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0 | harlan

[ COMING IN A WEEK OR TWO ]










RAYLAN knew better than to be going into a bar in Harlan, Kentucky. But goddamn, if his conversation with Boyd Crowder hadn't been absolutely exhausting — all he'd wanted was to tell the man he had to appear in a police lineup in Lexington the next day, not get a lecture on Boyd's newly found morals.

Or lack of morals given his holier-than-though, white supremacist, Arianism views. Though Raylan was fairly sure he didn't believe all that. It was just a way to cover up his carrying out his narcotics-dealing, incarcerated father's bidding.

No matter what Boyd believed, Raylan's reunion with the man made him want to take his cowboy hat off and tear his hair out. But maybe a strong drink before he headed back to his motel would ease some of that.

Raylan knew he shouldn't have been in the bar that could technically be called a restaurant since it served food even if the menu was short — no one should've been there. Harlan was a goddamn dry county. And yet he, just like all the law enforcement around, didn't really give a damn.

Johnny Crowder had his eyes glued to the U.S. Marshal as he walked in, knowing damn well who he was. And yet he didn't do anything. He couldn't do anything but watch. Boyd, so far, had spread word to leave Raylan alone.

Though that probably wouldn't last if Boyd got through the police lineup without being accused of blowing up the church he certainly had blown up.

Raylan's keen eyes scanned the bar, noticing that not a single face looked friendly except for one lone person at the bar. And he couldn't help but wonder what a young girl in a nice dress with her curly hair pulled back neatly could be doing in a place like this.

So, he made his way toward her. After all, he wanted a habit of knowing who all was running around Harlan these days, and being inside a bar owned by a Crowder wasn't a good thing.

He smoothly slid onto the barstool next to the girl, making eye contact with the bartender. Then he nodded to the dark drink in front of the woman.

"I'll have what she's havin'," he requested.

Instantly, the woman smiled, looking at him. "I don't know if you'd like that. It's just a Coke," she told him. "You might appreciate some rum in that."

"You're in a bar drinking a soda?" he questioned.

"Can't drink for four more months," she informed him. "Only twenty."

Raylan raised an eyebrow before eying the bartender that was fixing him a rum and Coke. Something told him that a place like this would have no problem serving minors, but he didn't question her.

"Besides," she said, thinking the same. Then she nodded to the papers that were in front of her, which he hadn't taken notice of. "I don't think my fifth graders would appreciate me being tipsy while grading their essays."

Now, he was really curious. What was an underage school teacher doing in a bar on a Tuesday night?

"You're a school teacher? At twenty?"

"Graduated from U of Kentucky a year early," she said proudly.

Raylan couldn't help but scoff. "Then you're far too smart to be teachin' in Harlan. Trust me. I grew up here."

"Well, so did I," she told him softly. "Born and raised. Had to come back, I guess."

"You're tellin' me you got out of Harlan and came right back just to be a school teacher in the most underfunded school in Kentucky?" Raylan had to ask, more confused by this woman than ever.

"You grew up here same as I did," she noted as he received his drink. "Ain't nobody else gone care about the kids if I don't."

His expression softened, seeing the genuine care on her face. Then he glanced at her papers, taking in the neat A+ scribbled in the corner with minimal grammar corrections on the first page of the essay. "Sounds like you love what you do."

"I do," she nodded with a smile. "Well, what about you? What do you do?"

He was prepared to tell her, but then they were interrupted by Johnny Crowder finally coming up to them. He grabbed ahold of the woman's shoulder, keeping her from leaning in close to Raylan, which didn't sit right with him. It'd been nearly twenty years since he'd been home, but he recognized all the Crowders.

"Come on," Johnny said to her, making her frown. "You ain't got no business with this man."

She scoffed and pulled her arm free. "Says who?"

"Says your brother," he said stiffly.

"Which one? The racist one I don't talk to or the dead one I don't talk to?" she asked in a mocking tone. "Leave me be, Johnny."

Johnny's jaw tightened, glancing between her and a tense Raylan, who was trying to put the pieces together on how Johnny knew the seemingly delightful woman.

"Don't make habits of talking to U.S. Marshalls," Johnny warned before walking off, not taking his eyes off him.

Raylan watched as the woman rolled her eyes and rubbed her sore arm before facing him, forcing a smile. "Guess I know what you do now."

"Guess so," he said, sipping his drink, eyes still on Johnny for a moment before focusing on her. "How you know Johnny Crowder?"

"Don't everyone know everyone here?" she asked with a little smile. "He's my cousin — unfortunately."

Raylan's eyes went wide. "You're a Crowder."

"Bo Crowder's my daddy," she explained, noticing how his face fell. "Not somethin' to be proud of, I know."

"I didn't think Boyd had any other siblings but Bowman."

"When's the last time you were in Harlan?" she questioned.

"Bout... twenty years," he said, laughing a little. "Right."

"So, what's your name if you know my kin so well?" she then asked him.

"Raylan Givens," he said, tilting the brim of his hat to her the slightest bit.

And her eyes shined with recognition. "I've heard about you. You was friends with Boyd," she said. But then her smile faltered. "You ain't... you ain't like him now, are you? With the nasty tattoos and blowing churches up and shit? Be a shame if so."

"So, he did blow up that church?" She gave him an almost knowing look. "Can you prove it?"

"Naw," she said, shaking her head. "They've always kept me out of family business. Mainly cause they know I'd go runnin' to the police — well, the police that ain't in on it — if I even got a hint of proof of what they do. Hate I can't help you, Marshal."

"That's alright," he said, shaking his head. "But you can help me in another way."

"Yeah? How's that?" she questioned.

"Let me get your name?" he asked with a charming smirk.

That was the first time that Raylan thought she had a beautiful smile — not that it meant anything. No, she was far too young for it to mean anything.

"Don't laugh," she requested.

"At you? Never," he promised.

"It's Bambi. Bambi Crowder."

He did laugh.

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