Chapter 12: Through the Broken Promised Land

As Rachel headed to the corner and stared out the window, Raylan viewed his scant dwellings over the bar with fresh eyes. This wasn't much better than the hotel room he holed up in when he first returned to Kentucky from Miami, but instead of paying by the week, rent was traded for his bouncer duties downstairs. His age and career achievements notwithstanding, he should have had solid walls with a firm concrete foundation underneath. Maybe a white picket fence or at least a two-car garage.

He hadn't thought much about real estate since Winona left but now that he brought Rachel inside, Raylan couldn't get the idea out of his head. The house in Harlan County was just that. A house. He didn't have a home. It shamed him that he didn't have a home to offer his friend to protect her. Mostly just a room. With a bar of noisy, drunken college kids beneath them. He gauged her expression to see how she took it. True to Rachel's way, her expression remained neutral. The little he read was less about his digs and more about expectations. When their eyes met, she nodded her head in invitation for him to join her. He set his Stetson on the dresser. The keys clanged on the hard wood beside the hat. A bottle of bourbon rested on the nightstand. He opted to ignore the liquor for now.

Raylan nudged her shoulder when he reached her. "You okay?"

She shrugged. "I'm not some fragile little flower. I can take care of myself."

"Never thought otherwise."

She cocked an eyebrow. Her dark eyes glowed with disbelief.

He raised a hand in defense. "I know you're capable."

"So why the John Wayne move?"

"John Wayne?" he muttered under his breath.

"You know what I mean." She tilted her head to look up at him. "You went in 100%."

"Not even halfway." He frowned remembering. "Shoulda punched him."

"What? I was talking about in the bar just now."

"Oh," he murmured, slowly nodding. "Well, that…"

She turned back toward the window and the darkness outside. "Punching Joe wouldn't have solved anything."

"Maybe not."

She sighed. "You don't know him. He's not the man who showed up at my Mama's place."

"Is he the same guy who's been blowing up your phone?" Raylan asked.

"Who taught you that phrase?"

"I hear things." He gazed down at the vision she created. How many times had they stood side by side? The desire to touch her wasn't new. She wore her femininity different from the other women he usually pursued or who pursued him. Yet, that did not lessen her appeal one bit. Despite her attempts to be a hardened long arm of the law, she was soft in all the right places and smelled just as sweet. From this view, he could appreciate how her hair curled against her neck and remembered how the strands caressed the back of his hand.

"This could be a bad mistake," she said.

"He was out of control. You can't believe for one sec—"

"Not Joe," she cut in, turning to face him. "Me. Us. Me being here with you."

"You've been in my room before." He laughed, trying to make light of it.

"Not like this."

He tried to read her. He'd seen her cocky and self-assured. On the transport, her vulnerability slipped through several times and that intrigued him. Right now, he sensed something that surprised him—fear. Of him.

"What are you thinking?" He blurted the words before he paused to consider them.

"I don't want to be another notch."

"Is that what you think of me?"

Rachel didn't answer. Instead, her gaze darted around the room. Perhaps she was remembering the first time she saw it. Lindsey had tossed his belongings aside like they were nothing in her haste to steal his savings. Back then, he should have realized that a room over a bar wasn't a home, but he was too determined to get his money back and patch together the pieces of his pride. Since Lindsey, this room and his bed hadn't born witness to another woman. Rachel was the first in a long while and with that only one thing came to mind.

"I want to do this right," he said.

She started to step away from him, but he caught her hand. "I'm serious," he said. "We've been dancing around each other for a long time. Even before the transport detail. I ignored it. Not anymore."

"Are you always this straightforward?"

He smiled. "Not always."

"I should say something."

"Denying would be a lie, so anything other than denial would be good," he said.

Rachel slipped her fingers between his and squeezed gently. "I'm usually straightforward."

"Very much so."

She shook her head. "This thing with Joe…"

"We're not talking about him. Yet. What do you want, Rachel?"

"I…I…"

He cupped her face, tilting her head so that she looked at him. "Do you want me?"

She nodded.

R&R

The confines of a safe house felt different this time, Darla mused. The quiet suburban neighborhood in Los Angeles had appealed to her eclectic taste. She enjoyed the architecture which was so different than what she'd grown up with in Memphis. The regret about not attending college was never far from her mind, but while in LA, she indulged in a couple of classes at Santa Monica College. The proximity to the Pacific Ocean was an irresistible temptation. Long walks on the boardwalk after class were a favorite pastime to help her forget Nik, the bombing, and everything she'd lost even if the amnesia was just for a little while.

This house, nestled in the Lexington suburb, reminded her of the "home" she left in LA. The perfect yards and expensive cars were frames for the ideal American families tucked safely inside. How she longed to have made different choices long ago. She used to sing about the suddenness of falling in love and how it tripped up a person. The fact didn't hit her until Nik came into her life. What decisions would she have made if he had never entered the club and they never met? Would she have found another Mr. Right and shared her life with him in a home like this? Would Nik still be alive?

Sometimes, Darla hated the quiet that allowed her thoughts to drift and the painful questions to sneak in. The past couldn't be recreated. What was done was done. But if she could get just one do over…

A faint knock sounded at the bedroom door before Tim poked his head in. "Sleep?"

She beckoned for him to come inside. He had left after their earlier talk to give the appearance of professionalism to his fellow Deputy Marshals. She supposed he had given them enough face time. His presence had been missed. She couldn't stop the smile when he presented bags of food and a six pack of cold Diet Coke.

They dined in the middle of the queen-sized bed. Aromas made her mouth water. Her appetite was restored upon the sight of crispy fried chicken, steaming collard greens, moist cornbread, and tangy potato salad.

"How did you know?" she asked, reaching for a wing. "This looks as good as Gus'."

"Who's Gus?" A slight frown marred his otherwise smooth, perfect forehead. Tim held a drumstick, but he paused before he took a bite.

"A fried chicken joint in Memphis," she answered. "They're several actually. The best fried chicken with just enough kick to make it interesting." She tore into the drumette. "Hmm…this is good. What are the other guys eating?"

"They wanted pizza."

She nodded. "You?"

"I live off pizza most days. Wanted something better tonight."

"I didn't take you for a Diet Coke guy."

"I'm not." He pulled a Mello Yello from his jacket.

She made a gagging gesture.

He chuckled. "It's an acquired taste."

Conversation danced around the sounds of chewing, swallowing, and gulping. The noises were companionable to Darla's ears. If Tim was disgusted by her gluttony, he didn't show it. She hadn't thought about food since the last time she'd eaten with him. That had been Mexican, right? Was it only yesterday? After everything that'd happened, it felt as if a lifetime had passed. Her thoughts had gotten jumbled. Of course they had eaten since then, but she couldn't remember.

"You're frowning. Something wrong?" he asked.

Darla shook her head. She grabbed a wad of napkins and wiped her mouth. Appetite gone, she closed her Styrofoam plate and slid back against the pillows.

"You're not a good liar."

"Makes for an excellent witness."

"Never doubted it," he replied. He gathered the remaining food and set it on the dresser. When he returned, he sat on the bed at a reasonable distance. Not too far away, but his position was decidedly discreet.

An overwhelming urge to close the space hit Darla. She pushed the need aside, but doing so was difficult. Tim Gutterson was the kind of guy she wished she had met before Nik Cassalotti came into her life.

"Stop thinking," she mumbled under her breath.

"What?" He slid closer. "You okay?"

She shook her head. Tears threatened to fall. She blinked to keep them at bay. Instead, she sighed and clenched her hands together.

"What's wrong?" Tim seemed hesitant about touching her. His mouth tightened. Curses tumbled out as he stormed to the door. Faster than Darla could process his movements, he locked the door and returned to her, sitting closer than he had before with his hand on hers. "Talk to me."

"What if they come—"

"They won't," he said brusquely. "Are you upset about the phone?"

He jutted his chin toward the cellphone on the nightstand. The phone was disposable and unapproved. Tim had given it to her earlier. His, Rachel, and Raylan's numbers were programmed in as contacts. She'd downloaded games, but they had failed to hold her attention when the quiet led to her thoughts taking over. His gift was against regulations and she appreciated it immensely.

"No, but I don't want you to get in trouble."

He shrugged. "If it's not the phone, what is it? You look…tortured. They tell me that holding stuff in doesn't make it better and it doesn't help in the long run."

"Who is "they"?"

"Therapists."

"Marshals have to talk to shrinks? I didn't know that."

"Not Marshals."

She noted the hardness of his profile. His blue eyes had become dark like midnight. "For when you were in service?"

Tim nodded.

"Want to talk about it?"

He smiled and the hardness went away. "I asked you first."

"I made dumb decisions."

"Everybody does. It's called life."

"You had to kill someone because of me—"

"Not because of you," he said. "You didn't put the gun in his hand. He came after us. That was his decision."

"But…" She looked down at where his hand rested on hers. Tim's strength was quiet, reserved. She felt it on the trip and the numerous times he held and comforted her. She felt it now. If only she could crawl into it and snuggle there.

"You're doing it again."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You go faraway and then you look guilty."

"You're too observant, Deputy Gutterson."

"I wish I was a mind reader."

She laughed. "I'm glad you're not!"

With the chuckle still rocking her, he bent forward. His mouth claimed hers with surprising softness. Insistent swipes of his tongue parted her lips and made her moan low in her throat. Just as Darla found herself succumbing, he pulled away, ending the kiss. She grumbled in protest and received a lingering peck on her bottom lip.

"Whew."

He caressed her mouth with more slow kisses. Darla dimly noticed that no alarming bells sounded in the back of her mind like they had before with Nik. Then Tim crushed her to his chest as he lowered them to the bed and all thoughts faded. Her senses took over. The sweetness of Mello Yello lingered on his lips, melding with his unique taste, as he possessed her with slow, deep kisses. His hands, strong and lean, stroked her sides with unexpected tenderness. This time when the kiss ended, she cupped his face. His stare was unreadable, but his physical reaction was easy to define.

Their breathing was heavy and loud in the otherwise quiet room. She searched for words, but none came. One of them should say something. But he had kissed her. Twice. Damn, Darla thought, I'm so bad at this. She wanted him. The little crush had escalated and she was at a loss as to what to do. The timing was horribly off. But he was making her feel more than she had in quite a while.

R&R

"If you slap me, I wouldn't hold it against you."

Tim had been watching Darla, trying hard to gauge her response. Sure, she kissed him back and if her dilated pupils were any indication, she was as aroused as he. But was she okay with him making that move? He hadn't had a girlfriend in God knew how long. Relationships had always been weird for him. After Afghanistan, things hadn't gotten easier. He could kill without hesitation, but committing to another person scared the hell out of him.

"That's the last thing on my mind," she said finally.

He pressed his hand against hers as she caressed his face. She was fragile. He'd read her file. The bomb had been quite destructive. She would have more than physical scars. He understood that. His time in therapy, brief as it was, had taught him enough. The bruises and welts were superficial. The emotional shit was the killer. It was the shit that had him falling asleep with his arms wrapped around an empty bottle of JD instead of a beautiful woman. It was the crap that had him keep a special bullet ready just in case he ever changed his mind about waking up to another day.

"Do you want me to slap you?" she asked when the quiet lengthened.

"No."

Darla became still. "You could…say something."

Tim looked at the locked door and shook his head. Still, that wasn't enough to clear his thoughts. His erection was just as eager as it had been minutes ago. Her lower body had swayed against his during the kisses and hadn't let up since it ended. The silent invitation was a powerful temptation.

"Tim?" When he didn't respond fast enough, she started to pull away.

"Don't."

He rolled onto his back and settled her on top of him. His hands rested low on her waist right near the rise of her backside. The new position wasn't any better on his manhood or his willpower than the last, but he couldn't stand the idea of her moving from him. If she believed he didn't want her, he needed to prove her wrong.

"Maybe I shouldn't have kissed you."

"You wish you hadn't?"

He frowned. "I didn't say that."

"What are you saying?" she asked. Her beautiful face was marred with uncertainty.

"Not much of anything apparently."

She shifted again to leave him, but he held firm. A flash of anger brightened her expression. He found himself enjoying that moment.

"You like confusing me!"

"No." He bit back a smile as she punched his arm. "I don't! Come on."

"It's not funny."

"You're mad 'cause you're frustrated," he said, trying to sound serious.

"Aren't you?"

"Not the way you'd think."

"Talk to me," she demanded. "Talk or…"

"Or?"

She frowned. "Nothing. Nevermind."

"We can't. You're a witness—"

"You want me," she said. "Do you deny it?"

"I can't."

"Then…"

"You deserve better than a hurried lay. Worried if someone turns on the knob and finds the door locked," Tim said. "The man who makes love to you should take his time. Go slow. Be thorough. Not be concerned about who's listening."

"I don't care who's listening."

"I do," he said. "Darla… It's been a while for me."

"Me too," she admitted shyly. "The first time can be fast."

He felt the heat burning his face. Yet, the idea had strong appeal. "You wouldn't mind?"

She giggled. "Are we really negotiating…this?"

"Sounds like it." He laughed. "We shouldn't. No, we're not. We can't."

"You want to." She shifted her hips for emphasis.

Tim relaxed against the pillows and really looked at Darla. She was hungry for him, but the wildness was receding. Now, she was playful, teasing. The brakes were set for both of them. He used the job as his reason for hesitation. Later, he might have regrets. For now, the delay felt justified. She should be loved slowly, thoroughly. If he was the man to do it, that's how he aimed to prove his words. A quickie wouldn't be enough with her. He wanted—no—needed to take his time. With Smith and Jones just a staircase away, he couldn't do it. Not yet.

R&R

The transition from the window to the bed happened in way that Rachel would ponder for years to come. The decision that she'd sleep over came by silent omission. Raylan left to grab their dinner of chicken tenders, fries, and beer from the bar below. In his absence, Rachel changed into one of his t-shirts and snuggled under the covers to wait. All the while, her mind turned. This could be the worst move of her life, but on the other hand, nothing ventured nothing gained. Raylan's asking if she wanted him didn't necessarily mean that the night would lead to them exchanging bodily fluids. She could keep her wits about her. Right?

The outer door opened. His boots thudded along the hardwood floor. The aroma of fried food wafted through the small space. Rachel inhaled a deep breath as she leaned into the pillows, tugging the covers close around her. Raylan paused in the doorway as their gazes locked.

A faint smile worked at his delectable mouth. His brown eyes lit up with mischief, but to his credit, he kept a lid on any smart ass comments that came to mind. He set their dinners and beers on the nightstand. As he disappeared into the bathroom, he said, "There's a change to our order."

"Yeah?" Rachel crawled from under the covers to pull the Styrofoam plates closer. At that moment, Raylan looked out from the bathroom and grinned.

The t-shirt barely covered her rear and her panties left little to the imagination. In a flash, Rachel returned to the safety of the sheets and comforter and fixed him with a glare. Raylan's laughter echoed in the room as he went back to the bathroom. She heard the rush of water as he started the shower. For a moment, Rachel entertained the vision of a naked Raylan standing under the steady spray of hot water. The fantasy image was pushed away and replaced with the real vision of shrimp nachos with an extra serving of sour cream and salsa. She had just snagged a nacho when he returned to the room, dressed in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. His wet, dark hair lay flat against his well-shaped head. He joined her on the bed and reached into her plate.

"Can't believe you started without me."

"You didn't ask me to wait."

"It was implied," he said.

"Who showers in two minutes?"

"I do. Good thing or else I wouldn't have dinner." He reached for a beer. "Want one?"

"Not yet." She was too hungry to waste time drinking. Besides, the nachos were the best she'd had in a long time. The bar used flour tortillas instead of corn. She could eat these all day.

"Slow down there, tiger." Raylan laughed as he watched her eat.

"Don't be rude."

"Me? Could you share?"

"You have your own plate."

"Who's to say that one's not mine and this one is yours?" He set the other Styrofoam plate between them on the bed. "Maybe the shrimp is mine."

Rachel couldn't summon the energy to feel guilty. Besides, she didn't trust that he wasn't teasing her. "Too bad."

He spat out the beer he had just swallowed amidst a loud chuckle.

Watching him, Rachel had a hard time chewing the rest of the nacho, but she forced herself to get it down. Her earlier assessment that he had danger all over him was never far from her mind. She couldn't help but recognize those qualities. The chocolate brown eyes, the sexy mole, the drawl, and the way his eyes lit up for various reasons were enough to draw her in the first few weeks of working with him. She'd told him often enough that he was a good looking man. Hell, that was an understatement. Her woman parts reacted to him in ways she didn't want to acknowledge.

Did she want him? Hell, yes.

But was it wise?

While she ruminated, he had set his beer on the nightstand. She felt him watching her and she hoped there would be no further interrogations. He was damn good at it, but she was equally capable at dodging questions that probed too deep. Her staying over, and in his bed no less, should be enough. Yet, knowing Raylan…

"If you think for one second—"

"What?" she asked, cutting him off. Heat reddened his cheeks. He'd gotten himself worked up and she had no idea how that had come about. At least she could scratch mind reader off the list.

"You're here." He nodded once at the bed. "Ain't no reason to leave."

"Who said I was going anywhere?"

He frowned. "You had this…look."

"I'm just eating nachos."

His frown contorted as his eyes narrowed. He flipped the Styrofoam plate closed and set both plates far out of her reach onto the chair on the other side of his night stand. The mattress dipped with his weight and then righted itself when he sat down again.

"I was eating—"

"Right," he said. "You're so pretty with that little sweet, innocent thing you do, but you weren't just eating. You were plotting."

"I don't plot." Rachel found herself getting more tickled the more worked up he got. Usually, it was the other way around. She bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

"What?" he asked. "You have that look again."

She shrugged.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He'd left it on the dresser. His gaze drifted between her and the phone and Rachel decided for him.

"Answer it."

"Don't go anywhere," he barked.

As he left the bed to storm to the dresser, she asked sweetly, "Dressed like this?"

His eyes narrowed even more, but the expression had shifted. Gone was his sermon. He had other thoughts on his mind. The look he flashed her reminded her of the lust on his face when she told him that she had the same panties as the ones they found in the home of Sheriff Shelby Parlow aka Drew Thompson. Raylan called them whore's panties because they belonged to Ellen Mae. She wondered if his description changed because she also owned a pair. Even more, she wondered what possessed her to tell him.

By now, he'd stepped into the bathroom to take the call. She listened to his muffled tones and just from the rumble of his voice, she guessed that Art was on the other end. Appetite gone and still convinced that she'd rather stay than leave, she looked around the room for source of amusement while she waited for Raylan's return. For all she knew, Art would call her next and off they'd go on a case. Or maybe Raylan would leave and she'd be stuck there alone. She wasn't quite ready to think about what would happen if he stayed. The possibility of exchanging bodily fluids skirted on the edge of her thoughts, but she wasn't ready to take hold of it, just yet.

In her quest for distraction, her gaze settled on his Stetson. The iconic white hat rested on the dresser close to where his cell phone had been. Unable to resist, she left the bed and made a beeline for the hat. On one of their details, he let her wear it. The hat was made for his head and had felt strange on hers. But wearing something that was so dear to him had warmed her and since he let her do it… She hadn't let herself think much of it then, but she didn't imagine Raylan allowed too many to trifle with his Stetson. That moment between them was uncommon. Something was happening even back then.

Rachel slipped the Stetson on and used the glass from the Tombstone movie poster frame as a mirror. She studied her reflection, what little she could see of herself. His t-shirt—of course, her nipples were embarrassingly hard—and a scrap of panties that barely covered her completed the look. Deputy U.S. Marshal Rachel Brooks, she thought.

"Now, that's a sight." Raylan's voice was a near growl. He leaned back against the doorjamb of the bathroom. His eyes gleamed with appreciation.

She lifted the hat from her head and twirled it on her index finger. "Why a Stetson?"

"Why not?" He turned off the bathroom light. Now, only the lamp on the nightstand casted a dim glow in the room. A half smile curved his mouth as he took the hat and set it back on the dresser. They stood facing each other. He then reached for her hand.

He hesitated. "Sure about this?"

"We're just sleeping," she said.

"Just," he murmured.

Raylan pulled her into the bed. Fingers entwined, they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. Rachel wondered whose heart was pounding louder, hers or his.

"What did Art want?" she asked.

He chuckled once. "He…um…wants us back on Darla's case. Tim's with her tonight."

"Is he?"

"Yeah, but…" Raylan released her hand and rolled onto his side. "We need to talk." He ran an index finger across her brows. "Let me in."

"How many times have I said that to you?" She shifted to face him, lying in bed together made it easier to see him eye to eye.

"Too many to count," he replied.

"I've never seen Joe like he was today. He's never been so angry."

"But he gets angry."

"Who doesn't?" she asked.

"He ever hit you?"

Rachel had a quick retort ready, but she held the words in when she noticed his face. The hurt and the history behind the question. This time she reached out and touched him. She traced the lines, the curve of his mouth, and felt the softness of his whiskers. "Never."

He looked torn. "I don't want your pity."

"I don't want yours either." Her fingers paused at his jawline.

"You're not in my bed 'cause of pity!"

"Why am I in your bed?"

"You know why," Raylan said.

Rachel drew in a deep breath. She would have looked away, but she wasn't that kind of woman. Challenges were always met head on. "No, not really."

"I want you." He stared at her. "That makes you frown?"

"You haven't…made a move. I'm half naked and you haven't…"

"I want more than sex, Rachel."

[A/N: Hello, new readers and old readers, too! *g* Thanks for reading, following, commenting, and leaving kudos. Everything is appreciated. I'm sorry I haven't had time to respond to feedback, but please know that I read your comments and thank you for them. I asked for some guidance for this chapter and the responses helped tremendously. Actually, one comment had me convinced that I knew who was gonna do what, but when I started typing, the characters proved me wrong! Sometimes, the characters have other ideas in mind, but after this lengthy chapter (SORRY!), I have a strong feeling that one of these couples is readier than the other. I won't say which just in case said couple decides to pull a bait and switch once I start typing. Lol Anyway, I hoped you loved the season finale as much as I did. WOW! Season 6 will be amazing and it looks like Rachel and Tim may finally get significant screentime. Fingers crossed. I won't go into details and reveal spoilers. I will say that the final episodes of season 5 were worth the wait. Wonderful stuff! As always, thanks for reading and if you have any suggestions feel free to share. :-)]