Trying for wide-eyed ignorance, I blinked like a deer in headlights. “Am I under arrest?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
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.
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