Trying for wide-eyed ignorance, I blinked like a deer in headlights. “Am I under arrest?”
The deputy read my rights and handcuffed me like a common criminal. Of course, in his mind, that‘s exactly what I was. He picked up my bow and quiver, and ushered me to the patrol car.
“Do you have identification with you Miss . . .?” He asked as he put me in the backseat of the car.
“Missus,” I corrected him. My name was still my married name. “Remington Hart. My ID is in the glove compartment of my jeep.” I told him all of that as politely as I could manage.
The deputy went and ducked into the passenger side and retrieved my driver’s license, then came back and settled into his place behind the wheel.
“That’s a helluva name for a lady, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
My father is who named me. He had been dead set on my big brother being John Junior, but my mother had other ideas. So, he insisted that he get to name his second son whatever he wanted. Mom agreed with little reserve, not knowing his designs on naming a child after his favorite gun maker. Needless to say, I came into this world quite without the necessary tools to be classified as a son. The name my dad had chosen seemed fitting nonetheless, so there I was: Remington Jean.
I suppose my mother should count her lucky stars that my father didn’t name my brothers, or they might’ve been dubbed Sig and Colt.