Somehow, this chapter wrote itself faster than usual. My Matt chapters usually do, not sure why. I have a feeling Piglet's still going to have those arm-rippers warming up, though… Thanks to all for the super feedback and for hanging in there with me through this saga. I hope you enjoy this chapter. (And, yes, I should have been working on my research paper instead of writing this. Oh well.)

Haunted Heart

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

Chapter Twelve: All Over Again

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "There Was Never a Horse;" "Kimbro;" "Disciple"

Rating: Teen (PG)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

XXXX

The kid was going to draw, there was no doubt about that. For the twenty-plus years Matt Dillon had been facing down gunslingers and outlaws, he had become an expert at reading the eyes of his opponents. It had kept him alive – at least so far. And he knew without a doubt that this boy, no more than twenty at the most, more peach fuzz than whiskers, was going to draw.

The marshal was on his way back to Doc's office after depositing his and Kitty's bags at the Dodge House, anxious to be near his family again, the ache in his chest with even a brief separation a new, but not totally unpleasant, sensation for him. He had just stepped back onto the street when the call of his name stopped him abruptly. Just the tone alerted him to the intent of its owner, even before he turned to see the slender young man standing in the middle of Front Street.

As he always did, the lawman squared himself, remembering with irritation to ease his left arm from the sling for balance, wincing at the pull on the tender shoulder. Carefully, he pushed his coattail back over the handle of his gun, hoping it didn't look like he was drawing, yet. But his opponent just waited patiently.

A crowd had formed almost immediately, made up of the curious, the anxious, the horrified, and the amused. Mostly, though, it was made up of tense citizens who had just greeted him a couple of hours before at the train station, their friendship and support overwhelming. It was not his intention to die in the street in front of those people.

"Who are ya?" he called to the kid.

"Brennan," came the reply. "Coy Brennan."

He'd never heard of him, and wondered which one of the many possible reasons this boy had chosen for coming after Matt Dillon. Opening his mouth, he started to ask what Brennan wanted, but a startled cry stopped him just as a flash of color and movement to his left caught his eye. Not taking his focus off the gunman, he still was able to discern that Kitty now stood at the bottom of the stairs going up to Doc's office. Sam was in her arms.

Damn.

In all the years he had faced down enemies, he had never worried about the distractions around him, had never really had distractions. His death meant only his death – even though deep down he always knew how it would have affected Kitty. Now, though – now he had made the commitment to her and to his child. His death meant more – much more.

Damn.

Another figure moved just within his line of sight. Doc stepped past Kitty, and even though he didn't dare turn to look at the physician, Matt could feel the older man's eyes on him, could almost hear the plea for him to back off, to let the kid take the day. But Matt knew he couldn't do that – and it had nothing to do with pride. He was still a U.S. Marshal, still the law, still committed to duty.

Painfully, he blocked the thoughts of Doc, and even Kitty and Sam, from his mind and concentrated on the man whose sole purpose at the moment was to kill him.

"Dillon!" Brennan called. "They say you're fast. That true?"

He felt the town watching him, waiting for him to respond.

"You don't want to find out, son," he promised, believing it. He had to believe it, or he was doomed already.

"Heard you fell into some misfortune a while back," Brennan taunted. "Maybe you ain't as fast no more. Maybe you're just too old and shot up."

The veteran lawman almost laughed at the kid's voicing of the very suggestion he had been mulling over recently himself. Too old and shot up. He most probably was, not that it mattered. "Why don't you just back away and head on out of town while you still have the chance," he advised, knowing the advice wouldn't be heeded.

The boy laughed, not a pleasant sound. "Why don't you, old man? Admit you're beat, and I'll let you walk outta here. Saw ya come into town with that pretty wife of yours and that baby. Be a shame fer her ta watch ya die screaming in the dirt there with yer guts spillin' out."

The thought of Kitty and Sam as witnesses to his death tore at him, but he fought to keep himself calm. Brennan wanted him distracted, needed for him to be worried, to lose his edge. Well, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction – couldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Whadda ya say, Dillon?"

Matt was through talking. The time for action had arrived, and he just waited.

Brennan smiled, and Matt saw reluctant approval in the young man's cold eyes. "All right, lawman," he conceded. "It's your funeral."

Matt stared into those eyes, ignoring every other part of the boy's body. He never watched the hands twitch, never checked for the feet to move. A man's eyes told the whole story and gave away his draw a hundredth of a second before it happened.

He knew, maybe even before Brennan, when the kid was going to go for the gun. But the blur of the young hand surprised even Matt, and his gun was up and firing quicker than the marshal had anticipated. His own hand had drawn automatically, his finger squeezing the trigger as soon as the iron cleared the leather. His ears heard the double-retort, and he knew that Brennan's bullet had beaten his. The burst of pain at his temple was mercifully short before the survivor of twenty years of gunfights was jerked into a world of total darkness.

XXXX

The first sensations Matt Dillon knew were a throbbing stab in his head and a warm trickle down the side of his face. Those were hardly ever good omens. He was pretty sure he wasn't dead; although, having never been in that state before, he couldn't rely completely on the assumption. In fact, the next thing he noticed might actually support the possibility that he had gone on to meet his maker. Somewhere close by someone was praying, not the soothing, calm tone he would have expected from angels, however. This prayer sounded desperate and persistent.

"Please God. Please God."

Pain, blood, and prayer. The three combined to indicate that something unpleasant had happened, something extremely unpleasant – and it had happened to him.

After a moment, he became aware of the rough ground beneath his back. Having found himself lying on a Dodge street more than once over the years, he conceded that being there once more wasn't a comforting sensation. Concentrating past the pain, he managed to squint open his eyes in an effort to increase his information about the situation and found himself looking up into the agonized face of Doc Adams. As soon as blue eyes met gray, though, the expression changed, and a broad, relieved smile broke across the doctor's weathered features.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Thank God!"

At least Doc's enthusiasm lent support to the theory that he was still alive.

"Doc?" he asked, irritated that his voice sounded so weak. He attempted to push up on his elbows for a better view, but the burn deep in his shoulder forced him back down.

"Matt?"

He turned his head, grimacing at the new bout of torture that movement caused. It was worth it, though, to see Kitty kneeling beside him, fear and tears streaked across her cheeks. She smiled suddenly, bending to kiss him and run her fingers through his hair. But behind the relief, he saw the old haunted look, and it twisted deep inside him to know he put that look there.

"Kitty?"

"You're all right, Matt," she told him, the tears still falling.

He thought so, but it was nice to have confirmation. "Sam?" he asked.

She leaned a little to the side and he saw Hannah standing behind her, his son in the saloon owner's arms.

"Your boy's fine, Marshal," Hannah assured him, smiling. "Just fine."

A hand touched his chin and turned his head straight. "That bullet grazed you pretty good across the temple, Matt," Doc said, voice more than a little shaky, "but you'll be okay."

The marshal crossed his right hand over and up to probe at the aching side of his head, drawing back fingers sticky with blood. "What hap – " he began, but with sudden clarity, he knew, he remembered. Almost desperately, he struggled to rise, frantic to know where Brennan was and what danger they all might still be in. "Help me – up," he ground out, extending his right arm to whoever might take it.

Doc laid a hand on his chest. "You just stay right there," he cautioned quietly, leaning in to explain. "Festus and Newly can take care of that kid. You just stay down."

But Dillon wouldn't let someone else take a bullet meant for him. If Coy Brennan was going to give him the chance to stand again and draw, he'd wipe the blood out of his eyes and do it. He shook his head, regretting that choice immediately as the world spun dizzily. When his vision cleared, he gritted he teeth and dragged his aching body to a half-sitting position without any assistance.

"Matt," Kitty urged, "please stay down and let Festus and Newly handle it."

This time, he grunted out a "no," hoping the kid would at least let him get to his feet before he fired again. "Move – Kitty," he managed past the sudden nausea. "Out of – the way."

"Matt, don't," she begged, trying to hold him down.

"Please," he said, not looking at her, shoving all of his energy into trying to stand. He had managed only to crawl to his knees when a firm hand pushed down on his shoulder.

From behind him, Festus' twang cut in, voice strangely unconcerned. "Ain't no need fer thet."

Doc looked up over Matt's head. "What are you talking about?"

"Ain't no need fer Newly an' me ta tek care of nothin'. Thet boy's arreddy bin took care of."

The physician stepped back so that the marshal could see. At least a dozen men stood like breastworks in the middle of the street. Matt's jaw dropped with the comprehension that these Dodge citizens had purposefully positioned themselves between Brennan and him to draw any subsequent fire that might come from the outlaw. When they saw him staring at them, they parted to reveal the scene beyond. A figure lay crumpled in the dirt, unmoving, a crowd of onlookers hovering over him. A tall, gaunt man bent with the nonchalance of an undertaker, a measuring tape stretching between his hands. Matt realized it was Percy Crump, almost always the first one on hand after a shoot-out.

Doc pushed himself to his feet. "What happened, Festus?"

Haggen shrugged. "As soon as Matthew went down, Floyd an' Burke here an' some of the rest of us weren't gonna let thet boy git away with what he done."

"So you killed him?" Doc surmised, his tone a conflict of accusation and approval.

But the deputy shook his head. "Weren't no need to, Doc."

Newly O'Brien stepped up beside Festus and explained, "The marshal's bullet drilled him right through the heart." He lifted a brow and nodded toward the downed gunman. "Brennan might have been faster, but he wasn't better."

Matt became aware of dozens of eyes on him, staring at him with relief and pride and awe, even those who knew him best. Quickly, he let his gaze drop. As it always had, hero-worship made him uncomfortable.

Nathan Burke stepped toward them. "I saw that fella earlier. He was fast. Real fast. But I knew he couldn't take you, Marshal."

Doc grunted.

"Congratulations, Marshal," Floyd offered.

The strange satisfaction couldn't quite overcome the regret that filled Matt's chest. "There's nothing to congratulate, Floyd," he said, voice heavy.

"'Cept bein' alive," Burke noted. Others in the crowd nodded their agreement.

Except being alive. And he was. Somehow he'd managed yet again to escape the fate he had anticipated since he was seventeen and had lied about his age to be Adam Kimbro's deputy. He wondered how long it would be before fate got tired of giving him chances.

Accepting Festus' and Newly's help, Matt climbed to his feet, despite Doc's protests, swaying slightly with the pounding of his head and the continuing throb of his shoulder. Vaguely aware that half the town followed close behind, he stumbled the twenty-five yards to the prone figure. Brennan lay, slim legs twisted beneath him, crimson blood soaking his shirt through the single bullet hole. Standing over the body of the boy, who was barely old enough to be shooting at rabbits, much less men, Matt pressed his lips together and lamented the waste, even as he gave thanks that he was still around.

Remembering the casual comment the kid had thrown at him just before he drew, Matt sighed deeply and muttered, "No, son, I'm sorry. It's your funeral."

XXXX

"All right, this is gonna sting some," Doc warned a second too late.

Matt sucked in a quick breath at the touch of the alcohol swab against the raw gash Brennan's bullet had cut across his temple.

"Told ya."

"Yeah," the marshal agreed, voice tight. "You did."

"That's gonna need a few stitches, Matt. I can deaden it some, but – "

"That's all right," he grunted, as anxious as always to escape the physician's clutches. Chester had once sewn up his arm without any anesthesia. He figured with Doc's professional touch it couldn't be any worse than that.

But the first prick of the needle into his skin drove him to re-evaluate that decision. "Ow!"

"Well, you said – "

"I know. Just do it."

The doctor clucked his tongue against his teeth, but continued the torture. Matt decided that the process of tugging the ragged ends of the wound together was worse than the needle going through.

"I don't mind tellin' you, I thought that boy might be the one, Matt," Adams admitted quietly as he worked.

Matt shrugged. "Any of them could be the one, Doc."

"Hold still. Yeah, I guess you're right, but he was 'bout as fast as I've ever seen. Killed Ben McClagg just this morning."

The name startled the marshal enough to jerk him away from Doc's hands. "Ben McClagg was in town?"

"I said hold still," the physician scolded. "Yep. I figure he was here for the same reason as Brennan. To kill you."

"Now they're both dead."

"And you're not."

"No one's happier about that than me, Doc," Dillon joked.

But the physician didn't find it funny. "I think I know at least one person who is."

Guiltily, Matt cut his eyes toward Kitty, who stood silently in front of Doc's desk. Now that his thoughts came more clearly, he realized she hadn't spoken since they left the street and climbed the steep stairs to the physician's office. He also noticed that Sam wasn't with her, and he vaguely remembered hearing Hannah offer to take the baby until they were finished.

"He's going to be all right, Doc?" Kitty asked quietly, not meeting her husband's gaze.

Adams' tone seemed a little forced when he answered. "Oh, sure. Good as new."

Without further comment, she turned abruptly and was out the door before either man could say anything to her. As he and Doc stared after her, Matt felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He had seen that look too many times before not to know what it meant, not to realize the world that he had just managed to claw back together was on the verge of bursting apart again.

Adams pulled back, ignoring the needle and suture that hung from the half-closed wound. "You're a fool, Matt Dillon."

There it was. He figured it was coming sometime or another. "You've told me that before, Doc," he reminded stiffly, swallowing the nausea her departure had churned up.

"I'm serious, Matt. You go through hell for eight months without her, almost get yourself killed after you find her. Discover you have a son. You go to all the trouble of marrying her and bringing her back here – just to let it start all over again?"

The passion on the older man's face startled the marshal into momentary silence.

"Do you have any idea what Kitty goes through when you're standing out there just inviting the world to take shots at you?"

"Doc – "

"Can't you see how it tears her up? You can say that's why you told her all those years you'd never marry, but it didn't matter to her. She was in just as much agony before you put that ring on her finger."

"Doc – "

Adams was good and worked up now. "Damn it, why do you think she left in the first place? My God, man, look at what you have. Look what you'd lose!"

Anger finally drew down Dillon's brow, creasing the injury and making him flinch, but he ignored it. In an uncharacteristic moment of ire, he snapped, "Yes! I know what Kitty goes through. Yes, I know it tears her up – it always tore her up. And yes, I know what I'd lose!" He caught his breath, the next words slipping out before he realized what he had said. "Why the hell do you think I resigned?"

Doc stared at him, and the marshal grimaced. He hadn't meant for his friend to find out about it that way.

"Doc, I'm sorry – "

But the physician didn't seem surprised. Quiet again, he admitted, "No need. Kitty told me about it. I guess I should say congratulations."

"Yeah." The rage vanished just as quickly as it had arrived.

"Look, I'm – I'm sorry about – well, not much you coulda done about Brennan, I guess."

"Not much," Matt sighed. "The War Department wants me to work through the end of the year. I'll turn in my badge then." Turn in my badge. He twisted those words over in his head, not quite able to grasp the finality of them.

"Then what?"

Then what, indeed? "Don't know. Ranching, maybe." His eyes stared ahead past the man who knew him better than anyone else – except Kitty.

"Ranching's not a bad choice," Adams decided. "You know a lot about horses."

"The Pinkerton Agency has been after me the past few years to come work for them," he revealed, wincing when Doc was the one who jerked this time. "Ow!"

"Pinkerton?" Adams echoed. "That's still law enforcement, isn't it?"

Matt pursed his lips. "Not the same. Detective work. Protecting important people."

"Hmph."

"You don't agree?"

"Matt, you've put yourself in danger for over twenty years protecting the people of Kansas and, well, all over. Don't you figure you've earned a chance to relax and not have folks waiting around every store front to kill ya'?"

The marshal looked at his old friend in surprise. Surely, Doc knew that wasn't possible. Resigned to something he'd have to deal with for the rest of his life, Matt said gently, "There are going to be folks after me forever, Doc. Don't you know that? Men I sent to prison five, ten, maybe twenty years ago. Men who haven't thought of anything else but paying me back first chance they get. My retiring might make Kitty feel better, but it won't change anything. I'm still a target. I always will be, and there's no changing that." His eyes closed against the old fear, the fear he had fought so long, the fear that had kept that ring off Kitty's finger for so long, the fear that was now reality. His voice broke on the next words. "And now Kitty and Sam will be targets, too."

Gritting his teeth, he saw the revelation hit Doc with the force of a gut punch, watched as Adams' eyes burned in understanding and horrible comprehension. Finally, swishing a hand over his mustache, the physician nodded and lifted his fingers to continue closing the wound, his silence saying more than any words.

Lips pressed as tight as he could get them, Matt managed to make it through the rest of the process without a groan – at least outwardly.

"There," Doc announced, leaning back and surveying his work. "Not bad. Not bad. I don't expect any fancy New Orleans doctor could have done any better." His voice was purposefully light, ignoring the dire prediction the marshal had made.

Matt appreciated the gesture. "I don't expect he could," he agreed graciously, fully believing it.

The final move was to place a protective bandage over the stitches. That done, Doc turned his attention to other injuries. "Let's get a look at that shoulder, now. Kitty told me that knife went pretty deep."

Not admitting to the ache that persisted, the marshal shook his head and slid off the table. "It's fine." But the move jarred him and brought a new grimace to his face.

"Yeah, I can see that," Doc said sarcastically. "You got somewhere to be?"

He glanced toward the door that Kitty had swung through, wondering if she would be at the hotel waiting for him, or if she had just realized what a terrible mistake she had made and was already waiting at the station for the next New Orleans-bound train.

Doc's eyes followed the marshal's gaze. "Oh, well, sure. I understand. Okay, I want to see you first thing in the morning about that shoulder."

"Yeah," Matt agreed, entirely too quickly. Not bothering to put his coat back on, he simply draped it over his right arm and headed for the door.

"Matt," Doc called before he walked out.

He turned, more than a little anxious to leave.

"Put that arm back in the sling."

Dillon pressed his lips tight but complied.

"Matt?" he heard again.

"What?" He winced. He hadn't meant to be quite so sharp. "What?" he repeated, more politely.

The doctor stepped toward him, eyes cutting up in clear warning. "You just barely missed a serious injury to your head, and you're still recovering from one to your shoulder. Take it easy."

"Sure," he agreed, turning.

But the voice stopped him once more. "I don't guess I need to ask you about that arm."

Matt frowned. "I told you, it's – "

"I meant your right arm, Matt."

He stopped, not having even though much about the gun arm. It had worked. That's all he asked of it. "Oh."

"Coy Brennan's proof you're still just as fast."

"He was faster, Doc," Matt pointed out.

"Not by much. Plus, faster doesn't mean so much when you can't hit the target."

The marshal winced against the pain in his head. "He hit the target," he said ruefully.

Adams shook his head and pointed a finger at Dillon's chest. "That was his target."

XXXX

Normally, the Dodge House was a quick walk from Doc's office, but it took Matt nearly ten minutes to make it. Scores of townsfolk stopped him to welcome him back, to congratulate him on his marriage and his son, to express their relief that he was okay, to convey their confidence in his abilities. By the time he finally escaped through the hotel doors, he was almost frantic to get to Kitty. He tried to assure himself that she still waited for him, but the few moments in Doc's office and the haunted look in her eyes as she knelt beside him on the street stole most of his forced confidence.

"Marshal!" Mister Dobie welcomed as he entered. "Are you all right?"

The marshal nodded his head gingerly, still aware of the throbbing temple. He hadn't let Doc give him any laudanum. "I'm fine," he assured the hotel owner, even though he figured he probably didn't look fine at all. A long-buried memory nudged at him, though, and he smiled genuinely. "Mister Dobie, I don't believe I ever thanked you for your kindness in providing me with a room here."

The older man shrugged away the appreciation casually, but Matt read the pleasure in his eyes. "It was no problem, Marshal. I'm glad I could help."

"Well, I know you were generous in the one you chose. Thank you. And I know Kitty will be comfortable here until we can get a place of our own." He turned to stride up the stairs.

Dobie's smile faded slightly. "Oh, Marshal, Miss Kitty's not up there."

Matt almost stumbled on the step, the blood draining from his face, a sudden sickness churning in his stomach. With effort, he forced his body around to face Dobie. "W – what?"

The hotel owner offered a perplexed smile and handed Matt a folded piece of paper. "She left a message for you."

A message?

Oh, God. A message.

He held the paper in trembling fingers for a long moment, heart in his throat, dreading what he would see. She'd had enough. She'd realized things weren't going to change. She'd made a mistake and was taking Sam and going back to New Orleans. She didn't want him to come after her again.

Almost choking on the possibilities that his mind cruelly conjured, he steeled himself and slid his fingers into the folds of the note, opening it. Kitty's firm, no-nonsense script greeted him as he read the few words she had written. Their impact weakened his knees and took his breath. He fought to remain upright.

"Oh, Kitty," he murmured, closing his eyes.

"Marshal?" Dobie's voice asked, concern sharpening the tone. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Dillon's eyes opened and met the hotel manager's, but he couldn't answer.

TBC