The coroner classified it as an accident and the newspapers reported it as the same. I didn't believe either account and I still don't but couldn't and can't prove otherwise. After the year my small town has had in an even smaller department I was conscious of sounding like an overwhelmed albeit almost hysterical elected official by bemoaning cries of foul play against our wealthiest citizen.

Ruby placed an ad on the government jobs website and it ran in the local paper. After the funeral, we didn't talk about it. We didn't talk about any of it. Ferg moved back to his small desk without provocation and we left it like that choosing to remain silent about his motives.

I never made it to Jacob Nighthorse's casino construction office that afternoon having followed my instincts toward the shot. The delay was only temporary, as my sense of justice prevailed over my sense of revenge. In the end, I suppose, I got both after Nighthorse made a deal with the FBI and the Office of the Attorney General. At my request, they took over the investigation because he and Barlow conspired to commit murder across state lines, a Federal offense.

The Feds did not have a stake in me or in any parts of Durant, Wyoming but they were particularly gracious with me because of our work in the mountains a couple of years before with their escaped prisoners. It didn't take long for me to figure that word had travelled to D.C. and they pulled the big guns to handle the case.

They held the trial in Sheridan. It was quick in terms of the speed of justice but it wasn't quick for me or for Cady or for Henry. In the end, the judge dispensed the sentence; Barlow received life without parole and Nighthorse, eight-ten years, he will be out in five with good behavior.

As all Shakespearean dramas, the redeemed hero dies and I've lost a deputy that was also a friend. There are days when I sit and stare out of my office looking at the empty desk and studying the unspoken grief amongst us but I don't know where to start, with any of them, or myself, so I don't. The office is full but it is quiet.

"Walter," Ruby hands me a few post-its, "The court sent back two tickets, something about the court date being wrong. Mike, over at the county yard called and said the generator is fixed on the portable speed display and Lucian called asking if you forgot his address."

"Thanks, Ruby."

Contemplating a visit with the crazy cowboy, I look out to the outer bay and see Vic staring out of the window onto Main Street. Vic doesn't mention Sean. She doesn't talk about her divorce, at least not to me, and I don't ask. We haven't moved past my asking her to stay and I never clarified what I meant because she didn't ask and I didn't tell. On days like this, Martha's voice is a little clearer, a constant guide toward my recompense.

I flip open the County telephone directory, all ten pages, find Employee Assistance Program, leaving the book open I walk over and look out onto the same Main Street that Vic has been contemplating. Closing the door, I dial the EAP number,

"Hi, ah, I wanted to know the process to make an appointment with ah…well…ah counselor."

"Sure, I can help you. Your name, sir?"

My grip tightens around the phone as I press it closer to my ear and mouth. My name floats out in a whisper.

"Oh, hi Sheriff. Would you like to make an appointment for yourself or for an employee?"

"It's for me." Ok, this is my first step, I think. I don't know how many steps are ahead of me but I'm pretty sure its much more than 12.

"We have a cancellation this morning. If you can be here by 10 o'clock I can get your right in to see Dr. Chandler."

This should be good news but you know I'm thinking it isn't. I wasn't prepared to actually take the first step today let alone the second step to actually visiting a headshrinker. I'm reeling and can't think of anything else to say except.

"Ok"

I hold the post-its in my hand and thump the last one with my thumb figuring today is not the right day for me to make my peace with Lucian.

There's a slight knock at the door and it opens.

"Hey, Walt you gotta minute?" Vic holds up the doorway with her arms and legs crossed. I wonder, as always, why anyone bothers knocking at all.

"Actually, I was heading out."

She doesn't move.

"What's up, Vic?" There is so much more I want to say to her. So much more.

"Where you headed?" Her eyebrows arch waiting for my answer.

"Ah, I have an appointment at 10:00." I look at my watch. "I gotta get going."

We stand and stare at each other. Vic, come with me. Vic, put your hand in mine and go through this with me. I need to say that to her. I need to say more but I don't because I can't at least not yet.

Her mouth twists, "Mind if I tag along?"

"May be there awhile," making it obvious. The pain reflected back is just as obvious.

She turns, spins back in her chair and stares at papers on her desk instead of the clear view through her window. This is our new normal and it is a bad normal.

The first face I see is Wendy Little Bird. I see her once a year at the county picnic. I completely forgot she was the receptionist for County Health psychological services. She greets me with a genuine smile, warm, and bright.

"Hi, Sheriff."

"Hi, Wendy." I smile back and take the clipboard she is extending me.

"Just fill in the highlighted areas and hand it back to me when you're done."

I nod, and fold my legs beneath one of the fabric chairs in the small empty waiting room. Scribbling out the form, I promptly follow Wendy's directions and hand her back the clipboard.

She stands and comes around to the door letting me in. Once on the other side, she quietly says, "Don't worry everything is confidential and when you and Dr. Chandler conclude your appointment you will go out of the side door and just make a quick left to the front parking lot."

"Is that why the lobby is empty?"

She smiles. "See this is why I vote for you. It usually takes people a few months to figure it out. We stagger the appointments so that our patients have complete confidentiality. We live in a large county but have a small population, Walt. People who need to come wouldn't if their neighbor or boss or whatever knew they were here."

I nod in their sophistication and I suddenly feel much better about my decision.

Wendy leads me to the office. The décor is shrink chic with a couch, three overstuffed leather lounge chairs, a coffee table, a few framed degrees, a state license, and a very nice flat screen. Taking one of the chairs, I turn my hat lucky side up and wait with my hands planted on my knees.

Dr. Chandler makes his appearance through yet another inner door. He's a big guy. Almost as tall as me, looks a little older than me, but he has about 60 pounds on me. His square jaw is firm and his high and tight looks as natural as the blue chambray shirt he is wearing. Extending his massive hand that goes with his massive smile, "Bob Chandler, nice to meet you Mr. Longmire."

"Walt, ah, please."

I sit back down and he sits across from me.

"Well, I'll return the courtesy, please call me Bob."

His eyes are a cobalt blue and the glasses that frame them are frameless.

"So what can I do for ya, Walt?"

I actually don't know the answer to the question. I pat my knee and I feel my head shaking back and forth as I contemplate leaving or trying to answer his question as both seem equally difficult.

My eyes swing back around toward Bob. The smile is gone. He is leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs just below his knees, his fingers are pressed together forming the perfect teepee but his eyes have never left me.

"Defense?" I ask.

He stares at me and I see the soft fold of flesh between his eyes push together as he processes my one word question.

"Yeah, both hockey and football. You?"

"Offense." I pause. "Just football."

I'm deciding if I like Bob and Bob knows I'm deciding if I like him. He stays in his position, his eyes still locked on mine, as we continue the dance.

"I'm not sure what you can do for me Bob. I'm not really sure what compelled me to come here except that I have an office full of broken deputies and I don't know how to put them back together, again. I can't seem to fix it."

He soaks in my words and replays each word with weighted significance before he answers.

"How about you?"

"How about me, what?"

"Are you broken?"

Not breaking his eye contact, "What man isn't?"

A small smile frames his mouth. "Fair enough. Fair enough."

His baritone voice smoothly says, "It's your story. I'll let you tell it."