Defend Me from My Friends

by MAHC (Amanda)

Chapter Thirteen: It's Okay

POV: Matt

The swarm of grays and browns and butternuts clashed with blue, bayonets flashing silver against the sun. His ears filled with the popping of gunfire, his nose with the acrid smell of gunpowder, his mouth with the bitterness of war and death. Grown men screamed in agony as lead ripped into their throats, and grapeshot tore through their guts. They lay writhing on the ground, raw flesh and organs making the air heavy and putrid. It was a horrible sight for a young man, even one who had already seen too much of life.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

Matt barely heard the orders over the chaos around him. He had expected them, though, after the nearby companies had been pulled away to plug a gap in another part of the line. Someone had made a mistake. Someone hadn't known what those men at the front had known. But Matt wasn't in charge, wasn't the man directing battalions.

"Come on, Sergeant!" his lieutenant called, waving his hand with impatience. "Let's get those men mov – "

The spray of blood and brains created almost an artistic effect, a momentary halo in the rays of the afternoon sun. The lieutenant looked stunned, his mouth open, even as the bullet smashed through his skull. His fall seemed impossibly slow to Matt, who watched, heart pounding, stomach roiling.

But training kicked in, and the young sergeant spun, his brand new Spencer carbine up and firing with accuracy honed from too many years of experience in one so young. The Johnny Reb who had done in his lieutenant cried out, flying backwards, but Matt saw enough in the one glimpse he had to bring a cry of disbelief to his lips.

"Glenn!"

It had been five years since he'd seen his friend, but they had gone through enough as boys on the verge of manhood to be bonded. He called out again; no one answered amid the louder shouts from both gray and blue.

"Whatta we do now, Sergeant?" someone asked.

Matt turned to see at least twelve men staring at him, their eyes wide, chests heaving. Fall back had been the order, and he had no reason to contradict it. The Rebels were about to overtake them. He had an obligation to his men. His men. Suddenly, at 23, he was in charge of the entire company.

"Fall back!" he ordered, voice hard, confident, masking a fear he couldn't suppress. "Head for Thomas' Corps. Go!"

And they went, scrambling from the lost ground without looking back. Matt watched for another few beats before turning around. Glenn Cantrell still lay fifty yards before him. Gritting his teeth, Matt sprinted through the sparse stand of trees, dodging Minié balls, until he reached his old friend. The chest still rose and fell, and he breathed thanks for that.

"Matt?" Cantrell asked, tone clearly doubtful.

"Take it easy, Glenn. I'm gonna get you outta here." Heaving the enemy over his wide shoulders, he ran toward the Confederate lines, mumbling all the way, "I'm sorry, Glenn, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Matt," Glenn told him.

"It's okay."

"It's okay." But the voice wasn't Glenn's anymore. It grew softer, richer, loving. And he knew there was only one person that voice belonged to.

XXX

Matt Dillon had never been run over by a stagecoach team, but he figured he knew now what it might feel like. His entire body throbbed in an irritating variety of rhythms that pounded over his ribs, across his back, down his legs, and most excruciatingly, through his thigh and his skull. As he realized he was conscious – and apparently still alive – he fought to gather enough strength to open his eyes, a move he instantly regretted and reversed as light from somewhere almost blinded him.

Don't do that again, his brain admonished, but he ignored it and tried once more, this time cautiously and slowly, barely squinting until he could make out shapes enough to assess his surroundings. He didn't need to look long to find reassurance.

"It's okay," she continued to soothe, until her eyes suddenly met his. "Matt!" Her voice grated with ragged relief and raw joy. Leaning over him, she looked haggard and anxious and exhausted – and absolutely beautiful.

"Kitty," he tried to answer but was pretty sure he failed.

Her arms were around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, her tears wetting his cheek. "Oh, Matt! I thought – I thought you –"

He knew what she thought. He had thought the same thing there for a little while. Swallowing, he tried again to speak, this time with mild success. "I'm okay – Kitty."

"Of course you're not," she responded through choked sobs, but as she pulled back he saw the smile on her lips. "But you're going to be. Oh, Cowboy, I was so afraid that – "

He mustered a weak smile of his own, not sure she could actually tell. "Tell me – what – happened. Where – are we?"

Visibly fighting to control her emotions, she sucked in a calming breath and wiped at her eyes. "Well," she began, cupping his jaw in her palm, "Cantrell tried to kill you. He just – he just shot you." Her newly won control cracked. "Oh, Matt, he just – "

He shook his head, then gasped at the pain that knifed through his skull.

"Stay still," she urged him unnecessarily. "I don't know how he missed, but somehow that bullet grazed you instead of – of – "

Teeth gritted, he managed, "Didn't – miss."

"What do you mean he didn't miss? That bullet could have gone right through your –" Her voice cracked, and the sound tore at his soul. After a moment, she sniffed and declared, "Hit or miss, he did enough damage to knock you out for three days."

He blinked. "Three days?" Not foolish enough to try to rise, he nevertheless looked past her, focusing on where they were. "Dunbar's – cabin," he realized.

She nodded. "You were in no shape to try to get back to Dodge, and I couldn't leave you to get Doc, not when you might – " Tears welled in those magical eyes again.

Matt reached out to take her hand and hold it against his chest. "You – okay, Kitty?" he asked, kicking himself for not asking before. Layton had made his interest in her clear, and Matt felt nausea rise in his throat at the thought that he might have –

"I'm fine, Matt," she assured him, her eyes telling him it was the truth.

He fought against the emotion that relief brought. "Okay," he whispered, bringing her fingers to his lips and brushing a soft kiss against them.

Caressing his face softly, she leaned in and touched her lips to his, careful of the cuts and bruising. When she pulled back, she kept his jaw cradled in her palm. "You sure worried Chester," she told him, smiling lightly.

He frowned, confused. "Chester?"

"He was here last night, looking for you."

"He's not – still here?"

She shook her head. "I sent him back to bring Doc for you."

"Kitty," he protested, "I don't need – " But he stopped when he couldn't deny that he did, indeed, need Doc.

"He would have come with Chester, but he had to tend to Mister Bodkin."

Squinting, he asked, "What happened – to Bodkin?"

Suddenly, Kitty's eyes widened, and she hesitated. "It, uh, it doesn't – "

Hand shaking, he reached out to grasp her arm. "What – happened to Bodkin? What aren't you – telling me, Kitty?"

"It doesn't matter, Matt. There's nothing you can do about it right now."

Her arm shook from his faltering grip, but before he was forced to let go, he ground out, "What – happened to – Bodkin?"

Sighing, she lifted his hand tenderly and laid it back on his chest. "After they shot – after they left here, Glenn and the others went back to Dodge and robbed the bank. They shot Mister Bodkin on the way out. Doc stayed to try to save him."

He bit off a curse, then asked, "Did he?"

"Save Bodkin?"

He nodded slightly, grimacing with the pain.

Shrugging, she said, "I don't know."

After a moment, he sighed, resolved to do what he had to do, foolish or not. Bracing his body, he tried to sit, shivering with the chill that crossed his bare skin when the quilt slid from his hips to the floor.

But the chill was forgotten as agony slammed him back onto the bed, surging through him and wiping away every sensation but white, blinding pain. He thought he heard Kitty's anxious voice, but he couldn't acknowledge it. Finally, the burning rush eased enough to allow him to breathe again, just a shallow kiss of oxygen to keep him from passing out. This time he heard her clearly.

"— gonna finish what Layton and Cantrell started. I told you to stay still – "

"Yeah." Voice tight and barely audible, he conceded her point. Finally, when he could open his eyes again, he felt the sting of guilt at the sight of her terrified face. Don't do that again, his brain scolded once more. This time, he heeded the advice.

"Need to – go after them," he gasped, regardless of how impotent the idea was.

"Not today," Kitty said confidently, covering him once more with the quilt.

Matt tried to drag in a deep breath but aborted the move quickly. No, not today. "Kitty," he said, his ragged voice asking for honesty, "how – bad?"

She sighed. "Without Doc here I can't know for certain, but I feel pretty sure you have a concussion, and they worked you over good. The way your side is swollen, I'd say you have a broken rib or two, and your back is all bruised up, and your leg is pretty bad, and your head – " She let her fingers brush gently over his battered face and teared up again. "Oh, Matt, they hurt you so – "

Darkness closed in on him, but he managed to murmur, "It's – okay, Kitty. It's – okay – "

He was out before she could call him on the lie.

TBC