author's note - anxiety issues, panic attacks and post traumatic stress disorder are real medical diagnoses. They are not a symptom of weakness. In fact, some of the strongest people suffer in silence from these isolating and debilitating conditions.
2
Matt Dillon quickly improved and other than a crease to his forehead and a bruise to his cheekbone was back to normal by the end of he week.
Regaining normalcy wasn't as easy for Kitty. The nightmare returned that night and every night to follow. She would awaken in a heart-pounding, muscle-seizing sweat. What was worse, the dream lived in her subconscious, unpredictable, yet striking with accuracy in a place of it's own time and choosing. A blink of an eye or a sudden noise brought night to day, causing fingers to tremble and pulse to race. She was filled by a panic that made her want to scream in fear. Silently, she chided herself for this perceived weakness, she, who had always been proud of her own inner strength.
It was obvious to those who cared about her that she was struggling, her eyes were shadowed by sleeplessness and her usually robust appetite suffered. When asked if she was alright, she would deny any problem, other than a restless night.
He knew better, and between the various obligations of his work, worried about her. He consulted Doc Adams, one night after his late rounds. The two sat in the shadows of a low lit lamp, drinking medicinal brandy in the old man's office.
The physician, in a rumpled and threadbare suit, that grew larger on his aging frame with each passing year — leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, "Well, good heavens Matt, this is nothing new." He took a sip of his drink. "Kitty's the strongest woman I know. Hard as nails, that's how she puts it. We know that's not exactly the truth. Every time you've been injured, shot at in the line of duty, it's taken a toll on her." He took off his glasses to look at his friend, "that's the price she pays for caring about you." He sucked on an eye tooth before finishing, "up to now you've been worth the cost."
Dillon leaned forward resting forearms on thighs, "I wouldn't call that a fair deal for Kitty."
"Life isn't fair, you know that better than anyone … it's just a series of trade-offs."
xoxo
He stopped by the Long Branch the next morning and invited her to supper, promising he would give her his undivided attention. He put Festus and Newly on alert telling them, they should handle anything other than 'hell or high water'.
"Sure thing Matthew, you can count on ol' Newly n' me." Festus promised.
He made a visit to Mr. Lathrop's store to pick out a box of the French Chocolates he'd seen advertised in the Dodge City Free Press and added a length of blue ribbon to wrap it up in. For the occasion, the Marshal dressed in his courting jacket and wore the blue shirt she was so partial to. They dined at Delmonico's, enjoying a table at the back and steak prepared especially for them. They returned to her rooms, where they drank Napoleon brandy and made sweet, gentle love late into the night. When sleep came, he curved his long body close behind her's, hand to bosom, his breath warm and sure on her neck.
Even in such safe circumstances, the dream returned with a fierce strength. She, in her sleep, fought the demons; striking out; crying out. Dillon awoke beside her and placed a caring hand to her face, he spoke in a soothing voice, "It's only a dream Kitty. I'm not dead, I'm right here. I'm fine."
"No, no, no." she cried and in her mind, he was in the street after Mace Gore's men had gunned him down. Doc's voice reverberated in her head, "Nothing I can do, nothing I can do …" and then, Doc and Festus were leading her away and she was fighting to stay by Matt's side and the only word she could utter was, 'no'. Her dream was as real as life, as certain as death and she struggled, as an animal in a trap, to fight free of the terror.
Unable to soothe her with words, Dillon rolled on top of her, bearing his weight on his elbows, taking her shoulders in his hands, "Listen to me …"
She fought harder. "Kitty …" He tried again. She was caught in the hinter world, neither awake nor asleep, but trapped in that terrifying place between — where nightmares and premonitions reign. He shook her with force, yet still she struggled, he bore his weight upon her — he released her shoulders to capture her fighting hands, stilling them; twining their fingers together. Kissing her, he finally silenced her cries; and when he felt her respond, he breathed into her open mouth, "I'm alive."
Their coupling was frantic, the earlier sweet gentleness forsaken, replaced by hard desperate need, the driving force — the tremulous uncertainty of tomorrow, with sweat dampened bodies and throaty cries, pleading the other for release, they strove for the peak together.
XOXO
In the morning, he made coffee for them while she finished getting dressed. He set the little table in front of the window, with her blue willow china and opened a tin of the english biscuits she enjoyed with her first morning coffee.
"Breakfast is ready when you are." He announced placing the pot on the table.
"Thanks and thanks for last night too." She told him, speaking to his reflection in her mirror.
"I was under the impression what happened last night was for the benefit of both of us. No thanks needed Ma'am."
Her face was serious, "Matt … I … "
He shook his head at her in kind admonition, stopping her from saying anything more. She nodded, it was part of their unwritten contract, words not necessary.
Dressed in blue wool, with her hair coiled on her head, Kitty was sitting on the fancy stool in front of her dressing table pulling on a pair of old grey wool socks.
Dillon watched her for a moment and then asked, "What are those!?"
She looked at him quizzically, "Wool socks. In case you haven't noticed, it's winter outside. I have cold feet."
He laughed out loud, "Miss Kitty, you've always accused me of being the one with cold feet." He did a double take and scowled, "Hey! Those are my socks!" He exclaimed.
"Yes." She admitted sheepishly.
"S'that why you gave me six pairs for Christmas?"
A nod on her part, "I felt guilty."
"Why didn't you just save a pair for yourself, at least they would have been new?"
"I like having yours."
"Humpf." He was scowling, trying to picture her sneaking around, stealing his socks from the jailhouse. "How did you get them?"
She enjoyed the confusion played on his face, "You left them here last month … that night someone tried to rob the General Store."
"Oh yeah," His smile widened at the memory. "… seems to me I left something else behind that night too. Don't tell me you're wearing my long johns? I don't know that I can handle that picture."
She laughed, "No, they had holes in them, I tossed them out."
He shook his head, watching as she slipped her feet into her riding boots, which represented the only footwear she owned that could accommodate the bulky socks, "Can't think why you'd want my smelly old socks rather than something new and pretty on your feet. Now, I know what to get you for your birthday next month."
She stuck her chin out a bit, "I'm perfectly happy with these. They're warm and clean, they don't stink anymore and I shrunk them."
He frowned again but his eyes were twinkling,"So, why didn't you buy me long johns for Christmas too?"
She stood, and reached up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, "Mister, you need a wife for that, until then, you buy your own underwear."