Defend Me from My Friends

Chapter Nine: That Law Dog is Dead

POV: Kitty

Kitty Russell reeled with the vicious slap Jake Layton laid across her cheek. Stumbling back against the hearth, she barely missed cracking her head open on the jagged stones.

"Bitch!" he snarled, left hand cupping his own jaw where three slashes oozed red from her nails. "Don't you git all high an' mighty with me! You think I'm gonna pay fer it or somethin'?" His hulking body advanced on her menacingly, his right arm raised to strike again.

Blouse ripped, hair wild, she backed away from him, knowing there was no way out, no alternative to his attack – and no U.S. marshal to save her from this fate. A sob escaped her at that thought.

"Shut up!" the outlaw spat as he swung, his blow snapping her head back and knocking her to the floor.

She raised an arm, knowing the gesture was futile, as he hovered over her.

"Layton!" Glenn Cantrell's voice sounded flat against the log walls, but it was enough to make the other man pause – and to draw a relieved sigh from Kitty.

But Layton didn't shift his glare or lower his arm. "Get the hell outta here, Cantrell. Don't need more 'a yer bleedin' heart fer this whore."

Cantrell shrugged. "I don't care about her. I'm just thinkin' that if Dillon shows up he'll be easier to manage if she's still alive and not hurt."

"Dillon?" Layton spat, finally turning back toward the door. "That law dog is dead, or close enough not to make no difference. We ain't gotta worry 'bout him."

Cocking his head as if he was considering the other man's statement, Cantrell said, "Yer probably right, but I've known Matt Dillon since we wuz young 'uns, and he don't die so easy."

"You tellin' me you didn't plug him good enough?"

"No. I'm telling you any other man would be singin' with the angels, or the devil, but Dillon – " He shrugged.

Kitty's heart pounded from both Layton's attack and hearing Matt's name. She prayed Cantrell was right at least about Matt still being alive, but she wasn't sure she wanted to see him come after her. He wouldn't stand much of a chance against the rested, well-armed outlaws, especially in the shape she last saw him.

With a cackle, Layton spun around to face her again. "I'll take my chances. If Dillon's alive, he shore ain't gonna be showin' up here." His leer widened as he stepped closer to Kitty. "Now Red, you try them claws again and see what ol' Jake'll do to ya."

Trapped against the stones of the fireplace, she fumbled for something to grab, something to smash against the side of that oily head, though she knew Cantrell would be on her even if she should manage to take Layton down.

"Jake!" one of the other men called from outside, pulling Layton away just as her fingers wrapped around a broken rock.

"Damn it!" he yelled, pushing past Cantrell and stomping across the threshold.

Kitty slumped, letting her hand relax around the impromptu weapon. Her gaze met Cantrell's black eyes and held for a moment, but she couldn't read anything in them. After a few seconds he ducked out the doorway, leaving her alone once more, although she could still hear their argument in the yard.

"Ain't nothin' out there," Layton growled. "Yer all getting' skittish. Been here too damn long. Where the hell is Ox anyway?"

"He'll be here," Cantrell assured him. "Takes a while from the border."

"He'd damn well better hurry or we're gonna take that Dodge bank without him."

Kitty closed her eyes, knowing there was no way for her to get word back to town to warn them – to warn Matt.

"With Dillon dead," Layton continued confidently, "we kin jest walk right in. We wait too long and they'll have them another lawman in town."

And then the bank suddenly seemed unimportant as nausea rose in Kitty's throat at the image of Matt's strong body cold and still, his beautiful eyes glazed and unseeing. She pushed away that horrendous picture, desperately envisioning her man whole, healthy, and standing tall before her.

Leaning her trembling body against the fireplace, she looked around at her meager surroundings. Art Dunbar's place was a one-room cabin abandoned three years earlier when its owner had given up on raising sheep and headed to Denver for the promise of riches at the big city gambling tables. Last any of them heard, Ol' Artie was just as poor these three years later.

But Kitty didn't spend any time pondering Artie's fate as she sat on a crude cot, the dirt floor damp and earthy smelling, the rough-hewn logs, which had never really fit well together, now dotted with holes that let in shafts of daylight to splotch the tiny one-room dwelling as if it had been painted that way. She was way too busy pondering how the hell she was going to get out of this bleak situation and back to Matt. Her last vision of him haunted her: prostrate on the floor of her office, reaching out in vain toward Layton or Cantrell or her even as his head fell back and his eyes closed. Surely Chester found him, got him to Doc's, saved him. She could not allow herself to think otherwise. If she did, her own fate was doomed, because there would be no reason to fight, no reason to survive. So she clung to the hope that Matt was safe, and that somehow she would be also.

Exactly how that would happen, however, she hadn't quite figured out yet.

TBC