Chapter 5

D-Day at the Red Pony

(Or)

Night Errant

Author's Note: Uh-oh, this story is slowing down into some detail, way beyond my intent, you see, it is drawing me with it, draggggggging me behind…

—Yep, Still Eight Months Ago—

So, it was D-Day. Well, her personal one, more precisely: Divorce Day. No one had asked and she had told no one. When Ruby had returned to the office, the conversations had not returned to her envelopes, and Walt had occupied his dispatcher with a flurry of assignments. The weather was cooperating in only way Wyoming could. The snow had stopped dumping, the roads were cleared, but it was still fucking cold.

To be fair, Walt had asked after divorce a few times over the last two months, before apparently losing interest in the seemingly endless process, even as they slogged over the murder board together in the evenings. She knew without asking that the board had taken his focus. Now that it seemed on the cusp of a total breakthrough, she had seized upon that with a tiny bit of optimism that her divorce could not be far behind.

Sean had managed to drag out a really simple divorce by virtue of doing it from Australia (what ever happened to airmail—faxes—email?) Nope, everything was manila envelopes from a law office in Australia, not even using his Newett Energy buddies stateside.

But earlier in the afternoon, she had received dueling manila envelopes from both countries, announcing the termination of her marriage in succinct fashion—everything right-and-tight, keeping her Moretti maiden name and today's date. She idly wondered what time of day the divorce was actually final, hoping Sean wouldn't stage a messy 11:59 pm drama of wanting to reconcile, but that seemed like a pretty remote possibility.

Vic sighed, because whenever the Records department at the Durant County Courthouse recorded the divorce, and if the clerk recording it happened to be Barb, Omar's sister with the married name she could never remember, it was probably about 3 minutes from being heard around the far reaches of the state of Wyoming. That meant that of all people, Omar would likely be gifted with the delicious tidbit that she was finally free, no rings or legalities to worry about on his end, anymore. It also meant that any other man under 70 might try to stake his personal claim as well.

She sighed again. She wished she were being narcissistic, but there just weren't that many young, single, professional women in the Durant area.

Omar's possible participation only brought another consideration. She thought Walt had asked her to stay on as more than his Undersheriff, but they had not yet discussed their personal feelings. He had never made clear whether her staying was more than a job decision, but she remembered how he had held her at the hospital, and how intense his eyes had been when he asked her to stay. She would swear she was not hallucinating over that, and yet, it seemed like a distant and misty memory because both of those events had happened around the time of her concussion.

Which brought her back to: was it time to announce her freedom, or did she have to go to Sheridan or further to whoop it up and prevent any awkwardness with the locals? Worse, did she want to whoop it up?

Her cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Cady. They had become closer during Cady's issues with Branch, and although she'd seen her in passing a few times, she hadn't heard from her in months.

"So, I hear you're a free woman." Damn, Barb had been too efficient over at the courthouse.

"Well, from a legal standpoint," she said hesitantly, uncertain where the conversation was going. "I'm still at work."

"How about you and I go the Pony and have a few tonight? I thought you might need an ear. We can be girls and wear dresses, and I'll be your designated driver."

That was an unexpectedly thoughtful offer. It also might head off the Omars of Durant, to have a Wing-Woman. Were there such things?

"Well…sure, that does sound kind of good, no pressure and all."

"I thought so. I know—Barb is such a blabbermouth. I was filing a motion today, and she asked me if you were seeing anyone, yet, now that you were free."

She grimaced. Yeah, pretty much as she had envisioned. "Did you set her straight, the answer is: No, I'm not, and that thanks to my Ex's generous financial settlement, I'm living at the jail? That should bring on the guys!" There should have been at least one f— in there, but she always tried to moderate her cussing around Walt's daughter, who was just calling to be kind. Why she tried for Cady, she was never sure. Cady wasn't a child, but she usually reserved her shock-talk language for guys who needed a reminder from The Terror, and Walt always seemed either immune or amused by it.

"No, not really, it wasn't any of her business, was it?"

No wonder the woman was a lawyer. Put in her place, she answered in a small voice. "No."

"So, do you want me to pick you up at the station, about seven-ish? I'll buy and drive."

She huffed, defeated. It did sound good. "Okay." She would just have to dig out her dresses and shoes from the box downstairs, in the old file room near the shower room, and see if anything was wearable. They weren't something she needed every week or even every month, working in Absaroka County.

At exactly 5:01 pm she said goodnight to Ruby, but didn't poke her head into Walt's office; she knew he was still on the phone with someone at the state level about the conspiracy investigation, and she didn't want to interrupt. She figured Ruby would fill him in at some point after Barb's phone tree got around to her, but since Walt hadn't asked after the state of her divorce in a while, nor had they had any personal conversations, it might not even come up. He might have lost interest. So, was she or was she not free, now? The law might say one thing, her heart another, but she was not going to push. If it were going to happen, it would happen—in time.

Cady looked very pretty in a print dress with a shrug under her winter coat and boots, in deference to the nasty weather, while she had defaulted to a little black dress which would have looked better in downtown Philly than in Rustic, Wyoming, but she hadn't bought much in the last three years, and fortunately, it still looked somewhat in style. The three inch heels were maybe a bit much for the Pony, and she hoped she didn't put a stiletto through a floorboard and snap it off, breaking an ankle in the process, or slip and fall in the parking lot. As opposed to a shrug, she had her leather jacket with her. She had her hair down and even wore fucking earrings. All-out for a place like the Pony, but in reality, once she got back outside, she would just freeze. The parking lot had been scraped to within an inch of snow-over-ice (probably in reaction to potential lawsuits) so her heels didn't have to work too hard to enter the Pony.

Henry wasn't around when they arrived, he was probably doing a dozen different owner-errands before the evening rush. Along the way, she had picked up that he owned some rentals, other business interests, and probably much more than his financials for the court had indicated, even if his cash-at-hand had been limited during his incarceration. She knew there was far more to Henry than the face he presented to customers. He just didn't advertise it.

She had asked him recently if any of his rentals would be soon available on say, a deputy's salary, Undersheriff or not. He had kind of put her off, saying that he would let her know if anything suitable came up. When he had never mentioned anything further, she decided the rental market in Durant was either more profitable than her measly salary could handle, or inventory was worse off than she had thought.

Cady tried to put her at ease with small talk with a story about a paralegal who had gotten an adoption and divorce file mixed up with each other. It was more sad than funny, really. The people in question must have been horrified. At least, she would have been horrified.

"Okay," said Cady as they sat down at the bar, "what shall we order?"

Well, that was a good question. She didn't want to get plastered, nor did she want to think very much tonight.

"I guess—Cady," she started, but her heart just wasn't in it. "I dunno, maybe this was a mistake."

"No!" said Cady in bracing tones, "we'll just start easy. Two glasses of Henry's good red wine, Knife."

Knife Words could be model for one of the Sioux of the mid 1800s, inscrutable and solid. He was one of Henry's most recent protégé bartenders, working his way through culinary school in Sheridan days (she found that hard to imagine, but hospitality had become a thriving industry in the state) and tending bar most nights. Henry went through bartenders at an alarming rate. Word was, he taught them so well and to be so proficient, they almost always started their own businesses after leaving him, using his as a model.

Knife placed two glasses before them. Cady sniffed and sighed in appreciation, before taking a sip. "Henry sure knows his way around the reds."

Vic instinctively wanted to gulp the whole thing down and begin a road to oblivion, but settled for a sip. It actually was good. She put the glass back down. Maybe she wasn't trying to go down that road as fast as she had thought.

"So, how are things at the station?" Cady asked, and Vic did not feel it was like prying in any way, just a pleasant curiosity.

"Better," she replied cautiously. "We're working more as a team on the complex investigations." She just couldn't talk about any investigations with Cady, especially the murder board one, or admit that Walt and she had some future discussions to make as to his future, her future, or even possibly their future. It had just not been the time to discuss such things. With the rate they were going, she thought morosely, it might never be that time.

Actually, the thing she absolutely could not say anything about to Cady, the young lawyer who had helped her defend Henry had suddenly popped up on the murder board's radar the night before. It was too soon to exactly determine his involvement, and she could say nothing, nor warn Cady, yet. That would have to be Walt's purview. His call.

The stool on her left squeaked, a blast of aftershave enveloped her, and when she turned, there, unsurprisingly, was Omar. It was not her lucky day. She had hoped against hope that she had heard right last week and that he was guiding a bunch of high-paying dudes into the back country while growing back his Grizzly Adams beard now that hunting season had started. That he was clean-shaven spoke volumes.

"No ring, Vickie. No husband, either. Could it be my lucky day!?"

That was so in opposition to her thoughts, that she gave a half-hearted smile and took the long draught of her wine that she had first intended. It did go down easy and definitely mellowed things out.

"Good evening, Omar!" said Henry, coming from out of the kitchen like a welcome apparition. "What can we get for you, tonight?" he asked, refilling their glasses with the same red.

"Well, let's see. I'll start with one of those fancy beers, the hoppy ones I go for, and work my way into a steak. You know how just how I like 'em, rare with the garlic butter? Spud with the fixins. What are you having, Vickie?"

Vic shook her head, but she had to admit Cady threw herself into the fray in Wing-Woman fashion before the Vic who was holding back and slightly fuzzed with wine could tell him to fuck off.

"Hi, Uncle Omar, I thought you were up above Crazy Woman Canyon this week?"

Cady's voice seemed to startle Omar. It appeared he had just realized it was Cady sitting next to her. "Oh, just got back from taking out that California group. They got wet and came back early. Bunch of sissies."

Henry produced ice water for all three of them, and disappeared into the kitchen again.

"Ah," Cady replied. Vic, still trying to control her tongue, did not.

"So, Vickie," Omar tried again, all cheerful and bluff. It wasn't that she didn't like Omar, it was more that she didn't like him like that. Vic remembered the thick sheaf on Omar, mostly domestic disturbance incidents, all the charges against him pressed by his wife. She also remembered Walt saying Omar claimed to still love his wife but acknowledged they could and should never live together again. "Stop kiddin' around. What can I get you, tonight?"

"Nothing, Omar," she said, desperately trying to be polite and not explode, when out of the corner of her eye, Walt pushed through the swinging saloon doors, with his familiar purposeful stride. He came over to where she and Cady sat at the bar, hands at his personal parade rest, one hand over his Colt, the other on his cuffs, and she thought, he is really tired, tonight, because his right foot was dragging a little the whole way.

She suspected he had stared at the Murder Board for at least a couple more hours after she had left the night before. She wished she could hold him so she could make sure he actually got some sleep, so he would not be so tired. What an absurd thought for a finally-free, dressed-to-nines female celebrating at the local watering hole.

"Hi, Punk, Vic, Omar," he said, as Henry appeared again and automatically put a Rainier in front of him, which Walt waved away. "No, sorry, Henry, I'm here on Sheriff Business." Vic thought he looked more like he was on, "I'm going to punch your lights out, Omar, business."

"Aw, Walt, what do you need, now?" Omar sounded resigned, as though he would be expected to perform a munitions miracle that very moment.

"Nothing tonight, Omar," and Vic silently amended, yet. If it were a case, they might. A stray but piquant thought occurred, if Walt punched Omar, she might have to arrest him. Oh, the irony, to arrest the Sheriff. She had suddenly lost the train of the conversation, no doubt, it was the wine…

"Vic, we need to pick up a female prisoner over at Tri-County. Your bag's in my truck."

She started. He was on duty? She would swear the duty roster had Ferg's name on it for tonight…

"You can change here if you want." She scowled. The pieces did not fit. What had Walt always sad? Follow the evidence? Her bag with her uniform shirt and badge had been at the station when she left. And she was not even on call…

"My gun and boots weren't in the bag, and are still at the station," she said, "and I've had a glass of wine…" And then she caught Henry's raised eyebrows. "Uh, two." No prevaricating, there.

"Well, I'm driving, so let's get going. Cady…"

"Not a problem. I'm buying, remember? You two crazy kids go have some sheriffin' fun with your prisoner."

Vic grimaced. "The perfect ending to the perfect evening."

Omar sputtered. "Isn't she off duty? "

"No, on call. Comin', Vic?" he asked, turning on his heel, but allowing her to precede him.

Of course she was, and she led him out, but her heels gave her an advantage in height she didn't usually have. It was a different and kind of lofty feeling, when she turned her head, looking more or less across instead of up to him. She also moved differently than in boots, and wondered if he even noticed, or how her hair rippled when it was loose, how her dress kind of floated around her legs. If so, he said nothing, just silently followed her out.

As she threw her jacket around her shoulders against the evening's potential frostbite, she said, "I am pretty sure I'm not on call, and you sure know how to fucking kill an evening," she paused, "but—thank you. There are only so many ways I can say no to Omar."

He put his head down and made a somewhat suspect noise as they got to the Bullet. She jumped in to her habitual shot-gun position, somewhat impeded by her heels, and fastened her seat belt.

"What? I'll need my boots and gun, can change at the station, give me 10 minutes…"

"You don't have to change, Vic. I kinda like the dress. And the shoes. You look beautiful."

That stopped her. "What are you saying? Don't we have to get going—?"

He gave her a speaking look.

"Oh!—So, no prisoner, no Tri-County…?"

He shrugged.

"Why, you devil, you," she said as the glow from the wine receded. "So, Walter Longmire, dissembling? Are you always going to play the fucking knight errant for me? First Chance, then Branch, now Omar?"

The blue eyes suddenly turned on her, intense cobalt even in the mellow cab light. A moment passed. "I'd…kinda like to try."

That stopped her. She took a breath. Two. She still didn't have enough breath.

"Oh."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier that it was final today?" he asked softly. His voice wasn't so much gravel, now, more like baby-fine sandpaper.

"Oh. Well, you were busy when I was leaving, and Cady called and asked me to go out tonight. She heard it from Barb at Records…"

He winced. "So did Ruby, who eventually told me."

"Around the county in 90 seconds," she said bitterly.

He jerked his head in agreement. "More or less."

"Well, just take me back to the station. It's my final destination, anyway."

He turned his head in surprise. "The station?"

"Yeah. House changed hands last week." She hesitated. "I'm surprised Ruby didn't mention that."

"Me, too. Maybe she didn't know, or it hadn't gone through, yet? I thought…maybe you would need a place...never mind. So, where is all your house stuff?"

"Well, spread between the file room we cleared out last year, and a small storage locker west of town."

Silence. How had she rendered him speechless? Oh, that's right, it was Walt, who often enough didn't use words in his communications. She noted that he had turned right instead of left, and twisted her lips. The cold air still pouring from the vents was clearing most of the residual wine haze from her. Hopefully the heat would kick in soon.

"The station is the other way," she pointed out helpfully, in case he had thought his way past the intersection.

He took a deep breath. "How would you like to celebrate your divorce? I mean, really celebrate. I know you didn't want to with Omar, or even probably Cady."

She glared at him. "It was very sweet of Cady to offer to pay for drinks and our evening. She knows I've been kind of down, lately."

His mouth worked, like he was chewing on a thought but actually chewed on his lips.

"I wondered. You didn't say anything."

"Wasn't your problem," she said, looking anywhere but him. It wasn't. He hadn't blown up her marriage, not really, despite Sean's assertions and snide remarks along the way. Sean and she had been having problems even before Durant. "Besides, we've been working the Murder Board pretty hard, I know you've been concentrating on that."

"So, then, Sheridan, so nobody has to know we aren't at Tri-County? I could buy you dinner."

It was an appealing idea, but the wrong way to ask, pinch-hitting as Plan B after a disastrous evening.

"No," she said, trying to plow through without hurting him, "thank you, but I think I'd just rather go back to the station."

His head swiveled around as though surprised, hurt, worse, maybe…rejected. Well, she hadn't meant that. She tried to repair the damage. Really, sometimes the big, tough guy was so vulnerable.

"Ask me again some other time, Walt, and I promise to say yes," she said, closing her eyes, "It's been a shitty week overall with the house, the storm and the divorce, and I just had to fend off Omar."

"What about just a cup of coffee, then, or something more, at the truck stop?" It was half-way to Sheridan, but a lot closer.

She considered. Food did sound appealing. "Well, I am starved, and if you really have my bag, I have sneakers and jeans in it, just not my duty boots. I can change…"

"We're supposed to be headed over to Tri-County, so maybe it's good we're heading out of town in case Omar asks later."

"Fuck Omar. I'm just hungry. Cady and I never even got to order dinner."

"Okay, then." He slowed the truck to turn around again.

"Wait!" she said, laying her hand on his bicep. "Where were you headed?"

"My place," he said sheepishly. "To the Murder Board. On autopilot, I guess. We're so close."

She thought of the tangle of yarn, string, construction paper, photos, and numbers tying to pertinent documents. The Caiman Islands appeared to be only the tip of the iceberg. Still, the murder board looked something very like the US highway system gone bad, but she knew in her heart they were very close.

She stared at him. He caught her gaze. He stopped the truck. He looked straight ahead, not at her, and seemed to be struggling.

"What should we do, Vic?" His eyes were pleading tell me. Not, I love you, not a personal "I want you to stay," just lobbing it into her court for a return volley. He wanted her to guide the conversation, if not the evening.

She swallowed, not ready for such weighty questions. Instead, she bit her lip and tried for a light touch. "I'm too tipsy to think, yet, so definitely coffee," she said firmly, and as her stomach rumbled, she laid a hand across it, "and food. The truck stop will do nicely. I can change in back before we go in."

But she knew that wasn't the answer to the question he had asked.

What the hell was wrong with both of them?