She was quiet enough on the way home to make him worry- only responding to direct questions. He instructed her to take a shower when they got back to her house and she offered no resistance. He was just finishing cleaning up the meal they had left behind when the shower water turned off. He went upstairs and knocked on her door, "Can I come in?"

"Yes," her voice came from the other side of the door.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed brushing her hair.

"You okay?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"I think so." she got up and returned her brush to the bathroom "Are you leaving?"

"Do you want me to?" he glanced over at the door.

"No."

He turned to face her. She was unbelievably lovely in her tattered bathrobe. She came to him and he and embraced her, his head swam with the scent of her shampoo. She kissed him, deeply and with purpose, moving his hand to the tie on her robe.

"Your ribs-" he started, but she cut him off with another kiss.

In seconds she stood naked before him. He frowned as he ran his fingertips over the lattice of scars that Nathan Mitchell had left on her stomach. His brow relaxed when he looked back up to her face. Her hips were round and her legs were long.

She was perfect.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

He took special care to be gentle with her, to spare her any pain that her broken bones might give her, but he could hardly control himself as he slipped inside of her. She rewarded him with a soft moan that was almost a sigh and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair.

He had never been a lonely man, not when it came to matters of the bedroom, but it had never been like this- not like it was with her. She rocked her hips, moving with him, and as her pleasure mounted her breathing turned into sighs that reverberated in his ears. She cried out his name when her climax burst through her and that brought him to his as well. They rode that wave together, holding each other tightly when they reached the shore.

They made love again the next morning and then showered together. They ate a leisurely breakfast and were unapologetically late for work.

Art and Raylan were talking with Boyd Crowder in a closed conference room when they arrived, and when they were done she requested a moment with him. She closed the door behind them as they left and Boyd sat back down in his seat, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She sat down in the chair opposite of him and crossed her arms and legs, "You lied to me."

"Of course I did," he answered.

"Why did they have you there- really? And don't tell me that they had a business opportunity for you. You were tied up just like I was."

"They believed that I had the same knowledge that they were prepared to kill you for."

"Do you?" her expression did not change.

He leaned toward her, "Why would I tell you that?"

"I am going to find out, Boyd. You spend enough time in this office that I will have plenty of opportunities to talk with you." She leaned forward, mirroring his posture. "You may be smarter than all of the people in that room out there, but you aren't smarter than me."

He leaned back in his chair, "I like you. You got fire."

She frowned at what she knew was meant as a compliment. "Go away."

"Farewell until next time, sweet lady," he bid, letting himself out of the room. Raylan was standing there to escort him out of the building. "I like her," Boyd told him, "She's got fire."

Raylan grabbed his arm and dragged him out. Art filled the void that Raylan had left in the doorway, "That snake will bite you."

"Ah, you misjudge me, Chief. I aimed only to pique his curiosity, and to that end I have succeeded." She looked past Art and smiled at Tim who was watching her from his desk. He smiled back.

"That snake might bite you too," Art told her, pulling the door shut.

"What do you mean?"

"He has PTSD," Art said.

"I know. He told me."

"Did he also tell you that he might be an alcoholic?" his voice was serious.

There was something fatherly in his tone, some simple desire to protect her, but his choice of conversation made her feel defensive. She stood to address him, "I don't want to be disrespectful, Art, but I don't think that he would appreciate you telling me these things about him. He is a heavy drinker, but not an alcoholic."

"How can you be sure?" he raised an eyebrow. He seemed almost suspicious.

"Well, I do have a doctoral degree in psychology," she paused and glanced back out at Tim. "It wouldn't matter anyway if he was."

"And why not?"

She met Art's eye, "I am already in love with him."