Slowly, her consciousness began to return, to the sound of a heavy door slamming shut. Footsteps. Muffled static chatter. Jostling. Struggling to open her eyes, Neha had to blink several times to clear the thick fog settled over her vision. Everything was dark, and it took her eyes a second to adjust. When they did, she found herself looking straight into the face of one Sheriff Walt Longmire. Suspended in a moment of panic, she felt her fight-or-flight response kick in. She thrashed a bit, struggling to get to her feet, and despite the strong hands pressing down on her shoulders to keep her in place, she got free.
"Wait- calm down!" THUD.
A slimy piece of newspaper flew up into the air, and Neha found herself flat on her stomach. Deflated, and trying to catch her breath, she had no choice but to let herself be hauled to her feet, and into the white and red bronco parked along the side of the street. Her backpack was thrown to the floorboard, door shut and locked from the outside. In her wiry post-sleep haze, it didn't cross her mind that she could simply reach over and unlock the door from the inside. Not a whole lot crossed her mind, actually, as she stared off at nothing in particular. Longmire climbed into the driver's seat, and though he stared at her, the cab of the old SUV was silent for a while.
"Why the lies?" he finally asked, after Neha had been allowed to stew, and wake up somewhat. Her voice was still groggy with her bout of bad sleep as she replied.
"I think the APB should speak for itself. Don't you?"
The sheriff's eyes practically bore a hole into her head. Breathing steadily, he laid his elbow on the windowsill and shrugged. "Sure. Doesn't explain why you're missing, though."
Sighing, Neha shook her head. "I left. Which is probably… obvious, at this point. But I can't go back. Not yet. Not until I've done this."
"Alright, now – regarding this cousin of yours. I'll help you find 'em. We've just gotta go back to the station and go through the steps."
"No; I don't need your help. I can do this on my own."
"I wasn't asking." She looked up just in time to see him settle her with a stern gaze, as though she were a misbehaving child. Starting up the SUV with minimal difficulty, he made a wide U-turn and set off down the road. The clock on the dashboard read 9:18. This rather threw Neha for a loop, as it had still been daylight when she fell asleep. She addressed this.
"Were you looking for me all this time?" she asked, fixing her eyes on passing buildings and streetlamps, instead of the sheriff.
"Not the entire time," he admitted, yawning. She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. Clearing her throat, she tried to change the subject.
"Why are you offering to help? The police where I live would've just turned me over to the proper authorities by now. I'm just a runaway." The older man stayed silent for a while, his face completely unreadable when she turned to look. One of his fingers drummed against the red leather of the steering wheel.
"Let's just say that I understand having a mission." He leaned one arm against the windowsill, glancing over at his passenger. "But I will need your parents' – or your legal guardian's – contact information when we get to the station. Make no mistake about that." Great. Huffing, Neha slumped back in her seat, watching the scenery of town fly by her window.
Should've waited, her thoughts commented. A few more months and you could've looked for him without all this legal hassle. Great job, Neha. With a frown, she mentally reprimanded herself for making such a stupid, rash decision, but stayed otherwise silent as the loud Bronco closed the relatively short distance between her previous hiding spot and the station. Parking rather haphazardly, the sheriff cut the engine and gestured for her to unlock the passenger-side door.
Here we go again.
The station looked different at night. Service hours were long past, which meant the building was dark, save for the desk lamps casting a dull orange glow over the front room. It was strange. Made her feel like she wasn't supposed to be there.
"You can sleep here tonight," Longmire said, adjusting his hat.
Sleep? "What – are there rooms, or something?" The sheriff's lips twitched, and with a nod of his head, he gestured to the short row of cells lining one wall. This took a moment of processing. "You… want me to sleep in a jail cell?"
"I guess it's up to you whether you'll be sleeping someplace warm and safe, or cold and dangerous."
Neha sighed. "When you put it that way…" Shaking her head, she walked to the first cell, examined it. It was… pretty bare. Nothing on the walls – or, rather, wall – though that was a given, she supposed. It only housed a metal-frame bed, with a gray blanket that made her itch just looking at it. But, all things considered, for a cell in a sheriff's office, it looked pretty inviting. Inviting enough, anyway. Looking back at Longmire, she rubbed at her shoulder underneath her backpack's strap. "When are we going to start the whole 'search' process?" The man shrugged.
"Tomorrow morning. Figure we'd both function a little better with some sleep."
Nodding, she entered the cell, carefully slid her bag under the bed, and sat. The mattress was incredibly thin, and the blanket was just as scratchy as it looked, but she could attest from two weeks of experience that it was much better than the ground.
"Right. Well, I'll lock the door on the way out. Bathroom's across the hall, if you need it." Hands on his hips, he lingered for a moment. "Get some sleep; you'll need it." With a muttered exchange of goodbyes, the sheriff departed, and Neha settled into bed.
As soon as her head hit the pillow and that scratchy wool blanket was pulled over her body, she was fast asleep. The next morning came very quickly; one moment she had closed her eyes to sleep, the next, she had woken up, and her vision was flooded with the orange light of daytime. Mercifully, the sun couldn't find a way to shine into her cell.
"Was startin' to worry you'd died," chimed a vaguely familiar voice from one of the desks, as she stirred. Neha leaned up on her elbows, looking through the discolored bars of the cell, and the dark veil of loose hair that had fallen around her face. Though her view was fairly obstructed, she could easily make out that brunette pretty-boy from yesterday. Rubbing her eyes, she yawned.
"Was your name… T-… Twig?" she asked, remembering the name was a strange one. This question earned her a cackle from a blonde woman at the opposite desk, who she hadn't seen before. The pretty-boy didn't seem so amused.
"Close. It's Branch. Branch Connally." Peeling herself off of the thin mattress, Neha collected her bag, dragging it behind her lazily as she exited the cell and approached this man named Branch.
"Sorry. Neha. We never properly met." She offered her hand to the man, who seemed quite comfortable, with his designer boot-clad ankles crossed atop the desk, his chair leaned back as he lounged. Breathing out, he dropped his feet to the floor and straightened before shaking her hand.
"Nice to meet you, Neha." He spoke her name like he didn't know how to form it, and stressed the 'N' too much. Rubbing his hand over his jeans, he gestured over to the blonde woman before returning to his previous position. "I don't think you two met last time."
"Nope. Deputy Vic Moretti." Crossing to the side of the desks, Neha shook her hand, as well. "That over there is the Ferg." Following the woman's gesture, she looked to a round man stuck in a corner by the cells. A little bitterly, she recognized him as the man who had pointed out the APB to Sheriff Longmire yesterday.
"Walt's in his office," Branch said, sighing as he locked his hands behind his head. "He wanted you to find him when you woke up. Oh, and… y'might wanna fix your hair a little." He grinned, and went back to his unproductive relaxing. Frowning, Neha pulled her hairband out and spent the walk toward the sheriff's office trying to finger-brush her thick black hair. With a single knock, she opened the door and stepped in. Longmire didn't seem to be doing much of anything, short of staring rather intensely through his window. His hat was missing, along with his jacket; both were hung on a stand behind his chair.
"Are we starting now?" she asked, after a few more moments. Pulled out of his thoughts, the sheriff cleared his throat and straightened up. Nodding, he gestured loosely to the chairs in front of his desk.
"Go ahead and sit, if you want. I don't think this'll take too long." Leaving her backpack on the floor, Neha sat. "Right. So, I've already got your listed name, thanks to the APB." He had pulled out a piece of paper and looked over it now. "And you're looking for a… cousin, right? That you… don't know the name of?" The older man grew noticeably more skeptical as he voiced this, his hard eyes finding a place on the girl across from him once again. Finally, after a few moments of thought, she cracked.
"He's… not my cousin," she admitted, sighing. Slumping down in her seat, she ran her fingers through a knot in her hair. "He's my father. My biological one, that is." This seemed to click things into place for the Sheriff, if the look of clarity on his face was any indication.
"And you said you didn't know his name?" She shook her head.
"My mother never told me. I don't think she wanted me to find him."
Sighing, Walt leaned back in his chair, running a calloused hand through his graying hair. "This'll be difficult without a name." Staring out that window again, he seemed to lose himself in his thoughts for a good few seconds. Finally, he looked back at Neha. "Let's try this: what's your mother's name? Pretty small town, Durant. You get to livin' here your whole life, you come to know just about every name and face in Absaroka County."
Neha fiddled with the black and turquoise beadwork on her bracelet. Briefly, she remembered the girl that had made it for her, seven or so years ago. "Her Christian name is Ivy Langdon. Most know her as Ivy White-Stag." She busied herself by twisting this bracelet around on her wrist, spinning each individual tiny bead. But the silence on the sheriff's end stretched on for so long that she eventually looked up to see what gave. He simply stared at her, a rather distant look on his face.
"What- what's wrong?" she asked, startled. That cold sweat started to prickle under the skin of her forehead once again. Sheriff Longmire, on the other hand, took in a deep breath and stood, collecting his hat.
"Come with me," he said, grabbing his jacket as well. "I think I know where you'll get some answers." With that possibility in mind, she recollected her backpack and followed, cutting through the main room. "Going out, Ruby. Be back in a while." With some perfunctory goodbyes, the pair made their way out, and into the Bronco. Longmire helped her into the tall SUV this time. The vehicle protested a little as the key was turned in the ignition, but they were started up and off on their way in no time, once more left in the silence that stretched around the SUV's loud motor and the cheesy country music on the radio.
"Where are we going?" she asked after a while, her hands nervous clutching the armrests.
"A place called The Red Pony." And that was all there was to say, apparently. Neha felt a strong desire to run again, but they were driving too fast. If she jumped out now, she'd just injure herself and make things harder. So she stayed quiet and still, until they pulled into the parking lot of a small bar, which bore a neon sign of a running horse at its front. "You may be here a while," he warned, turning the SUV off as he exited. She was… skeptical, to say the least, but she climbed out of the vehicle all the same, and together, they walked into the dimly-lit building.
There were a few people scattered around at tables. Men, mostly, wearing plaid pearl-snaps, heavy vests, cowboy hats or some combination of the three. There were a few women, as well, most clustered in groups, with only a few remaining solitary. Nobody was at the bar, save for the tall man who stood behind it. He had short black hair and stood with his back turned, cleaning the counter lining the wall. She could only see part of his face through the large, wall-mounted mirror in front of him.
"Mornin', Henry," Walt called, taking his time walking up to the bar. Though she felt the need to drag a few steps behind, Neha followed dutifully.
"Ah, Walt." The bartender addressed the sheriff before looking at him through the mirror. "Some of the usual?" He had already grabbed a pint glass emblazoned with a bright red 'R'.
"Not today, Henry. I'm here on business." Gesturing with his head, Walt beckoned Neha to catch up.
"That has never stopped you before," Henry quipped, a comfortable half-smile on his face. He grew a bit more serious, however, once his gaze into the mirror landed on Neha. Eyebrows drawing together, he turned to look squarely at the two of them, slinging the cleaning cloth onto his shoulder. "And who might this be?" His tone was more professional now – curious.
"She's listed as Neha Anne Locklear. Says she's Ivy White-Stag's girl." Breathing in, Henry leaned on the bar. His eyebrows were quirked now, a very different sort of look in his eyes. Neha couldn't gauge what it was, exactly.
"I… did not know Ivy had a child. You resemble her." He addressed Neha with a kind smile before he looked back to Walt. "How can I help?"
"She's looking for her father, Henry. A Cheyenne man, it seems, local to Durant. Know anyone who might fit the bill?" Henry's gaze fell on Neha once again, lingering this time.
"There are a few of us here. But… as far as I know, Ivy was only in a relationship with that Daniel Lewis, about twenty years ago. He was white." He had looked briefly toward Walt, but the brunt of his attention stayed on the teenage girl who was fidgeting with her shirt. "How old are you?"
She cleared her throat before speaking, but her nerves got the best of her ability to speak. "S-seventeen." Cringing, Neha turned her eyes elsewhere. But this stuttered declaration seemed to weigh heavily on Henry, and once more, his eyes flickered to the sheriff before settling on the dark wood of the bar.
"This changes things, I suppose." Changes things?
"Is… something wrong?" she asked, daring to look up at the two men. Walt appeared rather solemn, but didn't speak a word. The dark-haired man leaning against the bar seemed entirely wrapped up in his own thoughts until, finally, he fixed his dark eyes on her.
"Ivy – your mother and I, we were in a relationship. It was… not a public affair; Walt here was the only one who knew for sure." Sighing, he drummed his fingers against the bar in a rhythm Neha realized was identical to the one she adopted. "She wanted to keep it quiet unless things became serious. We had been together for a year when she broke it off. I could not tell you why she did."
This did come as a surprise. Her mother had rarely ever said much about her past, even when Neha tried to urge the information out of her. Her mother was very secretive, but it was never something she had thought to question. "Do you know what she did after you broke up?" Her nervousness surely still showed through in her shaky speech, but she felt as though she was on the verge of a breakthrough. This was the closest she had ever been to finding out the truth.
"She moved onto the Cheyenne reservation, not too far from here. She did not speak to me much, though I had reached out to her on occasion. I had heard that she was going to get married, and then a couple of months later, she was simply… gone. As far as I know, nobody has heard from her in…" He paused, exhaling. "Well, seventeen years."
The three stayed silent for a while. Business continued as usual around them; men laughed, some music played over the speakers, women chattered loudly at each other. But for Neha, it felt like the world was moving in slow motion. It was only the three of them right now, in her little section of the world. She was so close. So close to figuring it all out. She could feel it.
Licking her lips, she worked up the pluck to speak again. "That man my mother was going to marry. Do you know his name?" She looked between the two men, both several inches taller than herself. "If he was the one who got my mother pregnant—"
"I don't think he was," Walt interjected, cutting her off. He leaned against his arm on the bar. Feeling a bit deflated, Neha's eyebrows knitted together.
"Why? Why is that?"
"I kept hearing about domestic issues, through the grapevine. Fighting. The two of them had some kind of problem, but no-one knew what that was, exactly." The sheriff glanced at Henry, as if for permission, before continuing. "I've got the thought that Ivy was already pregnant when they met."
"It is still considered a shame to have an illegitimate child," Henry added. "It could explain why she left so suddenly." Honestly, this only served to further add to the stress that Neha felt. She hated this beat-around-the-bush nonsense. Couldn't they see how important it was for her to figure this out?
"Are you trying to say I was immaculately conceived?" she asked. Her voice must have reflected her frustration, judging by the looks exchanged by the two older men. "If he wasn't my father, then who was? It has to be somebody."
"That is what appears to be the million-dollar question. Unless she was with somebody nobody ever knew about…" Henry's voice trailed off as he sighed, once more. He seemed to be collecting himself. "Bear with me: I think I am your father, Neha." The statement was so decisive and delivered so calmly that it took a few moments to process. And when it did, it hit Neha like a ton of bricks. She just barely managed to make it onto a barstool before her knees gave out.
A/N: Chapter two, redone. Just as before, I'd like to apologize for the characters being more or less out of character. I need to freshen up on their personalities, but I'm hoping I'll get them down pretty solidly here pretty soon.
Please feel free to review, and let me know how I'm doing. I'm always looking for constructive criticism and feedback, and prompts, if you have them.