"I'll just get you a cup of water and head to bed."
She dipped the cup in and pulled it out most of the way full, walked it across the room, and handed it over.
"Good night, Glen."
Then she left him to his own problems and his own devices. Whatever he was worried about, he didn't want to talk to her about it. She understood not wanting to discuss something. Their conversation earlier had been one she'd hoped to avoid forever. But it hadn't worked out that way.
Having her privacy ripped away had a way of making Catherine feel like it was more important.
Glen watched her retreat into the bedroom, heard the door close, and set his head back. His eyes ached, and all he wanted to do was sleep. It was what he should have been doing an hour ago. And it wasn't as if it were for a lack of trying.
He closed his eyes again, and again he felt the burning inside. Remembering what had happened earlier. Getting his ass kicked in. Two wasn't enough. He'd known that, but he had gone along with t
oo few in spite of that. Because it had been necessary.
But what the hell did that even mean? Why was he getting beat half to death to back up a man who he barely even met? Justice? Revenge? What was it?
There had been a time that the reasons didn't matter so much. He'd been good at something, so he did it. The truth was, the orders didn't matter much. They gave him direction, sure. It wasn't patriotism, either.
He joined the Army because it would be steady pay. He'd learned to be quick with a gun, and more than that, though it upset him now to think about it, he didn't have much trouble pulling the trigger.
So many folks do. It's hard, once you realize what you're doing. What you're taking away. If you think about it too much. But not for Glen. When he wanted the doubt to go away, it was gone. No problemo.
Was he still that man? If anyone was going to deal with Dawson and his thugs, it would have to be him. But could he still be the person he was ten years ago? A guy who could just sit there and pick off a dozen men, snuff their lives like candles?
It would be a tough job, regardless of whether or not he'd be able to bring himself to it. Twenty men, maybe more, if he took them in a frontal assault. He'd have to have a plan, and a damn good one.
Then again… there were other choices, as well. Things that weren't twenty-to-one odds that had to be evened out as best they could by trapping them like rats.
Glen let out a breath.
Why was he even considering this? If he wanted to shoot a few men, he could have stayed with the Army. He had promised himself that wasn't his life any more. Had mustered out, to get away from fighting. To get away clean.
Now that he was truly on the straight-and-narrow, all he could see to move forward was going right back. Back to the killer he had decided he couldn't keep on being.
Glen reached down for his gun-belt, undid the strap, and set it aside on the ground. He could pick it back up, sure as sin. But that was a choice he'd have to make in the morning. He closed his eyes again and forced his mind to quiet itself.
The only thing he knew for sure, the only decision he had to make in truth, was whether or not he was going to let that lawman die for nothing.
And as much as he didn't like it, as much as he wanted to get away from shooting men down, he already knew the answer to that. There was no way he was going to do that. He didn't want to get involved in any of this.
Now that he was here, though, they were going to have to deal with him one way or the other. The thought wasn't one that he liked, but it was all he could do. After all, he had only ever really been good at one thing. Now that he was being dealt into the game, they would have to deal with him.
The question was, how was he going to close down Dawson's numbers advantage? Glen thought for a moment, still feeling the tug of sleep. Still hoping that any moment, he would succumb to it and then he would be able to rest.
It would be easy. Find one of them, alone. Getting a man to talk wasn't too hard. All you had to do, was do something he desperately hoped you didn't. And make it so he couldn't stop you—except, perhaps, if they tell you what they know.
Making sure they knew it, that was the hard part, because men lie about as easy as they tell the truth. Easier, even. But in this case, that wasn't going to be a problem. After all, he'd seen the perfect man already. Gotten a real good look at him.
He was broad-shouldered, with a wide, flat nose and short-cropped blonde hair, and he answered the door at Dawson's Brewery. The doorman thought he was tough. That would make it that much easier to break him, in the end.
If there was one thing he had learned, time and time again, it was that nobody was that tough. Not Glen, sure. Not Rod Dawson. And definitely not a man watching the door at a brewery. Not even a rough brewery like Rod Dawson's.
By the time the man learned his lesson, it would already be too late. Poor guy. He didn't have any idea what was about to come down on his head, all because of who he worked for. Glen didn't like how little he was bothered by what he was about to do.
He'd already given that life up. The man who did things like this wasn't him any more.
But it could be.