It was her business what had happened, but that didn't stop Glen from worrying about it, and it didn't help him worrying. He tapped the back of his hat, sending it sliding down his face, covering his eyes.
He shut them and tried not to wonder what had happened between them that had hurt her so bad. He got the sick feeling that if he found out, he would like Bill Howell less than he already did, and considering the unpleasant feelings Glen already had towards the man…
Sleep didn't come easy, though. Not after all that had happened. Too many thoughts running through his head, too many doubts raised. So instead he hung down from the loft, lowered himself lightly, and pushed his back into the hay-bale again. He set his hat aside.
He'd either fall asleep, or he'd watch the cattle, but one way or another, Glen was going to get something done.
The knock at the door didn't surprise her any more. Glen was home again, finally. The Deputy Marshall was looking into the rustling, and things were moving. Everything couldn't have gone better if she'd planned it herself.
She didn't answer right away, of course. She ducked into her room, pulled out her looking glass. She had to be looking as good as she possibly could for when Glen saw her.
Catherine had never worried too much about how she looked. After everything that had happened—what did it matter any more? She was who she was, and everyone knew that. She did what she had to do, but it wasn't worth worrying herself over.
But with Glen around, things seemed… different. As if his very presence meant that she needed to be something better than she was. The way he looked at her, she thought, it must have been working.
Convinced that she was looking good, she started back toward the door. A second knock came.
"Hold your horses, I'm a-comin'."
But when she answered the door, Glen wasn't there. A thin man, curly brown hair, with a thin nose like a knife. He wore a brown leather coat that was too hot for the summer heat, and a pin on his chest with the words 'Deputy Marshal' on it.
"Can I help you?"
"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm lookin' for a Mister Glen Riley? I was told this was his place."
"Is that what they told you?"
"In a fashion, yes. I heard this was where Bill Howell's ranch was, and Mister Riley told me that's where I can find him. Are you—Missus Riley perhaps?"
Catherine Blushed. "No, nothing like that. Billy's my—used to be my husband. There was some confusion over ownership, but we're working it out. Mister Riley"—she stressed his name harder than she should have—"is more'n likely out in the barn. That's where he's been staying."
"Thank you, ma'am."
She could see a strange look in his eyes, one that said he knew more than she wanted him to. If he'd been in town, and he had heard anything about her, then he would have heard the talk.
He put his hat back on his head and walked off to find Glen, but she couldn't help but watch him go. He knew, sure as anything, what she had done. That wasn't how she wanted it, not one bit.
But it wasn't her choice now, not any more. Billy had already branded her, and now if she wasn't lucky, everyone would know sooner or later. She just had to hope that in Glen's case, it was later. Much later.
Glen saw the Deputy coming a ways off, but he didn't want to deal with the hassle. His head still hurt on account of not being able to sleep. As he pushed himself up and brushed away the straw from his coat, he could still feel the buzz of pain in his mind. He shook it away. He didn't have time for it. Instead he forced a grin onto his face and went out to meet the man.
"What's the word, Deputy?"
Deputy Barrett didn't return the smile. The rudeness wasn't the only thing that bothered Glen about it. It didn't tell a good story.
"I thought I would see if the change in situation would affect the Sheriff's opinion. He doubled down on you and your lady friend having manufactured the whole situation."
Glen heard the insinuation and decided not to comment on it. There would be time to make sure that the man understood their position perfectly well later.
"So what, then?"
"So we can't count on his help."
"Is that it?"
"Not exactly. Can I get a head count on your cattle? Do you perhaps have a bill of sale to confirm how many you should have had?"
Glen did the head count. What had been fifty-three, then fifty dead even, now there were forty-six. At this rate, he wouldn't have a herd left by the end of the summer, wherever they were taking them to.