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Twenty Eight
Catherine was halfway surprised to see Glen still lying on the couch in the morning. He was as stubborn as anything, sure, but more than that, he had always seemed independent. He couldn't have felt any better than he had the day before. Likely he felt worse.
But even still, he pushed himself up from the sofa when she entered the room, as if he had been awake the whole time, just waiting for her.
"You think I can get one of those cups of coffee?"
She noticed the pistol belt lying on the floor beside him, unsure what to think about it. It didn't have a weapon in it, but the whole thing seemed to have some strange symbolism to him. When Glen saw her looking, he shrugged and stood up, groaning out his discomfort but following her into the kitchen.
"I don't need help, you can stay down a bit. Let me treat you."
"I need to be on my feet. I've been staying down too long already."
Catherine didn't argue with him. She had a feeling that it wouldn't much change his mind if she did, and there was no reason to waste her time. Then again, she didn't have the feeling that she had any right to tell him what to do, either. If he wanted to be up, then he was allowed that.
"What are you going to do now?"
She didn't want an answer. The answer she was hoping for was 'there's nothing to be done.' Glen Riley wasn't a 'nothing to be done' kind of man, though. She knew that as well as anything.
"First, I'm going to have a cup of your coffee."
She smiled without turning to look at him. "I meant after that, smart ass."
"I know what you meant."
"Don't get yourself hurt again."
Glen nodded. "I won't."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
She turned and leaned into him, nestling her face into the crook of his shoulder. "I don't want you to get hurt."
"I know you don't."
She didn't like the way that he was talking. Didn't like it one bit. Like he was about to march off to his death. But he was going to do what he was going to do.
She turned back to the coffee, busied herself finishing up the pot, and then poured off a cup. As he took it from her hands she looked into his eyes. "You made a promise. Don't get hurt. It's a promise, alright?"
"I promise, alright?"
She let his hand go, and he settled into the sofa again. The look on his face was like he was waiting for something. She had an unpleasant feeling that she wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.
Glen sat down, nursed his coffee, and waited. Eight hours later, his muscles knotted and aching, he stood back up and stretched. It was time to go. He didn't ask permission before he pulled the Spencer down from the mantel, making sure it was loaded. He pulled cartridges out of a box over the fireplace and made sure the rifle was loaded.
"Remember, you promised me. Don't get hurt."
"I won't," he said. He chambered a round. He wasn't going to get hurt because he wasn't going to risk it.
He went out to get the horse ready, pulled himself, his body still trying to fight him. Well, as long as he didn't get himself into a fist fight, it would be fine. His nose wouldn't take another hit, and if he got hit in the ribs, that would be the end of him.
But it was easy not to take a bad hit when he didn't give them the opportunity to fight back.
The trip back out to the Brewery was easy. Staying out of sight wouldn't be too hard, either. He kept his belly in the dirt as he topped the ridge and started to watch. The man would come out sooner or later. As dinner time started to roll around, the men cleared out.
The doorman came last, locking the place up behind him. Rod hadn't come in today, it seemed. Maybe he was worried about the cavalry coming in. Well, it wasn't going to be anything that special. Glen watched the man go. Coming out last by a ways, he was taking his sweet time. Nowhere to be, it seemed. That suited Glen fine.
