You'll be okay? Matt, how can you say that? How many times have you NOT been okay? How many times have I seen you ride back into town – or more likely seen Buck bring you back into town – barely hanging onto the saddle? Do you know how many?"

"Kitty – "

"And now – you know that arm's not back to normal, but there you go, big Marshal Dillon. Nobody can take you, is that what you think?"

"You know what they say, Kitty. There was never a horse – "

Not caring if anyone beyond the walls of her bedroom heard, she yelled, "Oh, don't give me that rubbish! We're not talking about a horse! We're talking about a man. About you! You don't think they can take you? Well, they can! They can gun you down, rip their bullets right through that stubborn heart of yours and then where will you be?" Rage enflamed her eyes so that they practically shot their own bullets at him. "Where will I be? Where will – " She stopped just in time, not wanting, even in her anger, to hold him that way. "Damn you, Matt Dillon. When are you going to learn? When are you going to realize you've used up your chances?"

"Kitty – "

Her emotions almost in a frenzy, now, she lost herself in the anger and fear and exhaustion of twenty years of watching him leave, of knowing he might not return, of writhing in the anguish those nightmares brought. Unleashed, the passions exploded at him.

"No! You just go! Just go, but don't expect me to welcome you back. Kitty Russell isn't just going to wait around for you to stagger back in half torn up – or not at all. Get the hell out of here!"

Expression battered, he made a final to attempt to reach out to her, but she pulled away. Lips pressed tight, he shoved his hat onto his head and opened the door. "I'll see you later, Kitty," he said, but in that moment, she knew those would be the last words she would hear from Matt Dillon.

XXXX

And now he stood before her, and her heart shuddered under the combined assault of joy and fury, of relief and resentment. The familiar scent of soap and leather wrapped around her and tugged her toward him. She found her voice finally, making it as even as she could. "Matt."

Taking a breath, he straightened, hat still in hand, and stepped forward, bringing him within inches of Kitty. She felt her pulse jump, heard her heart pound, and she wondered if he was going to touch her, or even kiss her – wondered if she could resist him if he did. But he didn't make either attempt, just stood there before her.

"You look good, Kitty," he said simply, but she knew him well enough to read more in his eyes.

She didn't answer, her eyes doing their own looking from years of habit, seeing each new scar, every additional scrape. He had lost weight, she saw. His shirt hung looser, his pants a little longer. His face, though still handsome, seemed drawn, the long lines deeper, heavier. Looking up, she noted that his hair was just as beautiful, just as thick and wavy, but more gray had encroached into the rich brown. And it had only been eight months since she left.

"How – how did you find me?"

"I'm a lawman."

As if she had to be reminded. She let that irritation lend her strength to overcome the urge to throw herself at him right then. "No, I mean, how did you figure out I was in New Orleans?"

He almost smiled. "Where else would you be?"

"But I – my name – "

Eyes widening, he flushed a little. "Yeah, that took me a while," he admitted, looking embarrassed at his uncharacteristic lack of deduction. "Now that I think on it, though, I guess I should have figured it out a long time ago."

Before she could respond, a movement to her left caught their attention, and she turned just as Ira stepped in next to her, sliding a protective arm around her shoulders. "Is this man bothering you, Kitty?" he asked, voice dangerously courteous.

"No," she assured him quickly. "No. This is – " Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to do the introductions. "Ira Pennington, this is – Matt Dillon."

Ira's eyes narrowed first at the marshal, then at her. "Matt – Dillon?" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard her right.

"Marshal Dillon," she said, her eyes pleading with Ira not to say anything.

After a moment, the smaller man nodded and let his arm drop to Kitty's waist. "Marshal. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Looking back at Matt, she saw the shadow cross his face, watched him glance between her and Ira, perceived his comprehension of the situation – and winced at the flicker of pain. Absently, his right hand eased into his coat pocket and moved as if he were going to take out something, but when he pulled the hand back, it was empty. Tossing his hat a little, he cleared his throat and looked down. When he looked back up, he inclined his head slightly toward Ira.

"No, I was – just in town on business, and decided to – pay my respects to – an old friend," he said.

She felt her heart break all over again, and barely kept herself from stumbling into his arms and telling him everything, begging him to stay. But she knew she had to remain strong, had to fight every impulse in order to stand there and let him go. Nothing had changed. She would not let him take her back to Dodge just to wait for him to die or to wait for some outlaws bent on revenge to come after his woman – or worse. It was better for both of them this way.

At least that's what she kept trying to tell herself. But it had been a lot easier when he was a thousand miles away.

"It – it was good to see you again, Matt," she managed. "I'm sorry you can't stay longer." It took a hard swallow to say the rest. "Have – have a safe trip back to Dodge."

He flinched as if she had slapped him, and she had to bite her lip to keep the tears from flowing. His expressive eyes bore into hers, as if reading her, digging deep into her soul. Finally, with a heavy breath, he tugged his hat back onto his head and nodded to her, emotions just as tight as his lips.

"My apologies if I – caused trouble," he said, voice rigid. "Goodbye."

He turned, wide shoulders towering above every other man in the room, and walked toward the door. Ira tightened his grip on her, and maybe that was the only thing that kept her from tearing away and running after the big lawman.

"Kitty," he asked tentatively, "is he – "

She could only nod, not trusting her voice. She watched as the tall body moved farther and farther away from her, out of her life again just as quickly as he had come back in. If she could survive these few moments, if she could live through the fresh rip in her heart, she might have a chance. He was almost at the door, almost out of sight. She had almost made it. He was almost gone.

He was almost gone! Involuntarily, her feet stumbled forward, pulled by that steel strand that cut right through her resolve. Confused, Ira hung onto her.

"Matt!" she called, unable to stop herself.

He froze for a moment, then turned, face guarded but expectant.

Before she could reach him, though, Elliott Randolph stepped between them, having somehow managed to drag himself to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, shoulders hunched menacingly.

"All right, mister," he rumbled, "you think you're a big man, do ya? Let's see what you can do in a fair fight."

Even past her roiling emotions, Kitty almost laughed, almost felt sorry for Randolph – almost. The shorter man rounded on Matt in attack stance, circling. The marshal squared, hands hanging at his sides, and waited at the door.

"Stay back, Kitty," Matt warned, eyes locked on Randolph.

"I don't know who you think you are," the gambler jeered, "but you're gonna stay away from my woman."

"Now see here – " Ira began.

Matt's brow rose. "Seemed to me like 'your woman' was more interested in you stayin' away from her," he observed calmly.

That was enough to provoke the gambler, and he lunged at the Dodge City marshal, whose sudden, powerful backhand caught him hard and laid open his cheek with a spray of blood. Stumbling back, Randolph gritted his teeth and spit red, running full force, head down, toward Matt. Dillon took the impact still on his feet and drove the furious man back to the floor with a crushing right hook that smashed into the side of Randolph's head. The gambler lay still.

Straightening and pushing his hat back, Matt looked at her, his gaze cautious, questioning. "Kitty – "

Before he could finish, a flash of metal reflected off the cut glass chandeliers.

"Matt!" she cried.

Spinning, the marshal drew and fired, but the knife was already in the air. It sank into his left shoulder at the same time Randolph's body contorted from the bullet that tore through his heart. The gambler crashed into a chair before he ended up lifeless on the floor. Somewhere, the bizarre thought passed through her brain that Randolph's hand really had been the Dead Man's Hand.

But she thrust that from her head when she looked back up at Matt. Face contorting in pain, he clutched at the protruding knife handle and staggered back. A red stain had already begun to soak the material of his coat as he dropped to his knees.

"Matt!" Kitty screamed, tearing away from Ira and falling beside the big man as he collapsed completely. Gently, she laid her hands on either side of his face. "Matt?"

"I'm – okay, Kitty," he grunted, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

"The hell you are."

Someone called for a doctor – she thought it was Ira – and she hoped that some physician had seen fit to gamble tonight. Matt's hand came up toward the wound, his body trying to find the source of pain and stop it. She caught his fingers in hers to keep him from doing more damage.

"Take it easy, Cowboy," she soothed, the endearment coming without effort. An uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu crept through her veins; this was a much too familiar scene.

At her voice, his eyes opened, their beautiful blue clouded gray. "Kitty," he murmured.

She couldn't help it. As much as she had tried to forget him, as much as she had promised herself Matt Dillon was out of her life, she couldn't stop the swell of love that filled her breast. Leaning over, she kissed him softly on the cheek and ran a hand through his hair. "It's gonna be okay, Matt," she said. "I'm here. I'm here."

A slight smile, barely a twitch of his lips, responded to her assurances before unconsciousness claimed him. Kitty sat beside him, tears streaming down her face, hands brushing through his hair. When a doctor arrived, she stayed close enough to hold Matt's hand. Even if he couldn't feel it, she could. Ira returned, bent over her and looked at her curiously. She could only shake her head, not having answers for him – for any of them.

Matt Dillon had found her, had come for her once more. And here she was again, sitting beside him, watching him bleed while a doctor tried to patch him up. Damn it! Damn him! And damn him again – because in that moment, she knew she couldn't send him away – but she couldn't go back to the life she had before.

So she sat there, holding his hand and praying that there was some answer out there, even she if didn't know what it was yet.

TBC