Bad Love

by Lola Rebel

  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.

  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.

  He got back onto the horse and started coming around. Nice and slow. Nothing to get excited about. He sped up the last two hundred yards. By the time he rode by the man he was looking for, the mare was going pretty fast. He caught the man in the back of the neck with the butt of the Spencer as he rode by.

  He went down hard. That was how Glen had hoped it would go. The only worry he had now was whether or not the fellow would wake up at all. Well, it wasn't a big worry. After all, there were nineteen more to choose from.

  With the big man slung across the back of the horse, he swung his leg over the saddle and started off. The chances of being caught were slim, but they weren't zero. Finding someplace private to do this would make things that much safer.

  A half-hour later he'd found a convenient box-canyon. Nobody would bother him, not for a little while. He pulled the fellow down, checked his pockets. Took the pistol on the man's belt from its holster. No reason to risk anything.

  He'd promised Catherine, after all.

  Then he set about trying to wake the fellow up. A rough shake did it. He was still woozy from the hit, which was bleeding a little.

  Glen rapped on the man's hand. "You feel that?"

  "Sure," came the response. "What the hell happened? Who are you?"

  "You were attacked. Hit you upside the head. It's a miracle you're still alive."

  "What? Who attacked—who are you? What happened?"

  "Don't worry about that. I think they're goin' after Rod. You know where I can find him?"

  The big man blinked, and his eyes seemed to focus. "Oh, it's you."

  Glen hit him hard enough to draw blood. "Where's Rod?"

  "Fuck you, cowboy."

  Glen's hand already hurt where he'd hit the man in the mouth. He'd learned his lesson about using his hands, years ago, but it seemed like some things didn't stick. He hefted the rifle in his hands.

  "You'll tell me, sooner or later."

  "Fuck you. No I won't. Come back with more cop friends. Too many of 'em around anyway. Might as well thin out the herd a bit."

  The man laughed, sputtering out blood that was still pooling around his lips where Glen had busted him.

  Glen hit him again. He used the rifle butt this time, an easy movement that hit hard enough to leave the man's head spinning.

  "I don't think you heard me. I need to know where to find Dawson."

  "Why? You want to write him a love letter? 'Dear Rod, my woman says you were the best she ever had'."

  Glen grit his teeth and thrust the rifle butt into the man's gut, doubling him over. He rolled over in the dirt, clutching at his stomach, but he didn't seem more apt to give Glen the answers he needed. He put the toe of his boot into the man's teeth hard.

  "You're going to tell me what I need to know. We can do it easy, or we can do it real easy."

  Glen didn't like doing this. It made him a little sick to see the fella on the ground writhing around in agony. But that didn't mean he couldn't deal with it.

  Twenty Nine

  Catherine didn't like the way he'd been acting since he got back. He wasn't any different towards her. Certainly no worse. But he seemed to be inconsolable. Worse, he didn't seem to be too interested in being consoled. As if he wanted to suffer.

  She knew the feeling well enough. She had been sorely tempted by it again after hearing Ada would be away for as long as she had. After each and every time Billy brought a man home. The feeling that she deserved it. That she shouldn't go looking for healing because deep down, she
had earned whatever hurt.

  Well, she'd learned better. Glen, on the other hand, must not have. He seemed to be ready to keep down the road he was on, getting worse and worse. She tried to remind herself that she'd been without a man for years. Tried to remind herself that it was fine then, it would be fine again, regardless.

  But then, she wasn't worried about herself. She wasn't thinking that Glen Riley destroying himself would hurt her. It wouldn't. She'd keep on living, same as she always had. As much as it surprised her to think about after how badly she'd reacted to his arrival, she was worried about Glen because he didn't deserve to hurt that way. No matter what he thought about himself.

  She let out a breath. Well, if it was forgiveness that he needed, then she knew where he could get it.

  She dragged herself out of the kitchen, leaving her pan out on the counter, having been scrubbed clean a long time ago.

  "Glen?"

  He lifted his chin a little to show he was listening from under the hat that covered his eyes from her.

  "I… I hate to ask, but I need a favor."

  "Hm?"

  She had already noticed that he'd gotten himself a new gun. A different one. She didn't want to ask where it had come from, and if she had asked, he wouldn't have answered. Or perhaps she was afraid that he would.

  "Tomorrow, the twins and I need a ride into town."

  "What's the occasion?"

  "It's Sunday, Glen."

  He seemed to take her meaning. Which was good, because if he questioned her on it, she wasn't sure what she was going to say. After all, it hadn't mattered when the last four Sundays had come around. Why should this one be different?

  She let out the breath she'd been holding when he didn't ask. He just nodded. She went back into the kitchen. There was cleaning still to be done. Now that she'd finally broached the subject with him, her nerves were starting to cool down. She could get back to what she needed to do.

  Glen still hurt all over. They were a horse short. Always had been, but he didn't want to lose his excuse to be close to Catherine. Now, as she sat in front of him with two little children trailing alongside, he knew they needed more space.

  The sun was just beginning to rise as they got into town. The bell in the church-tower was a big one, and they hadn't heard it ring yet, so he supposed they were either early, or very late. Part of him hoped that they had missed it. He had no business in a church.

  But it was important to her. He could hear it in her voice. In the way that she hesitated before she asked him to come along. She wanted him to come.

  It had been a long time for him, since he'd been to a service. A hell of a long time. He didn't know for sure, but from the way that the twins didn't have proper church clothes, he guessed it had been about as long for Catherine.

  So they would have to share the experience together. He had to pretend that he belonged, because if he showed any doubts, then Catherine would lose it. She had been on-edge since he got back.

  Glen didn't like how easy pulling that trigger had been. Like slipping into an old pair of blue jeans that still fit just right. The feeling had spread. He needed to wait until things cooled down a little more. A few more days, and then he'd be able to hit the bar. With the Smith and Wesson he'd taken from the doorman, and Catherine's Spencer, he wouldn't have too much trouble. Not if he did it right.

  The church-bells pulled him out of his reverie. Reminded him of what he was here for. It wasn't time for him to be thinking about that. He had to be strong for Catherine now. She needed him, and he would be there for her.

  Christ knows, she needed someone to be there for her at least once in her life.

  Catherine's palms were sweating. She hadn't realized how scary it would be. Being back in town, it happened once in a while, but with the twins? Never. And she hadn't ever once stepped foot in this church. She hadn't expected how much of a difference it would make to her, but the fear seemed all that much stronger because she'd been living there near a decade and had never once met the preacher.

  He was an older man, she saw as she crossed through the doorway beside Glen. He smiled at her as she passed him on the way to the pews.

  "Good morning, ma'am. Sir."

  Glen gave a curt nod beside her. He was as uncomfortable as she was, she could tell. But she appreciated how much he was trying. The place was already half-full by the time they settled into seats near the back of the place. Catherine found herself folding her hands and speaking a quiet prayer before she knew what she was doing.

  She had a thousand things she wanted. Things that she hoped God could give to her. But she wasn't praying for those things, she realized. The only thing she wanted, the only thing she would as for, was for Glen to be alright.

  Please, Lord—let Glen be alright again. Give him the forgiveness he needs, let him know that he's a good man. That I believe in him. That he'll be okay. And let my children know that I love them.

  Amen.

  She sat back and opened her eyes in time to see the preacher making his way up to the front. It had been a long time since she had seen a sermon.

  But she knew, already, that it was going to be exactly the one she needed to hear. It seemed as if it always was.

  Thirty

  Glen could feel her through the fabric of her Sunday clothes. Could feel the burn in his fingers of touching her skin. They'd just gotten out of church, and she still dandled little Cole and Grace in her lap. Now was no time for inappropriate thoughts, but he was having them.

  Glen let out a soft growl. Had to keep it under wraps until—well, forever, strictly speaking. But at the very least until they were back in private.

  The whole church experience had an odd effect on Glen. He had expected something dull, and to an extent, that's what he'd gotten. There was nothing amazing about it. No magician on the stage. No miracles he could see. But the man on the stage seemed to know a thing or two, and that was good enough.

  The thing that he had noticed more than anything, though, was the talk around. He hadn't caught much of it. Folks at least had the decency, it seemed, to try to keep quiet about their bullshit. Now if only they were better at it.

  Catherine had heard it too. She hadn't reacted, hadn't shown it on her face, but if he could hear it then she could hear it. She was just too damn proper to give it any sort of reaction. She was too good of a person to make any response at all. But not him. He was riled up.

  Getting angry, shouting, none of that was going to help her. Not now and not in the long run. They'd only talk more. Only hurt her more. What he needed was a way to make them shut their mouths.

  The more that he thought about it, the more obvious the solution was. He could be wrong, sure. But he noticed that none of the talk had been going his way. Nobody said, look at that man she's with. Maybe they weren't sure of him and it would take time for folks to come around to the idea of giving him lip.

  Or maybe they were afraid of him. That was the right idea, Glen thought. They were right to be, and with them talking about Catherine it put him in the sort of mood that they should have been afraid of.

  He helped them back off the horse, daubed his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and then took it out to the stable. Maybe it would help to distract him. Hell knows, he needed the distraction, spending time with a woman like her. Alone out there, for all it mattered.

  Nobody could tell them not to do what he knew they both wanted to. Nobody had the right and nobody, it seemed, had the inclination. He let out a breath. The hardness wasn't going down. It had hurt for most of the ride home, and every movement seemed to rub just the wrong way. What he wouldn't give for just a few minutes alone with that woman…

  Something moved outside the barn, and as Catherine stepped inside, Glen dropped the tack he'd been carrying.

  She'd changed out of her good Sunday clothes. But she hadn't, it seemed, bothered to change into anything else. Glen looked down at the tack, fallen at his feet. It would still be there when he was finished.
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  "Hey there, cowboy. Feeling good?"

  He wrapped his arms around her waist. "You have no idea."

  "I think I have a pretty good idea, Glen Riley. Unless you brought that pistol with you to church, something was poking into my hip pretty good."

  He smiled. "Well, I suppose you got me there."

  She undid his belt buckle easily enough, and undid the zip on his blue jeans. His cock still ached, sensitive to even the slightest touch. It hurt when she took him in her hand, but he could feel the pleasure overriding it. A few experimental jerks, and he let out an unsteady breath and closed his eyes.

  Then she took advantage of him not being able to see, and took him into her mouth. If her soft hands had felt good, then her mouth was pure heaven. Or if it wasn't heaven, then he didn't want to go.

  He let his fingers trace through her hair, pushing her head where he wanted her to go.

  "Not that this isn't nice," he gasped out. "But when you're finished, I need to talk to you."

  She pulled off, stood up. She wasn't exactly being subtle about what she wanted. In fact, the way she leaned over, presenting herself, she was being about as overt as she could get. "Talk later."

  Hard and ready, he got between her, pressing her knees open with his thighs and lining his hardness up with her entrance. It was easy to push into her. She must have been thinking about this for a while now, he thought. The thought lit a fire in him.

  He pulled out and Catherine let out a soft moan. Then he pushed back in. He took a hold of her hips, reaching down with one hand to tug softly on a nipple before moving it back around her waist.

  He fucked her hard, then, using her hips as a handle to pull her pussy onto him. She was writhing and moving under him, trying to escape the pleasure. Trying to find more. Maybe she didn't know what she was doing, except that she couldn't stop herself.

  Glen forced himself to keep moving, pushing off the thought of finishing. Thinking about anything but how good it felt inside his woman. Forcing himself faster. Faster. Harder. His breaths were coming in short, hard, rasping gasps, now. Catherine had started to push back against him in time to his thrusts, claiming every ounce of pleasure she could from him.