Well, guys, this is it, the really, for sure, definitely, final end to "Haunted Heart." I just realized that I first posted this story a YEAR ago, never imagining it would go on for so long. You all have been so supportive and encouraging with every chapter, making me want to make it better and better for you – which is probably why it took so long! I wanted to make sure you weren't disappointed.

This is not a long epilogue, as I had mentioned before, but I hope it brings things full circle and wraps it up. I am sort of sad to be done with it, but also relieved. Now I can pay lots of attention to the other marvelous stories everyone else is posting. Plus, I can allow those new ideas that have been popping into my head to grow. (I almost feel like Kitty – like I have birthed a baby, which I think is how Margaret Mitchell described writing Gone with the Wind. Not to say I am comparing myself in the least with Margaret Mitchell!) Anyway, enjoy this finale! And many, many, MANY thanks to everyone!

Haunted Heart

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

Epilogue: So Full

POV: Matt

Spoilers: None to worry about

Rating: PG-13 (Teen)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam and Mia (with some help from Matt and Kitty).

XXXX

Matt Dillon snapped out an expletive at the sharp pain that jabbed his back as he lowered himself onto the bedroll. Wincing, he glanced around sheepishly, but there was no one else to hear him, except for the prairie dogs and coyotes, who remained politely discreet. Settling back and folding his arms behind his head, he gazed up into the night sky, at the stars sprayed generously across the heavens. It was almost peaceful enough to help him ignore the hard ground beneath his bedroll – but not quite. He had nearly forgotten how unforgiving the prairie floor could be, agitating every scar from every bullet he had ever taken.

The veteran lawman considered that he was most probably getting soft, not being on the trail nearly as frequently nowadays. In fact, this particular outing was the first time he had slept away from his comfortable bed – and bed partner – in at least six months. Not that his joints and muscles, victims of years of abuse, had been complaining about the respite. Now that they were taxed again, they objected more fervently than usual. With the rest of his group already headed to their respective homes, he could indulge again in a grunt or groan – or occasional bit of profanity.

As he lay watching the twinkling display, a familiar sight as comforting as an old friend, he found his thoughts returning to another night three years earlier, a night he had lain almost in this very spot, a night he had thought would change his life. And it certainly had, but not at all the way he planned.

Early hardships had taught the young Matthew Dillon that to succeed – indeed, to survive – he must become a man who needed nothing and no one, a man who would forever be alone. Oh, he had friends, buddies, but he never let himself get close to any of them. The wild bunch he rode with as a very young man was just as likely to die from a bullet as he was. And when he turned to the law, he understood there were no guarantees that when he woke each day he would live to see another sunrise. That philosophy had served him well. No strings to be tangled in, no relationships to worry about, no chains to bind – except those of iron that bound him to the badge.

The armor of "marshal" protected him – and others – from the pain of closeness to a man whose days were undoubtedly numbered. Through the years, though, as he realized that humans did need some connection with their fellow humans, he had reluctantly allowed a few chinks in that armor: Doc, Chester, Festus. Maybe even Quint and Thad, to some degree. Those chinks he could handle. Those chinks he could control.

But he hadn't anticipated the chink – more like the crevasse – that had chiseled her way through that armor until his treasured protection split wide open, baring him completely to her. Suddenly, uncomfortably, and marvelously, Matt Dillon wasn't alone anymore. The lessons of childhood reached deep, though, and for years he fought against real acknowledgment of that chink, pushed back his heart's urges in order to protect himself – and her – from what he knew was inevitable. He was a lawman. He made that clear to her. He would probably not live to see his 30th birthday. She accepted it. Then the birthday came and went, and he kept on going – they kept on going. And somehow, he made the 40th birthday, and he kept on going – they kept on going.

There were times he thought it was over – both for him and for them – but they kept going. Even after the dark days three years before –

The thoughts drifted from his head and spread to his gut, churning and roiling until he cursed again and forced them away with the amazing visions of what had come from that awful time. Fate had a weird way of twisting a man's delusion of control. He could never have imagined that night that we would be lying there again, about to head home – not to a musty jail house, or even to Kitty's boudoir, but to a home, his home, filled with his children and his wife. Amazingly, he would be turning 50 in a couple of days. And he kept on going – they kept on going.

He shifted under the coarse blanket, grimacing and grunting with the sharp jolt of pain. Usually, his leg won the prize for bothering him the most, but tonight his back decided to claim the title. Chuckling, even past the ache, he decided he would have to get over that fast, since both Sam and Mia would expect piggy-back rides when he returned. A smile lifted his lips automatically as he thought of his children and the unconditional love that waited for him at home. How very fortunate he and Kitty were. Both the children were healthy and happy. During his latest visit, Doc had sworn that they would be ten feet tall if they kept growing like they were. Sam's big eyes had widened as he exclaimed, "That's almost as big as Papa!" Just past her first birthday, Mia had simply stared up at her towering father and considered the possibility.

The grimace spread into a broad smile. Sam was a constant joy – and a constant challenge. Curious, boisterous, and smart, the little boy kept his parents on their toes. Although just as intelligent and curious as her older sibling, Kathleen Maria Dillon was quiet and observant. Kitty said she was like her father, but Matt saw her in the child, as well.

She had acquired the nickname "Mia" within 24 hours of her birth, compliments of her big brother. As soon as Bess Roninger delivered Sam back home, he bounded in to visit his little sister, asking if she could go outside and play Indians with him. To his great disappointment, he had discovered the baby was not much in the way of entertainment, but at his parents' prompting, he had made an effort to welcome her. When the twenty-month old had attempted to get his mouth around the name "Maria," though, "Mia" emerged. Matt had grinned and looked over the boy's rust-colored curls at his wife, both of them knowing instantly that the little girl was forever christened.

At the thought of Kitty again, he let himself wonder what she was doing that night, imagined her waiting for him, clothed only in the shadows, opening her arms to draw him close, running her fingers over his aches, kissing his scars and rubbing away the tightness of his muscles. As usual when he pictured her, his body responded, the material of his trousers tightening pleasantly. He might be turning 50, but just the thought of his fiery, beautiful redhead could still make him rock hard.

He was almost there. Tomorrow night he would be home in his soft bed with his beautiful woman, and he'd leave the unforgiving prairie ground to the dogs and coyotes.

XXXX

It was well past dark when he and Buck finally turned onto the road that passed by the Dillon house. Despite his determination to get home that night, exhaustion argued with him just to stop and bed down under the stars again, but the alluring vision of his bed – with Kitty waiting for him in it – kept him moving. Besides, he had promised her he'd be home tonight, and she had promised him –

He grinned to himself. He definitely didn't want to miss out on what she had promised him.

It wouldn't be long now, anyway. He ran a hand over the rough stubble of his jaw and briefly contemplated stopping by Silver Creek and freshening up, but he couldn't wait. Almost two weeks away had made him eager and impatient. Maybe she'd like to watch him shave later –

Only a few hundred yards separated them, now. It almost seemed as if even the stand of trees that shielded them from the road parted for him in welcome. Yes sir, it would be good to be home –

It was said among many of the outlaws he had bested that Matt Dillon had a sixth sense about him, an intuition that gave him an edge over other men. The lawman himself might not have believed in a sixth sense, but he had experienced enough "feelings" in his career to know not to ignore it. He just hadn't expected it at that particular time. Despite the heat of the evening, a sudden chill rushed over him, raising the hair at the back of his neck. Tugging at Buck's reins, he squinted into the darkness toward the house, his heart suddenly thudding against his chest. With a cock of his head, he listened for any sound, any sign of danger. Something was different. Something –

The soft whinny of a horse floated back to him, nothing unusual by itself. He had several horses in the corral. But for some reason –

Another horse answered the first one. Then another. Cautiously, he urged Buck forward, still straining to see into the moonless night. Behind him, an owl hooted, and he started, frowning at himself. After a few minutes, he came around the slight curve that revealed the frame structure. Jerking back on the reins again, he pulled Buck to a halt, his frown deepening at the sight before him. Lamps glowed inside, illuminating people, some sitting, some standing. Outside, several rigs – quite a few, in fact – were hitched around the yard. That explained the horses. As he eased his own horse forward again, he recognized Doc's buggy, and his heart pounded even harder. Beside it was Hannah's carriage, and next to that the Roniger's wagon.

His throat went dry. The only reason for such a gathering was sickness, or – Heaven forbid – death. Fear churned in his stomach, so strong it almost made him sick. Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he dug his spurs into Buck's sides, breaking the horse into a quick trot to complete the distance to the house. Without even tying up the animal, he threw himself off the mount, so focused on what terrible scene he might encounter he was oblivious to the pain in his knee.

Steeling himself, he strode onto the porch and grasped the doorknob, closing his eyes for a moment to gather up that last bit of strength to stand firm against what awaited him. Then, he turned his hand and took one long step inside, ready for the worst.

The tableau before him froze, almost like one of those Currier and Ives Christmas lithographs Doc had given them last year, each subject in various positions across the room. His quick eyes took in Hannah and Edsel Pry to his right, glasses in their hands. Doc lounged in the oversized rocking chair by the fireplace, surrounded by Mr. Bodkin, Newly, and Mr. Dobie, their expressions animated. Festus seemed to be holding court in the midst of a group of children, who had turned from him and now stared, open-mouthed toward the door. Other citizens of Dodge looked at him, their faces taut, as if he had caught them by surprise. Finally, he saw Kitty standing a few feet away, her blue eyes wide.

It took only a few seconds for the scene to thaw. More like it shattered with the eruption of squeals from somewhere within Festus' audience, and two whirlwinds suddenly swirled up his legs and into his waiting arms.

"Pa-pa!"

"Papa! Papa's home! Papa's home!"

The shock of their greeting, and the obvious lack of any grand demise of anyone in the room, broke through his fear. Catching up his clamoring children, hugging them tightly; then, tucking one in the crook of each arm, he looked back up toward his wife, bemused.

"Kitty, what the he– " Abruptly, he caught himself. He wasn't alone on the prairie anymore. "What on earth is going on?"

She glanced around at the crowd, all them grinning widely over witnessing the big, strong lawman's paternal display, and shrugged. Lifting the glass in her right hand, she smiled and said, "Happy Birthday, Cowboy."

XXXX

That night he lay again, watching the stars strewn across the velvet black heavens, but this time it was through window panes, and instead of a coarse blanket for cover, he was draped with something much warmer – and softer. Still trying to catch his breath after his powerful release, he lifted a hand and brushed through her red tresses as they spread out over his chest. They hadn't moved since they had reached the exquisite peak of their pleasure several minutes before. Kitty lay on top of him, their bodies still connected in the most intimate of embraces.

"How'd you like your birthday present?" she murmured, too spent to lift her head.

She had given him a new hat and coat, as well as dress pants, claiming that his new position warranted that he keep his "good" clothes in shape. It was no secret, either, that she liked him in the gray jacket. She liked him a lot. He was happy to oblige her.

"The coat's very nice, Kitty," he allowed, letting his hand slip lower down her back. "I'll be quite the dude in it."

Her chuckle shook them both slightly. "You'll never be a 'dude,' Matt Dillon," she declared as she dragged her arms up and crossed them on his chest, lifting her head to look down at him. "But I wasn't talking about the coat."

Ah. Raising his other hand and embracing her fully, he grinned. "Oh, that present." He shrugged easily and offered, "Not bad."

With feigned indignation, she pushed away, and he was instantly sorry he had teased her as their bodies separated. "Not bad? Maybe you think someone else could do better – "

Tugging her back down, he kissed her thoroughly, moving his mouth on hers until they both had to break away to breathe. "There's no one better," he told her, his voice deep with sincerity.

The smirk he loved – and sometimes feared – made her look rather impish. "How would you know?" she challenged.

Oops. "There couldn't be. You, Kathleen Dillon, are the most incredible woman in the world."

"Yeah, nice try."

His lips slid down her neck. "Nice enough?"

She groaned and arched back. "Oh, yeah."

"Kitty," he whispered, a sudden need overwhelming him. "You are so beautiful. And Sam and Mia are – " He wasn't sure there were words to describe how he felt about his children. "I'm so sorry it took me all those years to see – "

Slender fingers pressed gently against his lips, stopping him. Her eyes shimmered as a tremulous smile lifted her mouth. "Shh. We've gone there already, Cowboy. If it weren't for all those years, we might not have these years. No regrets, right? Didn't you tell Newly that once?"

He nodded, wondering how she knew what he'd said to Newly.

"Face it, Matt Dillon. I love you. I've loved you since that first rainy day in Dodge, and I'll love you to the last. Count on it."

God, how he did.

Clutching her to him, he buried his face against her neck, fighting the hot tears that threatened his clinging hold on his emotions. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he allowed himself to loosen his grip, feeling her lips in his hair, her hands on his back. They held each other tenderly, having no need to talk.

Finally, he placed a soft kiss on the swell of her breast and cleared his throat, leaning back against the pillows. "Thanks for the massage, by the way," he offered, lightening the mood. "I'm not sure I could have done what we just did without you loosening up my muscles."

An amused grunt answered him. "You could have. You just might not have been able to do it twice."

Despite his relative lack of ego, he allowed himself a proud growl. "Damn right."

Kitty laughed fondly and looked down at him, her eyes snapping. "Third time's the charm," she challenged boldly.

Already his knee had begun to throb again, and his back issued more than just a twinge. But she had challenged him. "Maybe if you give me another massage," he proposed, "I'll be up for it."

Wickedly, she reached down between them, drawing a gasp from him. "Oh, I don't think another massage will be necessary," she said, squeezing firmly, "but never let it be said that Kitty Russell – "

"Dillon."

"That Kitty Dillon wasn't accommodating."

And she proceeded to be very accommodating, indeed.

But as their passions re-ignited, before he gave up all conscious thought, he couldn't help looking at her once more, his heart almost bursting with the emotions he never really would completely let loose, and considered how much different this homecoming was compared to that gut-wrenching return three years before when he had strolled into the Long Branch and found out she was gone. A man who had always lived in the present and taken things as they came, he rarely contemplated the "what-ifs." But sometimes he considered what might have happened if Kitty hadn't left, or if he hadn't gone after her, or if he hadn't found her when he did go after her. Where would he be tonight? Would he be lying on a hard cot in a musty jail? Would he be lying, alone, out on the prairie? Or would he be lying eternally up on Boot Hill?

The sensation of her hot flesh taking him deep inside thrust the philosophical thoughts to the back of his mind. They didn't matter, anyway. God had been merciful to him once again. Kitty had been merciful. Instead of the jail or the prairie – or Boot Hill – he was lying in a soft, warm bed, making love to a beautiful, vibrant woman, their two happy, healthy children sleeping just a few feet away.

Breaking the vow ingrained from childhood, Matt Dillon had stopped being alone. And his heart, which was once so haunted, was peaceful and calm.

And so very, very full.

END

"In the night though we're apart,

There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.

Ghost of you, my lost romance,

Lips that laugh, eyes that dance.

Haunted heart won't let me be,

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart.

Time rolls on trying in vain to cure me.

You are gone but you remain to lure me.

You're there in the dark and I call,

You're there but you're not there at all.

Oh, what will I do without you, without you.

Haunted heart, won't let me be.

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart."

"Haunted Heart"

1948

Lyrics: Howard Dietz

Music: Arthur Schwartz