Haunted Heart

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

Chapter Eight: Other Things to Consider

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "Hostage!;" "The Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: The main characters are not mine, although I did create a few guest stars along the way.

XXXX

Matt Dillon opened his eyes to the soft glow thrown by a low-burning oil lamp. The shadows cast on the walls of the room played gently against gilt-framed portraits on one side and a large wardrobe on the other. He lay still for a moment, too many years of similar experiences cautioning him to gather quick information about his situation before acting. A deep burn in his left shoulder, a persistent buzz in his head, and a general stiff ache down his body gave immediate signals that he had once again survived some unpleasant incident.

Without moving too much, he glanced down to discover that he lay on a large canopied bed, covers drawn to his waist, bare-chested except for a tightly bound bandage around the throbbing shoulder. Had he been shot? He couldn't wipe the fuzziness from his brain enough to retrieve clear memories. Frowning, he pushed hard past the physical pain in an effort to figure out what his last conscious thoughts were.

Kitty!

The name, the vision, the touch swept over him as if she were actually in the room. Not shot – stabbed, he remembered, then. By some low-life gambler who had tried to take advantage of her. He cursed himself for dropping his guard, for letting himself think only a couple of hard punches could have dispensed the man so easily. He was lucky to have escaped with only a shoulder wound.

A creak from the door cut into his replay of events, and he tried to push up to greet whoever was entering the room, his heart beating a little faster in anticipation that it might be Kitty. But it wasn't Kitty. Not even close. A dark man, medium height and mustached, stepped in quietly, his eyes peering at Matt. When he saw the patient was awake, he relaxed a bit and walked in more boldly.

"Ah, Marshal. I'm glad to see you are feeling better." The voice was laced with a rich drawl, not the mixed heavy Cajun of so many New Orleans residents, but a lighter, more genteel style.

"Evening," Matt greeted. Then, as he remembered the name, added, "Mister Pennington."

The man waved a hand casually. "Oh, call me Ira. You gave us quite a scare for a while there. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up at all."

Matt frowned, deciding that, first of all, he was not going to call this guy Ira, and second, he couldn't have been out that long. It had been evening when he stepped on board The New Orleans Lady looking for Kitty. A quick glance at the window told him it was still evening. "What – what time is it?"

Ira pulled a gleaming gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. "Getting close to midnight now."

Midnight. That was only a few hours. He'd been out much longer than that many times before. Grimacing, he did his best to push up using his right arm, experiencing only mild success.

"Here, now," Ira cautioned, coming around to help. "Careful. The doctor said you needed to rest as much as possible. You've had quite a hard time of it."

Again, Dillon frowned. These New Orleans folks must not have much sand to them if they thought a couple of hours sleep after being stabbed was a hard time. "I'm fine," he assured the other man, not liking how weak his voice sounded.

"Well, you do look better than you did a few days ago."

"Yeah, well – " Days? Swallowing, Matt asked quietly, "How long have I been out?"

Ira pursed his lips and lifted his eyes, as if counting. "Let's see, you were stabbed Friday. Today's Monday. That makes three days now."

Three days? "Just from a knife wound?" Matt scoffed.

"Well, Marshal, there are some who would consider being stabbed with a knife a relatively significant thing, but the way Kitty talks about you, it doesn't surprise me that you're not one of them."

At the mention of her name, Dillon's thoughts abandoned how long he'd been out. There were more important issues here. "Where is Kitty?" he asked.

Pennington's eyes shifted away so that he was no longer looking at the marshal. "She – uh – she's busy right now. But I'll tell her you're awake."

Busy? Matt let his gaze trail to the half-open door, as if he might catch a glimpse of her passing by. Busy. Of course. He should have known, should have realized. She didn't want to see him. She hadn't asked him to come, had she? And now he had interrupted the life she had just begun. A life without him. A life without the uncertainties and dangers he had brought her for the past twenty years. At least until he showed up, and then she was thrust right back into gunplay and knives.

He nodded at Ira and watched him for a moment, trying to size up this man Kitty had chosen. Pennington was more cultured, Matt figured, or at least more accustomed to the luxuries of life, more in a position to give Kitty comfort and nice things. He wondered uneasily if he could give her love, wondered if he already had.

"This is your house?" the marshal guessed.

Ira nodded. "Yes."

"Nice."

The man shrugged easily. "I have been fortunate enough in life to be able to afford some of the finer things."

Abruptly, Matt decided he had to get out of there. He couldn't stay in a house that belonged to Kitty's new lover, couldn't bear the thought of what might occur within that house between them, couldn't stand the mental images of her in another man's arms. Throwing the covers back, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and sat, grunting against the various attacks of pain throughout his body.

"Hey, there!" Ira protested, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Matt fought the impulse to knock the hand away. "I have to go," he said, voice strained with the effort. "I'm obliged for your help."

Pennington looked confused. "But you're in no shape even to be sitting. The doctor said – "

"I'm sure the doctor's a fine man, but I need to be getting back to Dodge."

"Kitty was right. You are stubborn," he noted, hurrying back out of the room.

Matt scowled, displeased that Kitty had shared anything about him with this man. Taking a bracing breath, he pushed to his feet, nodding in satisfaction when he stayed there. But his success was short-lived. In only a few seconds, cold sweat broke out over his skin, blood drained from his face, and his legs softened to jelly. Fighting to keep his eyes focused, he squinted about the room in search of his clothes, black spots dancing in front of his vision, leading him down a dark tunnel. Disgusted with his body's betrayal, it occurred to him too late that perhaps he needed to sit, but even scrounging up that much energy suddenly seemed like too much effort.

"Matt!"

He turned at the familiar cry, jerking suddenly, too suddenly, and lost his balance, falling sideways onto his left side. He thought he hit the edge of the bed, but wasn't sure. Pain burst through the injured shoulder, exploding in fireballs that raced to his head, engulfing his consciousness in a conflagration of agony. Then he felt nothing.

XXXX

When he came to again, he was back in the same bed, covers in place, lamp still glowing. Glancing down at his shoulder, he noted with a grimace that fresh bandages swathed it, even thicker and more binding than before. Another sensation nudged its way into his awareness, a soft, warm touch at his hand. Raising his eyes, he saw Kitty sitting by his side, her eyes darkened in concern.

"Hey, Cowboy," she greeted quietly.

There was a time when he had loved to hear her call him that. A time when he had wrapped his heart around those words and burrowed into the security of them. A time when those words inevitably led to the sweetest and most passionate loving he had ever known. But that time had passed. He couldn't hear those words now, couldn't re-live their past, knowing they didn't mean the same anymore.

"Where am I?" he asked, still trying to blink his way back to alertness.

"You're at Ira's house in the French Quarter," Kitty answered, her hand brushing soft and cool against his forehead.

Oh yeah. Ira's house.

The knife that had torn his shoulder twisted a little more, but the pain was in his heart now. Ira. Scenes from the riverboat flashed in his mind: the way the man held Kitty; the protective threat in his eyes. It was what he had feared, of course, and he had only himself to blame. He looked back up at her, his breath catching, as it always did, at her beauty.

"How're ya' feeling?" she asked.

He nodded, a move that meant absolutely nothing. Looking into those deep blue eyes, he considered how easy it would be to draw her to him, to feel her tender skin against him, to crush her beautiful breasts to his chest, to join their bodies once more and show her just how much he needed her – if she'd have him. But he couldn't. She had made her choice and he wouldn't stand in the way of her happiness. He'd done that for far too long. If she had found peace in New Orleans, he couldn't take that from her, even if it meant losing himself for good. His entire life had been about sacrifice. He'd sacrificed for complete strangers. How could he not do it for Kitty? Gritting his teeth, he tried to pull his body up from the bed, only managing a few inches before the burn of his shoulder slammed him back down.

"Whoa, there," she scolded, her hands on his chest. "Where do ya' think you're goin'?"

"I need – I have to get back to Dodge," he said, even though he wanted to do anything but that.

"Dodge? You're not going anywhere, mister. Not for a while anyway."

"Kitty," he complained, hoping she'd understand, "it's just a knife wound. Not like I haven't had anything like that before."

"Just a knife wound? I swear, Matt, if you could hear yourself. Anyway, it's not just a knife wound. The doctor said you are also suffering from exhaustion and a whole collection of half-healed injuries. Your knee was so swollen we almost couldn't get your pants off. Just what on earth have you been doing since I've been gone?"

Falling apart, he wanted to say. Falling apart.

"Kitty," he argued, trying not to sound desperate, but needing to get out before he really did fall apart right there in front of her. "I can't – I can't stay here." He couldn't watch them, couldn't bear to see her with someone else, knowing another man was touching her, loving her –

"Why not? Ira has plenty of room, and he doesn't mind."

Sure he doesn't, Matt thought. "No, Kitty," he pushed, head spinning with the effort. "I need to – "

Her voice suddenly took on a sharp tone, the anger bleeding through. "So you'll just leave again, huh? Just like before, even when I'm asking you to stay?"

Confusion and memory battered him, but they were merely the vanguard of a surge of anger of his own. Was she really accusing him of leaving her? Was she putting this whole thing on him? Suddenly, months of fear and depression and frustration – and loneliness – surged to the surface. Unable to press them back down, he dragged himself up, despite the agony that smashed through his body, and faced her, eyes blazing.

"What do you mean, I'll leave?" he snapped. "I'm not the one who walked out, Kitty. I'm not the one who vanished without a word, without a trace. I'm not the one who abandoned twenty years of – of commitment – of – of love. I'm not the one who left just when – "

His arms were shaking now, barely holding him up, but he refused to give in to them. He hadn't planned to confront her at all, had determined that if she had chosen this life, who was he to interfere. But if she wanted this argument now, she would have it.

"You just left, Kitty. You left! No explanation. No note. Nothing. I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." Or hear you laugh again, or look into your eyes again, or make love to you again. "I haven't stopped looking for you since that day – or least after I got over the hangover from drinking myself into oblivion in Doc's office that night."

She flinched, but he couldn't feel any sympathy. "I've seen you in every town I've been to, shopping in every dress store, stepping off each stage coach, dealing in every saloon." His energy was gone, now, draining him of the anger and the hurt. Dropping back down onto the bed, he had only the breath to ask, "Why?"

Her own eyes had grown wide, and she stared back at him in shock. Instead of exploding at him as he had anticipated, though, she let her gaze drop to study her hands. "Matt," she said softly, almost so low that he couldn't hear her. "I know – I know I owe you an explanation."

His heart pounded, torn between yearning and dreading to hear her reasons for leaving.

Suddenly, she stood, as if she couldn't bear being too close to him. Nausea churned in his stomach. Looking out the darkened window, she said, "I couldn't stay any longer. I couldn't – I couldn't stand waiting to see if you were coming back or not coming back. I couldn't risk having my heart torn out by a telegram telling me you were dead – or by watching you die right in front of me."

He had known that for twenty years, had seen the burdens his job placed on her. Dear God, he knew, and he had finally done something about it. But he had done something too late. Not sure what to say, he remained silent, letting her continue.

"When I was – your woman – I know you worried about me. I know that's why you thought we could never be together as man and wife. You felt it would place me in too much danger. And you felt you couldn't do your job as well if you had to worry about a family."

He wanted to protest her theory, wanted to tell her she was wrong. But he couldn't. She had hit right on every reason he had for not claiming her as his wife years ago.

"After Bonner, I thought maybe – "

The knife twisted again in his heart, just like it did every time he heard that name. "Kitty – "

But she shook her head, still staring out the window. "No. Bonner wasn't your fault, even though I know you'll never believe that. It just happened, and we survived it, and it's over."

It'll never be over, he thought.

"But I thought maybe since it happened when I was just your woman, you'd figured it wouldn't make any difference if I was your wife."

His eyes closed against the realization and the guilt. He had told himself the same thing when it happened, had almost broken down then and asked her to marry him, but he convinced himself Bonner was a fluke. The dog soldier hadn't known about Kitty until he got into town. He would never have known if she hadn't sacrificed herself to save the others. Matt had been proud of her – as proud of her as he had been furious with her for doing it.

"And then when your arm was hurt," she continued quietly, "I hurt for you, I knew you were fighting to regain not just your arm, but who you were. Still, I thought maybe this was it. This was when you would see it might be time to try something different. Something that didn't put you in harm's way every minute of every day. But you did what you always do. You didn't give in, you fought and you won – and I was proud of you for it, but – "

Turning toward him, she allowed her tears to fall. "I begged you not to leave. That last night, I begged you."

He knew, had replayed those last moments in his mind hundreds of times, had mulled over "what ifs" until he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing. He wanted to tell her he had understood, had made his decision that trip out there on the trail lying under the stars dreaming of her. But it was too late.

"And now – " she started, her breath catching. "Now, there are – other things to consider."

Pennington, he realized. She meant Ira Pennington. Whatever relationship they had, it obviously meant a great deal to her. Anger gone, he sighed and drew a breath, knowing what he had to do.

"That's why I'm going, Kitty. I'd never want to make you unhappy, even though I've been doing it for twenty years – "

The tears trailed down her cheeks. "You haven't made me unhappy, Matt. The past twenty years have been the happiest of my life."

The ache in his chest grew. She couldn't make it easier for him, could she?

"Kitty, I couldn't have been who I was for the past twenty years without you. I don't know if you can realize how much you've meant in my life. But I've asked too much of you, more than you can give now. I see that. In New Orleans, you don't have to worry about someone coming into town to kill me or to take you to get to me. You have – " He swallowed, gathering the courage to continue. "You have – Ira to take care of you with beautiful, fancy things that I'll never be able to give you. You have someone to – " He let his words fall off as he looked up at her and saw the confusion on her lovely features.

"Ira?" she said, frowning. "What does he have to do with it?"

Damn it. Couldn't she just let him be gallant and get the hell out of there? "I understand, Kitty," he said, even though he really didn't understand, or at least didn't want to understand. "You and Ira – "

"Me and Ira?" Her mouth dropped, and she stared at him for a long beat. Then something amazing happened. She laughed, a hearty Kitty Russell laugh that rolled from her throat. He almost smiled just to hear the sound he had missed for almost a year.

"Kitty?" he asked, suddenly uncertain.

She continued, gasping for deep breaths until she finally caught one and managed to speak again. "Matthew Dillon!" she declared, and he couldn't help the glow he felt when she said his name. "You are the most incredibly dense and lovely man."

"I am?"

"Me and Ira?"

It was dawning on him that perhaps he had misjudged Kitty's connection with the man, and he allowed his emotions to creep toward a hopeful reassessment.

"You remember me talking about my cousin Charlotte?" she asked.

He nodded, even though he really didn't remember it at all.

"Ira's her husband. I've been staying here with them since I got into town. They've been awful good to me, especially since – " She stopped suddenly.

He caught her wrist, confusion and relief kicking at him. "Kitty, I thought – "

"I can see that." Gentleness touched her voice just as her hand touched his face. "No, Matt. I'm not with Ira."

The deluge of emotions drenched him, flowed over him until he feared he would lose complete control of himself. Clenching his jaw and catching a hard breath, he fought to keep the sensation from overwhelming him, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the embarrassing well of tears.

"Matt?" she asked, alarmed. "Are you okay? Should I send for the doctor again?"

"No," he gasped, then forced the calm into his voice. "No. I'm all right." Dear God, he was more than all right.

"Matt," she whispered, her fingers brushing over his lips. "I love you. I've loved you for twenty years and I'll never stop loving you."

He stared at her, unable to respond.

"But I can't go back to Dodge. I can't go back to waiting for you to die. And I can't put the burden on you to protect me and – "

She smiled sadly, leaning down to kiss the lips her fingers had just caressed and it was the sweetest nectar he had ever sipped. She tried to pull back, but he opened his mouth to her, drinking from her like a man who had been in the desert for weeks without water. He wanted to drown in her, would die a happy man if he could. Her lips responded, parting for him, giving to him and taking from him eagerly, frantically.

Suddenly, she broke away, and they both groaned at the loss of contact. "Matt," she gasped, "I have to tell you something."

No, he didn't want to know anything except that she loved him and that somehow they would make this work. He wanted her lips again, wanted her body next to his, wanted her love.

But she continued anyway. "What I told you was true, about leaving Dodge. The reasons I gave you. But there's something else. Someone else that's more important than any of those other reasons."

His heart sank anew in his chest. Someone else? But she had said that she and Ira weren't together. How could she kiss him like that if –

"His name is Sam," she said, and the softness and love that filled her eyes told him all he needed to know.

"Sam?" he choked out, soul aching.

"Sam," she confirmed. "Would you like to meet him?"

Meet him? God, no. He needed to get out of there. This was a nightmare, surely she knew that. "Kitty – "

She pushed up from the bed before he could move. "I'll be right back."

As soon as she disappeared, he forced his feet to the floor and stood, grateful that his body seemed to fulfill that demand a little better than before. His pants lay folded neatly in a chair he hadn't noticed earlier, and he struggled to pull them on using mainly his right hand. Desperate to leave before she could get back, he was still fumbling with the buttons when she returned, not seeming at all surprised to see him standing.

Grimacing, he braced for yet another blow, another unbearable twist of the knife. But to his surprise, no man hovered behind her, no suitor glared at him from over her shoulder. Instead, she carried something, a small bundle of soft blue blankets that, on closer inspection, seemed to be squirming. And she fairly glowed as she looked down at the material.

Letting her gaze rise to his, she took an unsteady breath and held the bundle out carefully toward him. "Matt," she said softly, "I want you to meet Matthew Samuel Dillon."

What?

What?

His brain slowed as if he had molasses inside his head. Looking down, he saw that she had pushed some of the blanket away to reveal a round-cheeked little face, long-fingered hands curling and uncurling at the tiny mouth, familiar blue eyes peering up at him.

It was a baby. Dear God, it was a baby. It was –

He looked up at her suddenly, comprehension slamming into him.

"Your son," she confirmed.

His breath stopped completely, and he wasn't too sure his heart didn't, too. His son?

His son.

His son.

Dear God.

TBC