ok, I have tried to fix the spacing thing... but, currently beyond my capabilities. Any tips, please PM me.


Rachel dressed with care the next morning, grateful Lu was as averse to hangovers as she was, and straightened her hair gently and left it down. Jeans, dark blouse, leather jacket, just like she figured. She arrived at the office early, was halfway through her email before Raylan go there.
Raylan was distracted and somewhat bleary-eyed as he went to his desk.
"I'm supposed to babysitting you today," Rachel said softly.
"Well, shit," he sat heavily in his seat, like she'd shot his plans for the day in the ass and he was wondering if he could save them or just put them out of their misery.
"You planning on shooting someone today? Or just finding a willowy blonde for the afternoon?" she replied coolly.
Raylan grinned, pondering a willowy blonde, no doubt. And sending a swift kick to a rather callused area near Rachel's solar plexus. "Naw, I was just going to follow up with the ex-wife in the Garland case."
"In Berea? Sounds a bit boring for my future boss."
"'Specially if you'll be tagging along, but, that's life..." Raylan pulled a file and stood, "I've just gotta talk this over with Art and I'll be ready to go."
"Ok," Rachel nodded, catching the Crowder name on the file Raylan was waving. What were the odds that she'd wind up in Harlan before the day was out?
It took Raylan twelve minutes to hash whatever it was out with Art, another twenty seconds or so to swagger out and put on his hat, and about three to stand in front her desk expectantly. "Are we leaving now then?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She pursed her lips and looked up at him through her lashes, "Uh huh. All right then, cowboy."
Raylan let her lead, his usual chivalrous way. She let him drive, her usual way.
Rachel knew the whole "driving" thing was a power-play, with LEOs in general. She just didn't play.
She perused his files on the drive, conversation being seldom and fairly unnecessary with Raylan usually. But she wanted Raylan to talk. About Arlo. About Boyd. About Johnny freakin' Crowder. Even a Harlan tale wouldn't go amiss, if it would get Rachel to stop watching his hands glide over the steering wheel. Stupid Rachel. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"You ok, Rachel?" Raylan's question wasn't enough out of left field enough for her to open her eyes, but she muttered dryly, "Fine. Thank you. How are you?" before she let her eyes flutter open.
"Funny."
"I know. I'm thinking of taking it on the road."
"I see a problem making any sort of time quota though."
"Pessimist," she returned her attention to his files, not his hands as he turned to merge onto the off-ramp.
"So, why'd you opt to babysit me rather than take a day off?"
"You're educational." Which was true. She learned as much from Raylan as she did from Art, and not the same things. Especially as they were things that would probably piss Art off.
"I'm educational." Raylan turned to look at her and had to slam on the brakes to make the light, "I'm educational?!"
Relaxed by getting a rise from him, Rachel nodded peaceably and smiled sweetly, "Very. Like you said you've done this for a long time. You teach Tim and me so much Art would rather we not learn."
Raylan's mouth worked as his eyes flicked between her mouth and her eyes, "So comforting to be respected by one's peers."
"Just wait 'til you're the boss, and you're tellin' Tim and me what to do. Imagine Art's eyebrows in their mandatory retirement." His lips quirked involuntarily as his eyes settled on Rachel's lips. "Light's green, Ray-Ray," she purred.
Plan "Make him" was terribly unformed in Rachel's mind. Mentioning her panties and pointing out he shouldn't mess with her were all well and good, but he wasn't eyeing her up like fried chicken yet. Yet.
He was watching her mouth more though, she noticed, hoping it wasn't in her head. Hoping the way his dark eyes grew muddy was a good sign. She kept her own eyes on his hands on the steering wheel as he turned into Berea.


Rachel was behaving...strangely. Like she was... Well, in a woman other than Rachel, it was all the signs she wanted to jump him. Raylan didn't know what the hell Rachel was up to.
Women were amazingly consistent with Raylan really. They'd look and then pursue and, more often than not, they'd catch him until they were tired of him or vice versa.
Rachel had never been interested in him. Not sexually and barely professionally. But now she was all "you're easy on the eyes" and "I have green lacy whore's panties" and watching his hands on the steering wheel. His eyes flicked to her briefly, still watching. He unnecessarily backed into a parking space by the college, keeping half an eye on Rachel, still eyeballing him.
It was all Joe's fault, Raylan figured. She was tight braids with her hair back, uber-professional, future-Director Rachel. Now, Raylan could swear she flipped her hair at him at least twice today. And her sweater... He knew she had a figure. He liked her figure; he did not need to be distracted by her breasts shifting under that sweater. At least not at work.


It was all Joe's fault. She'd never liked the bad boy thing before she married the decent guy and saw how bored he made her. It was pretty whirlwind, she knew better, but he was an insurance salesman. How bad could he be?
She had started looking forward to dentist appointments, that's how bad.
He was sweet. He was decent. Joe was unquestionably a good man. But he would pull the receipts from her bag and file them. And he'd reload the dishwasher after her turn. And he alphabetized her takeout menus and her spice cabinet. He talked to her mother more than she did, too.
He wasn't good with Nick, either, should have been a clue. Nick was thirteen, not five and not thirty. It was one thing to broach the idea of college with Nick, something else entirely to bring her sister's boy brochures and offer tours of UK. He's 13! You put him near a college girl, way they dress now, and he won't catch a syllable outta anybody until he's outta Kleenex!
As it stood now, Nick loved that Rachel and Joe were apart, and her mother was giving her that look. Y'know the one, the "you know you've done the wrong thing, young lady, now fix it and don't pretend I didn't tell you the right thing to do in the beginning" look. It was a frickin' annoying expression, really. Maybe if she brought Raylan for dinner, Nick had seemed to like him...


The Garland case was Rose Garland, 27, white, blue-eyed blonde, 100 pounds soaking wet with a parka, and 5'4". Not quite Raylan's "willowy blonde" as much as an unfortunately sly stick insect. She had pleaded to possession with intent, to avoid trafficking charges, and had been paroled after two years from Mansfield... in Ohio.
Rose Garland was raised in quote-unquote communes for her entire childhood. Currently, the man she called "Dad" was teaching anthropology at Berea. Dad, aka Walter Lyon, 65, balding, blue-eyed, and rather stocky in his seat, was giving the professor thing a try after a career of books, papers, traveling, and weed. Rose was partial to cocaine, herself. As it was, Walter was reaching in a bag of Oreos when Raylan and Rachel reached his office.
"Professor Farrell, I'm Deputy Givens. This is Deputy Brooks; we're with the Marshals Service. We're looking for your daughter Rose," Raylan started after Walter waved them in, but didn't offer them a place to sit. Not that he had a seat to offer them.
"My daughter Rose..." Walter blinked, "Um, blonde, bitty thing? Hattie's girl? Yeah, Hattie coulda been blown away in a stiff wind, Rosie's her girl. Used to be such a sweet thing. Then soon as puberty hit, butter couldn't melt in her mouth unless you could give her somethin'. Tragic, really. Hattie was heartbroken. What's she done now?" He pulled open a desk drawer with an ashtray and a joint.
Rachel pursed her lips as Walter lit up, Raylan suppressed a smirk and continued, "She's fled Ohio-"
"Who wouldn't?" Walter pointed out, trying to keep the smoke in his lungs.
"In violation of her parole." Raylan continued as Rachel eyed the room. "We need to bring her back. Have you been in contact with her lately?"
Rachel watched Walter, toking and digressing as Raylan asked after Rose. His desk was a mess of books, folders, and tribal photos. A laptop was open but the fish screensaver had been swimming before they came in. The Oreos were dwindling and his coffee was cold with that milky film at the top. His bookshelves were full, double-stacked, and well-thumbed volumes were on two walls. Both the chairs before his desk were stacked with files and papers to be graded.
Walter barely spared a glance at Rachel until she leant to look at an old photo of Walter, presumably with Hattie, based on the woman's resemblance to Rose, but the bit the drew her attention to the photo was Helen.
Raylan's Helen, much younger, but it was Helen Cavell Givens as sure as it was Raylan Givens standing next to her. Couldn't have been more'n tweny-five, her red hair parted in the middle and flowing, cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other; staring at the camera with a man's arm over her shoulder, friend-style rather than romantic, smiling. There were four or five people between Professor Farrell and Helen, Hattie was on the other side of the man with Helen, his other arm around her. Hattie's stoned grin and half-lidded gaze was a duller version of her daughter's.
"That was about thirty five years ago. '77, '78, Hattie was about seventeen, then. We were somewhere around the Virginia border," Walter said, blinking.
"Harlan?" Rachel asked.
"Yeah," he lit up like a child, "You recognize it, Deputy?"
"I do," she passed the photo to Raylan.
He started, blinked, and said, "Do you remember where in Harlan this was, Professor? Or all the people in here?" Raylan set the photo before Walter.
"Um," he worked his mouth and his eyebrows, "There's Hattie. Me. Jon, Benjy, Heller, Wendy, uh, him," Walter pointed out the man with his arm around Helen, "he, uh, he knocked over that liquor store in Cumberland. What was his name?"
"There's no liquor store in Cumberland, Professor," Raylan said with his peculiar patience.
"Was in 1978, boy," he shot back. "Man, he and Heller were a hot item. Had a sister, too. Those Cavell girls were a hell of a pair. The legs on 'me. Right?" He nudged Raylan and Raylan winced softly. "Sonny somethin', he was head over heels for Heller. Lordy, haven't thought about any of them in ages. What's this got to do with Rosie?"
"Just observing, Professor," Rachel preempted, noticing that Raylan had already given him a card. "Please, get in touch if you see Rose, sir. We are concerned about her."
Raylan nodded approvingly as Rachel planted the thought of Rose being in danger, however clumsily.
Walter's red eyes narrowed but didn't focus, nodding as they left.


Raylan didn't say anything until they reached the Town Car. Rachel knew better than to push it, so she waited until he said, "Nice touch with the 'worried about Rose' bit."
"Thanks. You don't remember Helen mentioning a boyfriend around then?" her eyes resumed their admiration of his long fingers entirely of their own volition.
"When I was eight? Not so much. Doesn't matter anyway, Aunt Helen's long gone," he shifted into drive, fingers glossing over the wheel, after backing out. "No point dwelling."
"Might be nice to talk about her with someone else who loved her," she said softly, blinking to look at his face, kindly not saying, "It might be nice to talk about her with someone you can stand."
Raylan heard it anyway, "I know what you're sayin', Rach. I also suspect you need someone to talk to more'n me."
"Excuse me," thank the good Lord above a woman's mood, and hormones, can turn on a dime.
"You just left your husband, Rachel," he said softly, pulling into a Cracker Barrel. "Rebound sex with a colleague maybe convenient, but it never pays off." He was so gentle with his rejection, treating her so fragilely, like she was glass. He parked and looked at her. She smacked him across the face.