Despite Raylan's earlier inclination, he'd ditched Jo at the Givens' house in favor of undertaking his crusade alone. Something about it not being safe for her to tag along, and him feeling more comfortable knowing she wasn't in danger. She thought it was all bullshit, but followed his directives to sit and stay nonetheless.

Arlo had dipped out too, no doubt to chase after the same Bennett son Raylan was, so she was left alone in the active crime scene with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her.

Living here hadn't always been easy. After all, the house seemed to act as a revolving door of mischief for shitkickers. And, certainly, Raylan had had a much tougher go of it, but anything would've been better than Jo's previous circumstances. Arlo had merely humored the young girl's presence in his home, while Helen doted upon Jo as if she were her own daughter.

Growing up, she had always done well in school, she was an honor roll student several years running. No one quite knew where those smarts came from, given her parentage, but after finishing high school, she'd been offered a scholarship to West Virginia University, which she readily accepted. Law school had followed shortly after that, and it appeared she'd escaped the holler for good. That is, until she was inevitably dragged back to Kentucky by a sense of obligation to Helen and Arlo. Perhaps it was her upbringing amongst criminals that had driven a young Jo towards being an attorney. It seemed no matter how hard one ran to escape the past, it always managed to catch up with you.

Her ruminating was interrupted by the buzzing of her cellphone. She assumed Raylan would be calling with an update on his progress, but it wasn't Raylan. Tim's name flashed on her caller ID, and she was hesitant in answering. What was she supposed to say to him? No doubt, he wanted to offer his condolences after her abrupt exit that morning, but was she really all that interested in hearing them?

Mulling it over, Jo eventually answered the call before it could roll over to her voicemail. "Hello?"

"Jo, hey," Tim whispered into the other line. She assumed he was at work and had stolen a brief moment away from the action that was Marshal business to call her in secret. "How're you doin'?"

She audibly scoffed at the question, "how do you think I'm doing?"

He must have been taken aback by her unexpected show of hostility because there was a strained pause before he continued. "Well, I was just callin' to check up on you."

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose in agitation, "I don't need anyone checking up on me." This conversation clearly wasn't going the way the younger Marshal had planned, from the tired sigh that echoed from his end. Jo didn't know what he expected of her. Was she supposed to cry so he could comfort her? She hadn't cried in years, and she wasn't going to start now. There would be no boohooing over the phone to her glorified booty call.

"I could-" Tim began but stalled. Jo gave no indication that he should continue from her end, she gave no indications at all, just sat staring blindly at the adjacent wall. "I could come down for the funeral."

His offer snapped Jo out of her previous stupor, and back into her harsh reality. "Why? Why would you do that?" She snapped in trepidation. Before he could answer, she began laughing sardonically. "What? You're gonna come down here as a fellow Marshal to pay your respects? Don't be ridiculous, Tim, you never even met Helen."

To be fair, he hadn't really done anything to warrant her anger. He was being kind and attempting to be supportive, but Jo had asked for none of it. What did he think, that suddenly her adoptive mother being murdered changed things? It changed nothing, and she was planning on making that astonishingly clear.

Despite his better judgment, Tim made one final attempt to reach her, knowing good and well his efforts would be rebuffed. "I could come down for you." Again, her same sarcastic laughter rang bitterly through the line at his proposition.

"Yeah, let's do that. Let's explain to everyone how we were busy fucking while Helen got blown away by a shotgun." Jo promptly hung up, leaving the devastating sentiment ringing through both their ears.

Somber and stiff was the atmosphere of the funeral service held days later. Raylan had arrested Dickie Bennett for Helen's murder, but it didn't excuse the hand Arlo and Boyd Crowder had played in her death.

"I wanted to kill him, but I couldn't," Raylan confessed after turning Dickie over to the authorities. He and Jo sat sharing a drink in silence, encased in the stale darkness of their childhood home.

"Then you're not really your father's son after all," Jo offered in consolation. He chuckled lightly at her observation from behind his glass of bourbon.

"But you're your father's daughter, is that it?" Raylan asked while pinning her down with an analyzing stare.

Jo drained the remaining liquid in her glass, wincing at the ensuing burn. "Looks like it," she concluded.

Jo hadn't spoken to Tim since their disastrous phone call either. Hadn't forgiven him for overstepping the firm line that kept their relationship in check. Yet, no matter how much she tried to push him from her mind, to lock him out, the blonde Marshal seemed to worm his way back in every time. Watching Winona comfort Raylan at the funeral, had her wondering if she were even capable of possessing that type of love and affection for another human being. She hadn't before, and odds are she never would.

The wind whistled through the hills as the funeral service took place. It wasn't a large crowd that had gathered, but Helen's casket was covered in a mass of beautiful flowers nonetheless.

The solemn day progressed as though the sound were muted. They ate, people offered their condolences to the family, they accepted them respectfully, and then the whole ordeal was done.

Jo's place in Lexington was eerily quiet, seemed all too empty, when she arrived back home. Regardless, she prepared herself for bed, for work the next day, as if nothing had changed.

She was exiting courtroom four, briefcase in hand, when a flustered Winona approached her. Raylan's ex-wife had barely contained tears behind her eyes, and the observation put her on edge.

"Winona, what's going on?" Jo asked wearily, ushering the other woman to a nearby alcove where they could speak privately.

"Raylan went down to Harlan this morning. You know there are people down there who want him dead." Jo didn't quite see the problem in her statement. Raylan was always in Harlan, and there were always people wanting him dead. What made today so special? "And, I know I'm being all emotional because I'm pregnant but-"

The last comment had Jo interrupting her rant, "you're pregnant?"

Winona smiled proudly despite being visibly upset. "Yeah, you're gonna be an aunt." Whatever Jo had been expecting, her announcement wasn't it, but she drew Winona in for a quick hug regardless.

Pulling away from their brief embrace, Winona continued, "but I'm worried about Raylan. I have a really bad feeling." Who was Jo to question a mother's intuition?

"Alright, then let's go talk to Art," she offered, guiding them both to the elevator.

"Winona! Jolene!" The chief called in greeting as the pair approached his office.

"Art. Can we talk?" Winona questioned in the doorway. They were ushered in with a wave while the door shut behind them.

"Now, dear, as fond as I am of you, I hope this is not about Glynco," Art began, but Winona quickly shook her head to indicate the contrary.

"No. Raylan went to Harlan this morning. He seems to think Loretta's in trouble or that she's gonna get herself in trouble." Art's subdued reaction was on par with Jo's earlier one, so Winona pressed forward. "Art, he went back to Harlan. There are people there who want him dead."

"I imagine he's aware of that," Art responded simply.

"Well, the Marshals need to help," Winona demanded as the tears began welling in her eyes.

The chief drew his eyes away from Winona, to Jo who was standing silently near the door. He seemed to consider their situation before concluding, "Winona, whatever Raylan is doing over there is on his personal time."

"Art, please. Come on. You got to help him," Winona continued to plead.

Art briefly shook his head, "sometimes you just can't help."

Finally, Jo decided to insert herself into the conversation before the other woman began openly sobbing. "Winona, can you step outside so I can have a word with the Chief?" The woman in question bowed her head slightly, before stepping outside the office.

Once they were alone, Jo released a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I know what you're going to say, Art, but I just want you to listen." She received a curt nod in response, her silent indication to continue. "Now, I know Raylan's difficult. Lord, do I know, but I also know he's a good man. Raylan's the type of person who'll do whatever he believes to be right, even if he goes about it the wrong way, but he's rarely ever wrong. And, Winona's rarely ever wrong about him. If he's in trouble, then, please go help him. For me, it's one of the few times I'll ask for a favor."

Her words seemed to have their desired effect because all of the Marshal's Service rallied to go save Raylan in Harlan, but not before the man in question took a bullet and a beating for his troubles.

That evening, Jo showed up unannounced, uninvited, and possibly unwelcome. Sure, he'd done the same to her a number of times, but never the reverse. Rapping lightly on the door, she waited anxiously for an answer, her hands wringing at her sides.

Tim didn't look entirely pleased with seeing her standing on the other side of his front door. Posting up in the entrance, his eyes bore down on her under the dim lighting of his porch. "What do you want, Jo?" His tone was brisk, and she felt she deserved it.

"Can we talk?" She asked softly.

He paused for a moment, seemingly weighing his options, before opening the door further to allow her entry into his home. Standing awkwardly in his living room, Tim waited with crossed arms for her to break the silence between them.

"I'm sorry, okay? I know I shouldn't have snipped at you like that," she finally confessed under the pressure of his scrutinizing stare.

He laughed humorlessly at her admission. "We're callin' that a snip?" Jo threw her hands up in exasperation. She was trying her best to apologize, why couldn't he make it easy on her?

"I know, alright? I know. I was upset, but that didn't give me any right to take it out on you. Cut me some slack, would ya?"

Tim rolled his eyes at her plea for leniency. "No, Jo. I don't understand you, I'm trying, but I don't. What do you want, huh? Why're you even here?" That was the million-dollar question, one she didn't even hold the answer to herself.

"This was a mistake. I should go," she announced before making a break for the door.

Tim blocked her retreat, however. Grasping her firmly by the shoulders, he almost wanted to shake some sense into the woman in front of him. Not that that'd work anyway, but it might make him feel better. She was endlessly confusing and contrary, but dammit if that didn't somehow make her all the more appealing to him. Like a puzzle you were committed to solving no matter the difficulty. "Just talk to me," he implored quietly.

Jo visibly deflated at his words. She was tired, no, exhausted even, and her mind couldn't seem to catch up to her emotions no matter how hard it tried. "I can't. I want to, but I just can't," she admitted, dropping her head to press her forehead against his chest. Tim's arms slipped from her shoulders, to circle around her waist, pulling her into his warmth. They stood silently, holding one another for several minutes until he broke the stillness.

"So, what're we gonna do?" He whispered into her temple, his lips brushing softly against the skin.

"I don't know," she conceded, her voice muffled against his shirt.