Defend Me from My Friends

Chapter Five: No Straighter, No Narrower

POV: Glenn Cantrell

Glenn Cantrell sat sullenly at a table as far back as he could get at the Lady Gay Saloon, swirling the last few swigs of whiskey left in the bottle he had bought an hour before. As the smoky liquid sloshed back and forth, he contemplated his recent fortunes and misfortunes. Who would have thought Matt Dillon would have ended up a damn lawman? But if Cantrell were truthful with himself, he had seen the honest streak in the teenage incarnation of his friend. He just never figured it would have overcome the wildness of an unstructured youth and premature manhood.

Still, five thousand dollars was a lot of money, and he bet even a U.S. Marshal didn't make enough to keep him from being tempted by such a windfall. As he contemplated the chances that his old friend had accepted his explanation without question, a wide shadow fell across the table. He knew before he looked up who he would see, and his stomach lurched with the realization. Tossing back a glassful of whiskey, he pursed his lips and greeted, "Layton."

"Good ta' see you didn't forgit me." Jake Layton was not tall, but he made up for it in thickness, his barrel chest and amble belly presenting a picture of brute strength. Glenn knew that to be an accurate picture.

"Where ya' bin, Cantrell?" Layton asked, eyes narrow. Glenn couldn't see his hand, but knew for certain it rested on his Colt .44.

"I bin layin' low, Jake," Cantrell reasoned, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Couldn't take a chance on somebody wonderin' about us havin' such a heap of money."

"See, the problem is I was wonderin' about it, Glenn. Thought we was all ridin' together on this." He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head.

Cantrell smiled easily. "Sure we are, Jake. 'Course we are. It's just that when that posse come up on us other side of Las Amigas we all scattered. I figured you'd show up, so I decided to hold up somewheres and wait for ya'."

Layton's smile was dubious. "You figured that, did ya?"

"Sure."

"Arright. Where's the money, then?"

"I got it all locked up safe and sound," Glenn assured him.

"I don't figure it's in the Dodge Bank."

"No."

'Where is it?"

Cantrell tried not to squirm, but he knew he wasn't successful. "Don't ya trust me, Jake?"

"No." He heard the cock of a gun.

"It's here in Dodge, I swear. Who better to keep an eye on ten grand than a U.S. marshal?"

It might have been worth the earlier bluff just to see Layton's double take. "The hell you say," he gaped. "You gave our money to the law?"

"He don't know where it come from, Jake," Glenn said. "Thinks it's from an old friend who struck it rich in silver."

"Ain't nobody gonna believe – wait a minute. You ain't talkin' about Matt Dillon?"

It was Glenn's turn to be surprised. "You know Matt?"

"Matt?"

"We, uh, rode together when we was young."

"And yer tellin' me Dillon's just keepin' all that money for you without askin' questions?"

"Well – "

"You are plumb crazy, boy," Layton accused. "Lawmen don't come no straighter or no narrower than Matt Dillon. I bin hearin' things about him. He ain't gonna let you git that money back without checkin' on it."

"I'm gonna split some of it with him," Cantrell decided.

"I jes' told ya' he's a straight arrow. You got us in a heap of mess, Cantrell."

"No, Jake," Glenn tried to assure him. "I took care of – "

"Yer gonna git that money, and yer gonna git it tonight."

Wiping sweaty palms on his grimy jeans, Glenn protested, "I can't – I mean, he ain't actually got it."

"What?"

"But I can get it, Jake. I can get it. I got an idea."

Layton's eyes narrowed. "I'm listenin'."

XXX

He had been drinking steadily since Layton left him, making his way from saloon to saloon, eventually and inevitably ending up at the very establishment destined to see the triumph or defeat of their plans. The Long Branch was jumping as usual when he pushed his way unsteadily through the swinging doors, angling for and making a table near the back.

He was halfway through a bottle of rye when she emerged from the office, her conservative dress unable to mask the enticing figure that lay beneath it. He felt the surge of arousal at the pit of his belly, not deterred by the significant amount of alcohol he had consumed.

Even though it was clear by the way Matt eyed Kitty Russell that he had personal expectations of her, Glenn couldn't help but be intrigued by the fiery-haired beauty. And a beauty she was, even if she was a whore. Sure, Glenn reasoned, she owned the place, but what woman who owned a saloon wasn't a whore, or at least hadn't been one at first? He wondered if Matt was her only customer now or if she took on entertainers when he wasn't available. He'd tread lightly, but he'd tread. She was too tempting not to.

He lingered late, almost to closing time, outlasting the gamblers and the drifters and the alcoholics who made the saloon their evening's sole destination. Finally, as Kitty finished wiping down the bar, and the bartender disappeared into the cellar to return unused bottles, he decided he couldn't stand it any longer. He had watched her all night, the ache in his body intensifying with each smile, each laugh, each sensual movement.

Finally, with the last customer stumbling out the doors, he rose, catching her from behind and pressing his lips, wet and sloppy, against her neck. Immediately, she stiffened and pushed against him, but he held on, turning her in his arms and covering her protesting mouth with his, on fire as her breasts burned against his chest, his erection throbbing into her pelvis. Confident that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, he pulled back, eager to see the desire in her eyes. Instead he saw her right hand flying toward his face, too quickly for any reaction other than closing his eyes.

The slap was hard, harder than he anticipated, its sharp sting throbbing across his cheek. For a brief moment, fury burned through him, but temperance spawned by common sense doused it, and he sobered with the realization of what he had almost done. Hand touching his reddened flesh, he steadied his breathing and dropped his gaze from her flashing eyes.

"Guess I deserved that." Braving a glance up, he saw that her expression remained unforgiving, her hand still raised as if she might not be finished using it. "Usually kin hold my liquor better," he admitted, and it was the truth. What a fool he was, but even Matt couldn't fault him for taste.

After a long beat, the tight skin around her eyes relaxed just a fraction, and she lowered her hand. "I think you'd better go on back to your room and sleep it off," she suggested coldly.

"I reckon I'd better." He was still dangerously aroused by her anger, her spirit, but he knew that could only lead to disaster – after a final few minutes of glory.

Her voice had softened a bit with her next words. "I think maybe Matt doesn't need to hear about this."

Glenn was nodding when the voice interrupted from the door.

"Hear about what?"

His blood ran cold as he slowly turned. Matt Dillon stood towering over them, hat pulled down low over his eyes, hands loose at his sides, slight smile completely incongruous with the flinty steel of his gaze.

Glenn almost caved in right there, almost unloaded the whole sordid story in front of his old friend – a United States marshal. But before he could form the first word of confession, Kitty stepped smoothly between them, placing a hand gently on Dillon's forearm.

"Nothing important. Glenn was just headed back to the Dodge House." She cut a sideways glance at him. "Weren't you?"

Sobering quickly, Cantrell agreed. "Yes, ma'am. I sure was." With deliberate motions, he scooped his hat from the floor and nodded toward her. "Night, Miss Russell," he offered, then added, "Matt." He stepped quickly around the huge lawman, praying that his way wouldn't suddenly be blocked. It wasn't, and as he pushed through the doors he heard the beginning of the conversation behind him.

"What went on here?" Dillon asked, his tone both solicitous and suspicious.

"Nothing."

"Kitty – "

"Glenn just had a little too much to drink," she conceded. Cantrell winced in anticipation of tomorrow's conversation with the marshal.

"Did he – "

"No," she said, her voice surprisingly convincing. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked again, and Cantrell knew for certain it wasn't the first time he had posed the question to her.

"How about a nightcap?" Kitty's voice grew sultry and inviting. Not for the first time, Glenn considered Matt Dillon a damn lucky man.

Pausing on the boards for one more beat, he heard their footsteps, one set solid and strong, the other light and easy, the sound rising from the stairs and disappearing behind doors Cantrell figured he'd never open himself. Cursing, he stumbled across the street, damning Layton for finding him, damning Kitty Russell for being beautiful, and damning Matt Dillon for saving his life all those years back.

TBC