25. The Funeral

It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.

-Deuteronomy 32:35

'He's still so angry,' she murmurs, staring blindly out of the window.

'Raylan Givens has always been an angry man.'

She's never thought of Raylan in that way but she's too tired to argue the point. It has been a bone-achingly long day and she feels exhausted by it. The curtains get closed against the night and she peels off the black dress, glad to be rid of it. Throughout the day she has been horribly aware that her skirt is too short for a funeral, but it was the best that Harlan had to offer. There had not been time to run up anything better; and Boyd had requested (his word) that she refrain (also his word) from going beyond county lines until the situation is resolved.

Helen wouldn't have minded. Ava can see, clearly, Helen's amused, cynical eyes and hear the drawled comment about wasting good money. No, she wouldn't have minded; but Ava does. Helen deserved better than that.

It hadn't helped seeing Winona.

Not because of the woman herself - all of that is long past - but because Winona had, of course, looked so perfect. And Raylan had looked-

She shivers, wraps her arms around herself.

Perhaps Boyd had been right; perhaps Raylan was mad at everything, but just very good at hiding it.

She pulls on an old plaid shirt over her slip, its well-worn familiarity a comfort.

Boyd sits on the bed, still almost fully dressed, hands behind his head and stares at the wall in the same way she had stared out of window. She clambers onto the bed, across to him, and his arms go around her and she draws in the first clear breath she's had all day.

It's a clumsy embrace - she tries to put her arms around him and her knuckles scrape the headboard he's sitting against - but it's real and it's living.

His lips press against the top of her head, her forehead, closed eyes and cheekbones and cheeks until he reaches her mouth. She settles against him, figures fitting together.

'Would you really kill Dickie Bennett if Raylan asked you to?'

'It's the least I can do.'

She moves back, sitting up on her haunches. 'Helen made her own choices. She knew the life she was choosing, it's not like she went into it blind. It's like I said to Arlo-'

'So you were talking to Arlo - I must confess that I had some doubts on that point.'

She tilts her head, leans into the fingers that trace the curve of her cheek. 'Yes, I was talking to Arlo. But the same thing goes for you.'

His hand slips to the back of her head and he draws her to him.

At last, at long last, she feels cared for-

Life is long

-and from the most unexpected source.

'If you kill Dickie,' she says after a while, 'Mags will kill you. Then I'll have to kill her.' He frowns, his hand a silent question in the air. 'That's how it works, ain't it? We take revenge for the people we love.'

He lets out a breath. 'It doesn't always have to be that way.'

Her lips tighten, eyebrows rising. 'What, you think it's different for you than it is for me?'

He looks at her down his eyes, speculative. 'Are you trying to prove something here?'

'No!' Defensive. She sighs. 'I don't know. Maybe. I just don't want anything worse than has already happened.'

'Worse?'

She grits her teeth. His hands are warm and steady on her hips. She meets his gaze full-on.

'I don't want anything happening to you. Happy now?'

His fingers perform their courtship dance around her face, glancing across her cheekbones and jaw, twining through her hair. His lips against hers are a mute testimony.

Life and death have always been so close in Harlan County. Too close. But they are alive, her and him. She places her hands flat against his chest and feels the thrum of his heartbeat. She slides her hands down, starts to ease the buttons of his waistcoat through the bindings.

'Are you sure that's a good idea?' His eyes dart to the door. Every now and then there is a creak in the house, low voices. Devil and his buddies keeping watch.

'We'll just both be real quiet,' she says, busy on her task.

'You think you're capable of that?'

She puts her eyebrows up. 'Someone has a mighty high opinion of himself.'

He laughs softly and she allows herself to be lost in him.