Chapter 3: Just a Little Understanding

The sight of the big red six against the bright blue square was a beacon for weary eyes. In the dark of night, Winslow, Arizona, provided little entertainment for sight-seeing, but Rachel didn't care. Her eyes burned. Her feet ached. Her back hurt. She was ready to lay it down for the night and when the conversation with her companions became silent, she knew they were ready for the same.

They checked in and secured rooms on the second floor, overlooking a turquoise blue pool. She and Darla had Room 223. Raylan was next door in 224. With just a bag each containing the bare essentials for the night, the women entered the room. Rachel stepped through first to check the room. After she cleared it, she took a moment to assess their surroundings.

Blue shag carpeting covered the floor. The bright orange walls would live in her memory forever. And the blue bedspreads were like something from a 70s sitcom.

"Whew." She ran a hand over her eyes. "It's not the Ritz."

"But it'll do," Darla added. She used a tissue to tug the bed cover off. "One can't ever be too careful."

Rachel nodded before disappearing inside the bathroom. Once inside, she washed up and stripped down to a t-shirt and shorts. By the time, she pulled her hair into a ponytail she was more than ready to hit the sheets. The return to the bedroom came the discovery that Darla had changed from traveling clothes to a pair of shorts and a tee, too. The other woman had spread the bed cover on the floor and was working through a series of pushups.

"I'll be done soon."

"Don't hurry on my account."

Rachel stepped around her. To be honest, she was impressed. She hated pushups. Judging from Darla's form, cut biceps, and measured breathing, she probably had no problem with it.

She used the same technique to remove the bedspread from her bed. As she sat on the edge, she found her eyes drawn back to her roommate. Now, Darla was on to sit ups. Her t-shirt rose with every up movement, and Rachel couldn't help but notice the scarring that disfigured Darla's back.

The report mentioned a bombing, but it failed to provide how bad the injuries were. Words on a page didn't really do it justice. Evidence of love gone wrong was a painful sight. Rachel couldn't imagine making the choices that would lead to that kind of bodily harm.

"Done," Darla said. A faint sheen glistened her brow. She wiped it away with the back of her hand as she stood and faced Rachel. "Sorry about before."

"What before?" Rachel asked.

"Me talking too much. Your relationship with the other Marshal is none of my business—"

"There is no relationship."

Darla nodded once. "Okay, then your non-relationship—"

"We work together," Rachel cut in to clarify. "We're business associates."

The other woman stepped back and grabbed her bag. "You don't have to explain it to me. Like I said, I talk too much. I think I'm doing it again."

Rachel opened her mouth to protest, but Darla disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. She sat dumbfounded. Had she put her foot in her mouth again? Had she protested too much? Shit. Was she overthinking it?

More questions threatened to interrupt a good night's sleep. Then her cell phone buzzed. One look at the display and expletives exploded from her mouth. She had half a mind not to answer it. But knowing the caller, her silence would just be seen as a challenge.

Fuck.

She grabbed her phone, gun, and key card and she stepped outside.

"Joe," she said, by way of greeting. "Don't."

"Rachel, c'mon," her soon to be ex-husband said. "You don't even know why I'm calling."

"Have you signed the papers?"

"No—"

"Then your reason for calling doesn't matter." Rachel looked up at the night sky. She counted the stars. The twinkle, twinkle song used to make everything feel happy and light when she was a little girl. Too bad the little diddy didn't work anymore.

"Five years don't matter to you?" Joe asked.

"That's not what I said." She sighed. "Look, I'm tired and I'm working. Calling is…unless you're telling me you finally signed then… Well, calling is a waste—"

"I want you back—"

"Oh, please."

"If you could stop just five seconds and remember that you're my wife and not some gunslinging Marshal—"

Rachel rolled her eyes. Joe dissing her job was nothing new. He should have gotten a new routine by now. "And just forget everything else?"

"I never said that," he said. "Don't twist what I'm saying. We can make this work." He released a long, drawn out sigh. "I'll go to counseling."

"Joe."

"That's what you wanted."

"A year ago," she said, leaning against the rail to look down at the pool. "Twelve months ago. Three hundred sixty five days—"

"Dammit, Rachel!"

"No, damn you, Joe! Just sign the fucking papers and leave me alone!" She ended the call. Shaking, she pressed the phone to her forehead and muttered, "Dammit."

R&R

It wasn't Raylan's intention to eavesdrop. He had showered and dressed for bed when he heard the door open next door. Bone-tired and weary, he had grabbed his piece with one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other. Only the sound of Rachel's agitated voice stopped him. Against everything that was decent and right that burned in his gut, he lingered at his window. The desperate pull of the full size bed, sheets and pillows lacked in comparison to the woman out on the balcony. When she ended the call, he couldn't stop himself from pulling on a pair of jeans and joining her outside.

"Overheard that, huh?"

"Wasn't trying to."

"Didn't mean to get loud. Joe brings that out."

"Certain people have that affect on us."

"I'm okay," Rachel said.

"Never thought otherwise," he said.

He knew only an asshole would ogle her shapely calves, red-tipped toes and firm thighs. Lord help him but the fit of her white t-shirt against her mocha skin would certainly do him in. Raylan decided he had to think of something else lest she read the lust in his eyes and slapped the shit out of him. Of course, he'd deserve it. But still. The hollowness in her voice and the slump in her shoulders meant that she needed an ear to listen, not a dick to ride. He could provide one without the other. He wasn't a complete asshole.

Raylan rested his hip against the railing and looked down. He'd swear he could smell the chlorine from there.

"This'll stay here, right?"

"Whatever happens in Winslow, stays in Winslow," he replied. Upon her nod, he added, "I could learn a lot from you."

"How so?" She still hadn't looked at him. Her hand trembled some, and the slump hadn't left her shoulders. "What could you learn from me? How to submit your reports on time?"

"No," he said, drawing out the word. "How to keep my private shit out of the office. We've worked together…how long? I had no clue you were married."

Silence came and lingered. It unnerved him. Maybe he'd misspoken. Shit. It wasn't like her marital status was any of his business. He was just so curious! She was the quintessential mysterious woman. She was meant to be unraveled. He was dying to know her secrets. But there was that fucking quiet.

"On that note, I'll take your silence as my cue—"

"No, wait," she said.

"Hold that thought." Raylan stepped back inside his room and grabbed two chairs.

She opted to sit cross-legged. He scooted low and rested his legs on the rails.

"I can't afford to bring my shit to work."

"Because you're a black woman?"

"Yes," she told him. "The game is different for me. Forgetting that can cost me."

Raylan had never considered the job from her perspective. He had never imagined what it was like for her. He wasn't sure if he could.

"Is that why you never talk about the kills?"

She sighed. "Raylan."

"Rachel."

"What do you want me to say?" she asked. "You keep harping on it like you expect me to—to… I don't know. Is Art behind this?"

"Honestly?"

She finally looked at him and glared.

"He's concerned." Raylan lifted his hand in defense. "But I'm the one doing the asking."

"Because I'm a woman?"

He frowned. The questioned stumped him, and he knew giving her a half-assed answer wouldn't suffice. He'd told her before that he cared and that was a fact. Was that the only reason he kept dogging her to talk about it?

"Partly."

"Hmm…" she murmured.

"Hey, you asked."

"Indeed I did." She pulled her knees to her chest and squeezed.

By now, she had placed her gun, phone, and key card on the floor beside her chair. All were within easy reach. Raylan memorized the placement of her items because it faired better than staring at her legs and feet.

"It was bound to happen one day," she said.

He frowned. "That's it?"

"That's all I've got."

Raylan recognized persistent hedging. He'd learned it at his father's knee. Arlo could dance around a subject like he was dancing a jig. Rachel would have given the old man a run for his money.

"Fine," he said.

"Appreciate you caring enough to ask."

He smiled. There was a hint of disbelief in her voice, but it didn't surprise him. Divorce caused a person to waver on trust. He knew about that like he knew about other things.

"You two okay in there?"

"We're fine." Rachel glanced at her room and then leaned toward him. "Did you read the file?"

"I glanced through it. Why?"

"There was a bombing," she said.

Raylan nodded. He remembered reading about that. "Is she talking?"

"No." She shook her head. A troubled expression marked her pretty face.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." Rachel stood, yawned, and stretched. "We have a long drive tomorrow."

"Hmm…" He averted his eyes, but he couldn't be sure it was fast enough. Damn, her body was tight.

"You okay?" She lingered in her doorway.

"Nothing a shower won't cure."

She gave him a smile that made him wonder. "Goodnight, Raylan."

"G'night, Rachel."

[A/N: Thanks again for checking out this story! The reviews are appreciated so don't be shy. The road trip is becoming an eye opener for both of them. Slowly, but surely. Raylan doesn't always do slow when it comes to his women. Maybe this will be good for him. But what about Rachel? How much did her office crush play into the dissolution of her marriage? Hmm…

To ripetebook, "good looking white boy with a shitload of swagger"-AMEN! :-)]