Finding Her Way Home
Linda Goodnight
Welcome To Redemption, Oklahoma The idyllic little town Cheyenne Rhodes has chosen for her fresh start is almost too welcoming. After all, she's come here to hide from her past–not to make new friends. But single dad Trace Bowman isn't about to let Cheyenne hide away her heart.He can't ignore the special way she has with his daughter, Zoey–or how she's reminded him of the power of real love. Now he needs to convince Cheyenne that Redemption is more than a place to hide–it's also a way to be found….
Cheyenne Rhodes came striding through the door and, as had happened last night, Trace’s heart jump-started.
“Afternoon,” he said, suddenly not as busy as he thought he was. “Here to see the puppies?”
“Not really.” She tossed her hair back in a self-conscious gesture. “I mean, I’d like to, but that’s not why I’m here.” She paused. “About that job you offered last night…”
“Are you asking if the offer still stands?”
She bit down on her lip before saying a reluctant yes.
Trace studied the darkly pretty woman before him. She didn’t want to take the job, but she was going to. He suspected Cheyenne needed the job for more reasons than a paycheck. Maybe the Lord had sent her. Maybe she needed the warm, accepting love of cats and dogs.
And he could use the help. Maybe he also wanted to get to know her better. For ministry purposes, of course.
And if he was a little too happy about the prospect of getting to know Cheyenne Rhodes, so be it.
LINDA GOODNIGHT
Winner of a RITA
Award for excellence in inspirational fiction, Linda Goodnight has also won the Booksellers’ Best, ACFW Book of the Year, and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from RT Book Reviews. Linda has appeared on the Christian bestseller list and her romance novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, this former nurse and teacher enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope and light in a sometimes dark world. She and her husband, Gene, live in Oklahoma. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Finding Her Way Home
Linda Goodnight
If I say “surely the night will cover me,” even the night will be light around me. The darkness is not dark to You, and the night shines as the day.
—Psalms 139:11–12
One of my personal heroes is my daughter, Sundy Goodnight, whose heart is bigger than the sun and who has truly forsaken all to follow the call of the Lord. For her work with Stop Child Trafficking Now, a humanitarian group determined to end the sexual sale of children, as well as for the hundreds of hours of counseling she’s done with broken young women, particularly rape and abuse victims. Her knowledge and understanding of a woman’s psychological function after sexual assault was invaluable in the writing of this book.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Cheyenne Rhodes had hoped if she drove far enough she could outrun the darkness. But six hundred miles and counting had done nothing to shake the brooding anxiety that overtook her one unspeakable night a year ago. In her own garage. With a known criminal. And no help in sight.
She circled her head to loosen the knot in her shoulders and shook off the images flickering through her mind like a bad action movie. It was over. He was dead. She had to forget what had happened and start her life again. Somehow.
She shot a glance at the map opened on the seat beside her. Her destination, a small Oklahoma town, couldn’t be too much farther.
She gave a derisive snort. The town was more like a hiding place than a destination. A place far, far from Colorado. A place where her face and name would not be known, would not be plastered on the front pages of the newspaper, where no one cared what she’d done or suffered that one terrible night.
She clicked on the radio, hoping for something cheery to dispel the dark thoughts. Up ahead on the side of the road an overturned cardboard box caught her attention. Next to the box was a pair of waddling puppies. Cheyenne groaned and tried not to look.
After a second, her shoulders slumped.
“Sucker,” she mouthed, knowing she wasn’t heartless enough to pass them by. She pulled to the side of the empty highway and slammed out of her Honda.
The pups toddled toward her, whining softly. Cheyenne clamped down a surge of pity. Hands on her hips, she stared at them. Poor babies wouldn’t last long out here on the highway.
“What am I gonna do with you? I don’t even know where the nearest animal shelter is.”
One of the pups climbed onto her shoe and, with his round belly and stubby legs, got stuck on high center. He set up such a fuss of wiggles and whines that the other puppy began to cry louder, too. With a groan of surrender, Cheyenne bent down and lifted the tiny dogs against her cheek. The contact with soft, wiggling puppies brought a smile and for that bit of cheer she owed them. They were mutts, but cute ones with black and white spots and upright ears that flopped forward at the tips. Fat bellies and clean coats indicated they’d been dumped recently.
Puppy dumpers were on her list of low-life scum, though nowhere near the top.
“All right, guys—if you are guys—back into the box you go. I’ll give you a lift as far as the next town and then we’re done. Deal?”
She had no business taking them in. She didn’t want to. But even a tough nut like her couldn’t resist a crying puppy.
She crouched beside the box, put the dogs inside and glanced around to be sure no other litter mates had wandered off.
Squinting against the evening sun, she looked down the long stretch of Highway 62 to gauge her location. The pretty road passed verdant rolling hills and distant farmhouses that had grown closer together in the past few miles, a sure sign of approaching civilization. Up ahead, a lazy river flowed beneath an arched bridge, not steel and modern but apparently a throwback to earlier times and made of stone. The foliage increased there, near the river, and the western sunlight glistened on the water. It was a peaceful scene, a scene that beckoned her to explore and relax and forget.
With a huff of annoyance, she shook off the fantastical thoughts. If a change of locales would help her forget, she’d know soon enough. First the puppies.
The town must lie beyond the quaint bridge. Lifting the cardboard box, she stood. As she did, she caught sight of the highway sign just ahead. The shiny green metal beckoned Welcome to Redemption, Oklahoma. Population: 9,425.
Cheyenne squinted hard and read the sign again. She didn’t remember seeing that name on the map. But then, she’d chosen her destination by chance. A jab of one finger at the map that was open on the seat beside her and “Bingo!” She’d turned off the interstate and headed down the two-lane toward nowhere. A nowhere with a name like Redemption? The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d driven across three states and wound up in a town called Redemption. Why couldn’t the place be called Privacy or Peace? Those were the things she wanted most. Well, those and a good dose of amnesia.
But Redemption? No, she didn’t think so. Redemption might be possible for some, but for a woman with her record, it was simply too much to ask.
By the time Cheyenne reached the small town that turned out to be every bit as picturesque as the river bridge, a ball of uncertainty had knotted in her belly. Before last year, she’d never been a worrier, but now paranoia was her constant companion. Had she traveled far enough to outrun her notoriety? Would she find work? Would strangers look at her and know? Would she find someone to take the puppies that had curled into each other and gone fast asleep, their warm smell filling up the car?
As she drove onto the main thoroughfare—a long street flanked on either side by restored nineteenth-century buildings—she was drawn by a cul-de-sac at the far end where the pavement circled a small parklike area. This became her destination. On one side of the park sat a stately old, buff-stone municipal building with a dozen steps to the top. The police station couldn’t be far. Someone here could take custody of the pups.
As she parked and exited the Honda, the box of pups in her arms, she scanned the area. Out of long habit and expert training her brain clicked photos and made an assessment. Little stone pathways led into the middle of the town square to a rustic wishing well. Evergreens, neatly clipped grassy areas and park benches interspersed with long planting boxes made of more stone. From them, squatty pink flowers waved in the soft spring breeze and gave off a pleasant spicy scent.
Nice. Pretty. Like a postcard home.
She sighed. Home was no longer an option.
Up the tree-lined street people moved in and out of the vintage shops, stopping to chat now and then. Car doors slammed. Engines cranked. A blue Buick curved around the circle and parked in front of the Redemption Register, a newspaper office.
The town looked peaceful, law-abiding and safe. The tight muscles in her shoulders relaxed. She started up the sidewalk past a giant green trash receptacle.
“Grab that cartridge, G.I.” The booming male voice seemed to come out of nowhere.
Every hair on the back of Cheyenne’s neck stood at attention. She whirled and slapped at her side before remembering that her weapon no longer rode there. Frantically searching for the source of the unexpected voice, she spotted a man’s head, wearing an old army cap, as he popped up from inside the Dumpster. Another head, this one wearing a headlamp, popped up beside him. The two tossed out several items and then followed them over the side of the receptacle.
Cheyenne stared in stunned amazement, the shiver of fear turning to incredulity. Two grungy old bums Dumpster-diving right here in the middle of town? Where were the cops? Wasn’t diving in trash cans against the law in Redemption?
Her frozen stare must have caught the divers’ attention. Both studied her with open interest, neither looking the least bit guilty of committing a crime.
“Lookie here, Popbottle,” the man with the green army cap said. “We got us a newcomer.”
The Popbottle character reached up to flick off his headlamp, his long, skinny neck the likely source of his nickname. “Then I suggest we say hello and find out what’s in the box.”
The men started forward and Cheyenne unwittingly took a step back, pulse jittery, before she caught herself and stopped. She refused to be afraid of two old men. They were in broad daylight, not in a dark garage with no one near to help.
She gave them her best hard-eyed cop stare. Neither appeared the least bit intimidated.
In amazingly proper English the headlamp man said, “Hello, my dear. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ulysses E. Jones, though my compatriots refer to me as Popbottle. And this—” he made a sweeping gesture with a gloved hand “—is my business partner, G. I. Jack. How may we address you?”
Cheyenne opened and closed her mouth twice before deciding that truth was best, though the sentiment had not served her particularly well in the past year. If she stayed in this town, people would ask her name.
“Cheyenne Rhodes.” If she sounded defensive, she couldn’t help it.
Neither man so much as blinked. A huge relief, though she didn’t relax her guard.
The one called Popbottle said, “A pleasure, I’m sure, Miss Cheyenne Rhodes. Pardon my directness but you’re looking a bit flummoxed. Can we be of service?”
Only if you can turn back time, she thought bitterly.
“Me and Popbottle knows everyone in Redemption,” the other one said. “Just ask away. Who you looking for?”
Well, she might as well ask them. In her previous job, street people were often the most useful resource. “I’m trying to find the local police department or an animal control officer.”
“Animal control?” The two men edged closer, attention focused on the scratching noise coming from the cardboard box. “What you got there?”
G. I. Jack, his army jacket billowing open, leaned forward. Cheyenne prepared to be overwhelmed by body odor, but the only smell coming from the old bum was that of the French fry container she spied in his shirt pocket. The puppies noticed, too, and tried to crawl up the side of the box, whimpering.
“Lookie here, Popbottle, she’s got puppies.” Childlike delight filled the man’s voice. “Two of ’em.”
Popbottle Jones peered into the box as well, one hand holding his miner’s lamp in place.
“I found them on the side of the road outside town. Is there an animal shelter here?”
“Yep,” G. I. Jack said, brow puckered. “But you can’t take ’em there.”
“Why not?”
The old man wagged his grizzled gray head back and forth and then made a cutting motion across his throat. “Death row.”
“Oh.” Distress filled her. “Too bad, but I can’t keep them.”
She knew she sounded heartless and she really wasn’t. However, she was a realist. There were, sadly, far too many irresponsible dog owners who allowed dogs to breed and then dumped the pups. The end result was not pretty.
“Why not?” G. I. Jack drew back, his dark, weathered face insulted. “You got something against innocent little dogs? ’Tweren’t their fault someone dumped them like…” He paused, blinking as if baffled for a comparison. “Well, like stray pups.”
“I’m in the process of moving,” she said, a little too sharply. “I have no place for dogs.” And she didn’t want two old bums making her feel bad about it. She had enough guilt without adding puppies to the list.
“No one’s blaming you, Miss Cheyenne,” Popbottle Jones said in a conciliatory voice. “Dilemmas such as these occur. Allow me a moment to ponder.” He tapped the edge of the box, his fingers protruding from the ends of tattered gloves. The puppies stretched up toward him, noses in the air. “Ah, yes. Take them over to Doc Bowman’s animal clinic. He’ll know what to do.”
“Yep. He’ll know.” G. I. Jack brightened, his old head bobbing again. Apparently, Popbottle Jones did the thinking and G. I. Jack did the head bobbing. “Last time Petunia ate a pair of socks, Doc fixed her right up. Didn’t he, Popbottle?”
“Indeed he did.”
Cheyenne wasn’t about to ask about Petunia or her predilection for eating socks. Relieved to have a plan of action and eager to get on her way, she asked, “Where would I find this Dr. Bowman?”
Popbottle Jones pointed toward the east. “On the edge of town, about a half mile. Just follow Hope Avenue to Mercy Street.”
It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. She puffed out a dry laugh. She was in a town called Redemption with virtuous street names like Hope and Mercy. Did these people actually believe that stuff?
As she climbed into her car, a tweak of conscience poked at her.
A long time ago, she’d believed in those things, too.
As the newcomer pulled away from the curb, Popbottle Jones rubbed his chin and watched her, knowingly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
G. I. Jack adjusted the bill of his cap, his focus also on the disappearing blue car. “Yep.”
“Miss Cheyenne Rhodes is in trouble.”
“Or runnin’.”
“That’s trouble, G.I.”
“Yep. I’ve known soldiers like that. Walking wounded.” He picked up a gunnysack of scavenged goods and hoisted the day’s finds over one shoulder.
“My thoughts exactly.” Popbottle Jones gave a wise nod and reached for his own sack. “Which means she’s come to exactly the right place.”
Chapter Two
Trace Bowman had never once regretted his decision to become a country veterinarian, but days like today stretched him to his limits. After a midnight house call to a local ranch, the clinic had been hopping with patients all day. Springtime brought puppies and calves and lambing ewes plus all manner of accidents, and as the only vet in town, he saw them all.
“Give her one of these morning and evening and bring her back to get the stitches out in about a week.” He stroked the still drowsy cat who’d had an unfortunate run-in with the radiator fan of her owner’s car. She was lucky to have come out with only a gash on her side.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to keep you here so late. You look done in.”
With a grin, he scraped a weary hand down his face and heard the scratch of unshaved beard. No doubt, he looked worse than his patients. After the midnight emergency at Herman Wagner’s farm, he’d arrived at the clinic in time for the first surgery but not in time for morning ablutions. He’d done little more than scrub up and toss on a lab coat. He probably smelled worse than his patients, too. Without his mom to look after Zoey during those all-nighters, Trace didn’t know what he would do.
“No problem, Mrs. James. That’s what I’m here for. Call me if Precious needs anything else.” His staff had left an hour ago, but that was typical. With his house located next to the clinic, he was frequently the one who left last and locked up.
After Mrs. James’s departure, he made the rounds through the clinic, pausing to grin up at the lopsided sign hanging over the reception desk. Today is the Best Day Ever. He made a point to read the message morning and night as a reminder that each day was whatever he made of it. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. No matter how weary he was or how hectic the workload, he was a blessed man.
“Thanks, Lord,” he murmured and continued his rounds.
Six dogs and three cats were spending the night, but none were critical enough to need his attention again until morning. Out in the dog-run four animals awaited adoption. He was normally successful in finding homes for the strays, mostly because he offered six months of free vet service. The way he looked at it, whatever worked. Euthanasia was not his favorite procedure.
Margo called him a sucker, but his seven-year-old daughter thought he was the biggest hero in America for taking in strays. He’d accept Zoey’s opinion any day of the week, though Margo was a good woman. He liked her. They went to the same church and shared common interests, both being active in Redemption’s civic groups. The trouble with Margo was that she’d started dropping hints lately about moving the relationship to another level, but Trace was not ready to go there. He wanted to be but he wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
From the time Zoey’s mother died, he’d prayed for the Lord to send the right woman into his life. His little girl needed a mother even more than he needed a wife. But so far, his heart refused to cooperate.
As he stuck his hands beneath the faucets and gave them one last warm, soapy scrub before heading home, he heard the front door scrape open. The noise was loud in the quiet, empty clinic, made louder by echoing concrete floors and a door that needed adjustment. A late patient, no doubt. With a sigh and a growling belly, he grabbed a paper towel and headed toward the front of the building.
A woman stood in the waiting room. Trace stopped dead in his tracks and stared, the bottom falling out of his stomach.
Hovering uncertainly in the dim, shadowy light was a young woman in faded jeans, T-shirt and fitted leather jacket. With flowing black hair and a fit, trim build, she looked enough like his late wife to make him dizzy.
He pressed a finger and thumb to eyes gritty from fatigue. On the second blink, the similarities faded. He was tired. That was all. The woman before him had the same build and coloring, but where Pamela’s face was soft and ever smiling, this woman had a solemn-eyed toughness about her.
He tossed the towels at a trash can. “Can I help you?”
Her chin went up, her shoulders square as though she was ready to fight. Her gaze darted around the shadowy clinic before coming back to challenge him. His curiosity was piqued. Why did this pretty stranger need to be defensive? Had he done something he didn’t know about?
“Are you the vet?” The question was almost an accusation. “Dr. Bowman?”
“That’s me.” Trace intentionally relaxed and offered a smile to put the tightly wound woman at ease. “You must be new to Redemption. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
She thrust the box at him. “I found these stray pups on the side of the road.”
Trace lifted an eyebrow. So much for small talk. He accepted the carton and placed it on the reception counter. Blame it on his state of exhaustion, but her attitude was not giving him much desire to cooperate.
“What do you want me to do with them?”
Some of the attitude went out of her. She floundered. “Well, I—Two old bums in town sent me. They said—I thought—”
Trace’s sense of humor returned. “Popbottle Jones and G. I. Jack? They’re not bums. Characters, yes. Bums, no.”
“But they were Dumpster-diving.”
His mouth curved. She wasn’t the first to misjudge the two old dudes. “Don’t say that to them. They call their vocation recycling, taking care of the environment, going green.”
Her full bottom lip twitched and Trace felt an unexpected jolt of satisfaction. She’d be a knockout if she eased up and smiled more.
“Where I come from, Dumpster-diving is illegal.”
Trace gave her his best smile, wanting inexplicably to warm up this frosty lady. “And where exactly do you come from?”
Any hint of friendless faded so fast Trace thought he’d imagined it. “What about the puppies? Can you take them?”
Trace reached into the box and withdrew a fat, wiggling body, trying to decide exactly why this woman intrigued him. It was pretty obvious she didn’t like either men or vets or both. Or maybe she didn’t like anyone at all. A little nudge on the inside told him to play nice. Like G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones, there could be more to his visitor than met the eye.
“Why don’t you keep them?”
As if annoyed even more by the question, the woman fisted her hands on her hips. “As you noticed, I’m new in town. I have nowhere to take them even if I were inclined to do so.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Not in the least.”
“You don’t like animals?”
“Everyone likes puppies.”
Well, he felt better knowing that. “Where are you planning to stay?”
She took a step back as if the question was too personal. “I don’t know yet. Will the puppies be all right here?”
He could see her genuine concern and again, he felt better. Trace prided himself on his ability to read people and he suspected Miss Hard-as-nails had a marshmallow interior she didn’t want anyone to see. And that intrigued him more. What had happened to this pretty lady to make her so defensive?
“There’s only one motel in town. Widow Wainright’s place. Nothing fancy but clean and quiet and not too pricey. Tell her I sent you. Kitty will fix you up.”
Dark eyes narrowed as if analyzing his motive. “Where would I find this place? If I was interested.”
Oh, she was interested all right. Interested but cautious. The question was, why?
“Over on Charity Lane about five or six blocks off Main.”
An incredulous expression crossed her face. “Charity Lane? Mercy Street. Hope Avenue. Redemption. What is this place? The twilight zone?”
Absently stroking the soft puppy, Trace laughed. “Nothing quite as exciting as that. According to town history, Redemption was founded during the Land Run of 1889 by a gunslinger turned preacher. He started Redemption for souls like him—people who wanted to change their ways and start fresh. The street names are his way of reminding us that everything we need is found in God’s redeeming love.”
His visitor stared at him with a troubled look and Trace thought for a minute he’d said too much. Margo claimed he sounded like a preacher at times and maybe he did. But as he studied the woman standing in his waiting room, he suspected something else. She’d reacted to the town names oddly because they were exactly why she was here. Like so many of the souls who arrived in Redemption, the tough cookie before him was in need.
“I’ll take care of the puppies,” he said softly.
Her stance relaxed the slightest bit. “Thanks.”
“You can come visit them anytime.”
“Oh, no, I—” She shrugged. “Maybe I will. Do you think you can find homes for them? I wouldn’t want them to be—you know.”
Hard shell on the outside, soft as puppy fur on the inside. “Puppies are pretty easy to re-home.”
“Good.” She gave a curt nod and turned as if to leave.
“Wait.” He didn’t know why but he wasn’t ready for her to go.
She glanced over one shoulder before slowly pivoting, expression guarded.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
She hesitated a second before saying, “Cheyenne Rhodes.”
He offered his hand. “Well, Cheyenne Rhodes, welcome to Redemption. I hope you’ll like our little town.”
The guarded expression lingered as she slipped her hand into his. “I hope so, too.”
Trace tried not to react to her skin against his, but her feminine hand was far softer than her expression and far more slender than his work-roughened one. “If I can help you with anything else—”
She pulled her hand away, cynicism firmly back in place. “Only if you know where I can find a job.”
So Tough Girl was sticking around. Nice. “What kind of work do you do?”
Again, her hesitation piqued his curiosity.
“Anything for now.”
“I can always use another hand here in the clinic.” Which was true, though why he’d want to hire an unfriendly helper with a chip on her shoulder was more than he wanted to think about.
She shook her head. Loose black hair swished against the shiny maroon leather of her jacket. “I don’t think so.”
Was it the job that didn’t suit her—or him? “Just a thought. I frequently hire temporaries to help out the full-time staffers. The clinic keeps us all busy.”
“How many?”
“Employees?” At her nod, he said, “Three, right now. So what do you say? Pay’s lousy, working conditions stink—literally—but the staff is friendly, the boss is a great guy, and you can play with the pups anytime.”
She surprised him with a soft laugh. “Bribery.”
He arched an eyebrow, teasing. “I’m a desperate man.”
She tilted her head and studied him, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “Somehow I doubt that. You don’t look the desperate type.”
But he had been once, a truth that made it easy to recognize a fellow desperado.
He pointed a puppy at her. “Be here at nine in the morning and I’ll put you to work. You can bring the doughnuts.”
Dark eyebrows surged upward. “Doughnuts?”
“From the Sugar Shack.”
“Let me guess,” she said wryly. “It’s located on Grace Boulevard.”
Trace chuckled. The lady had a sense of humor. “No. Plain old Main Street at Town Square, next to the post office.”
She thought about the offer so long Trace knew she was going to refuse. What he didn’t expect was how disappointed he was when she did.
The drive to the motel on Charity Lane was short and easy and filled with thoughts of Trace Bowman, the friendly veterinarian.
“I should have taken that job,” she muttered.
When she’d first walked into the empty, darkened building, being alone with a strange man had made her skin crawl. But even though he had been as scruffy looking as the two Dumpster-divers, the amiable vet had a way about him. When he’d teased her about doughnuts she’d almost said yes.
But she hadn’t. He’d been too friendly, too accommodating, and her suspicion meter had gone off the charts. Nobody did something for nothing.
Though he wasn’t overly large, he was taller than her by a head and far more muscular. Lean and fit with tanned arms strong enough to handle a large animal practice, he’d be a hard man to take down.
Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Beneath the unshaven face and mussed brown hair, he was undoubtedly attractive and not much older than herself, though most days she felt a hundred instead of thirty.
Attractive. Young. There was the problem. She found the kindhearted vet a bit too attractive, the exact kind of man she was inclined to fall for. The last thing she needed in her life was another man like Paul Ramos who would disappear the moment he learned about her late-night encounter with Dwight Hector.
Besides, he probably had women bringing in stray cats and dead birds and pet guppies as an excuse to see him. She didn’t need that either.
She killed the car in front of a short row of maybe ten tidy cottages. The motel was old, likely built in the 50s or 60s, but well kept and pretty in a retro kind of way. The widow obviously liked plants because each unit came with a white window box of red geraniums, a short-clipped patch of grass in front and tidy shrubs growing close to the white siding. From the back of the establishment, huge oaks bent shady arms above each roof, letting in only dappled slices of sunshine. The effect was provincial, warm, peaceful. Cheyenne almost believed she would like it here.
Beneath a waving American flag, a sign outside said Redemption Motel and Gifts, Vacancy. Bible Study at 8.
Envisioning a gentle, white-haired widow who offered prayer and Proverbs with her tea, Cheyenne found her way to the unit marked Office and went inside. A bell above the door gave a merry jingle.
As she scanned the room in search of the proprietor, Cheyenne breathed in the smell of rose potpourri and cataloged the premises. The Widow Wainright was not only a Christian; she was a patriot who made extra money selling inspiration and Americana. The place was decorated in red, white and blue with American flags sprouting from potted plants, eagle-topped fountain pens crowded into coffee mugs and a display case filled with various other souvenirs and gift items. The walls were plastered with military photos and Uncle Sam posters. One of them pointed straight at her. Uncle Sam Wants You!
“Hello, hello. Sorry to keep you waiting.” A tall, willowy blonde carrying a basket of snowy white towels swept into the office with an air of cheerfulness. Cheyenne did a double take. This young, beautiful woman could not be the Widow Wainright.
Pale hair pulled into a loose topknot with unfettered strands framing a delicate, heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes, she made Cheyenne think of a fairy-tale princess. There was a vulnerable sweetness about her completely out of context with Cheyenne’s idea of an independent widow.
“Are you Mrs. Wainright?”
“Kitty, please. We don’t stand on ceremony in Redemption.”
So much for assumptions. “I’m Cheyenne Rhodes.”
“How can I help you, Cheyenne? Need a room? Or just looking at the gift shop? I have some great gift ideas.”
“A room please.”
“You’re in luck! I just happen to have a vacancy.” She made a cute face and bunched slim shoulders in a girlish gesture. “Too many of them, actually, but that’s the nature of Redemption. The only time I’m filled up is during the Land Run celebration.” She dug out a registration form and pushed it across to Cheyenne. “New in town or passing through?”
Was everyone in this town nosy?
“New.” Using one of the pens with a flying eagle topper, Cheyenne bent her head to the form. “Do you have a room with cooking facilities?”
“Oh, sure. Half of my units are long-term rentals with kitchenettes. Otherwise, I couldn’t keep the doors open.” Kitty placed her forearms on the glass countertop. Rose potpourri stirred around her. Everything about this woman was fresh and clean and inviting. “Does this mean you’ll be staying a while?”
“Until I find an apartment.” Or move on.
“Great. You can come to our Bible study and meet some of the other townsfolk. Redemption is a nice place to settle.”
As much as Cheyenne wanted to make friends and have a real life again, she wasn’t excited about a Bible study. If she’d ever had any faith, it had disappeared the night Dwight Hector broke into her garage.
“If you’ll just sign the guest register here.” Kitty tapped a finger against the lined page. “I’ll take down your credit card info and we’ll be all set.”
Feeling as if she’d stepped back in time, Cheyenne complied, waiting patiently while Kitty entered the numbers the old-fashioned way, without the use of a credit card machine. When the widow finished, she took Cheyenne’s registration form to a metal file box.
“Well, look at that,” she said, holding the card at an angle above the box. “You’re from Colorado.”
Cheyenne tensed; the thought raced through her head that Kitty had put the name and state together and come up with a news report.
“Formerly,” she said, words terse and defensive.
Kitty lifted wistful blue eyes, apparently unaware of her guest’s reaction. “My late husband and I honeymooned in the mountains near Breckenridge.”
Cheyenne took a second to make the mental shift from her anxious thoughts to Kitty’s meaning. The place steeped in pain and sorrow for Cheyenne was a place of loving memory for the young widow.
“The mountains are a beautiful honeymoon destination,” she managed, wondering if she would ever stop feeling edgy and suspicious.
“Yes, they were.” The woman stood for several seconds, lost in thought and probably in memories of the man she’d loved and lost. Cheyenne ached for her. Why did life have to be so cruel?
Not knowing what to say, she waited in an oddly comfortable silence. As a police officer, she’d done her share of bringing bad news to hapless families, but she’d never been around for the aftermath.
With a pat to her heart, Kitty’s pink-glossed lips tilted, though her eyes remained sad. “I’ll have to show you my photo album sometime.”
“I’d like that. He must have been a great husband.”
“The best.” She fanned herself with Cheyenne’s card. “I see Dr. Bowman recommended my fine establishment. You know Trace?”
“Not exactly.” Cheyenne told the widow about the puppies.
“Well, that’s Trace. He takes in all the strays. Always has.”
Was that why he tried to hire her? Because she looked like a stray to be pitied? “So you’ve known him a long time?”
“Long enough to know he’s a soft touch, but then everybody in Redemption knows everyone else. Familiarity is the blessing of small-town living.”
Or maybe the curse.
“He offered me a job.” Cheyenne added a light laugh as though the notion was facetious—and maybe it was. What kind of sensible human hired total strangers off the street without so much as a reference?
“Oooh.” Kitty’s eyes twinkled in speculation. “You must have made an impression.”
Cheyenne stiffened, her guard firmly back in place. “He said he hires a lot of people.”
Kitty laughed merrily. “Yes. He does. Trace is always trying to help someone and from what I’ve seen the clinic can use all the assistants he can find. I was teasing you, though you have to admit Trace Bowman is a cutie-pie.”
“I didn’t notice.” Liar, liar.
Kitty laughed again. “Then you need to make an appointment with Dr. Spencer to have your eyes checked.”
Cheyenne tweaked a shoulder. “Well, maybe I did notice.”
Kitty slapped the top of the glass counter and set a half dozen military bobble-heads in motion. “Now you’re talking. I may be a widow but I know fine when I see it. And that man is über-fine. Why didn’t you take the job, you crazy woman?”
“Not the kind of work I’m looking for, but I do need a job, so if you know of anything…”
Kitty stuck a pencil through her blond topknot. “What kind of job do you have in mind?”
Anything but the über-fine vet. “Office work, waitressing, retail, that kind of thing.”
“Quite a variety there. I’ll keep my ear to the ground. You’d do a lot better asking at the Sugar Shack, though. Everyone and everything filters through there. Talk to Miriam. She owns the place.”
“All right. Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Kitty opened a drawer and took out a key. “This is for Unit 4. I’ll walk over there with you to make sure the room suits you.”
“I’m sure it’s okay.”
“Me, too, but I could use a little more girl talk.” Blue eyes widened, she bunched her shoulders in a charming gesture. Kitty’s delicate femininity left Cheyenne feeling like a wrestler. “It’s not every day I rent a room to someone near my age.”
“All right, then, lead the way.” As long as Kitty didn’t pry too deeply, they could girl-talk all she wanted. Kitty could talk. Cheyenne would listen.
Exiting the office, they followed a curving graveled path past three motel doors, each bearing a shiny brass number. Red, white and blue impatiens bordered the gravel in a cheery repeat of Kitty’s favorite color scheme.
“What brings you to Redemption, Cheyenne? Relatives?”
“I don’t know a soul.” And no one knows me. For the people of Redemption, she was a clean slate, just the way she wanted to be.
“No relatives and no job,” Kitty said, “so that leaves only one other reason for coming here.”
And Cheyenne hoped no one discovered what that reason was.
Knowing when to keep her mouth shut, she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and stared down at the white gravel crunching beneath her boots.
Kitty raised a hand to greet someone. “Hi, Henry. Nice day for fishing. Going to the river?”
Cheyenne looked up. A middle-aged man, fishing rod over one shoulder, hoisted a tackle box in greeting.
“I sure am. Wanna come along?”
Kitty’s merry laugh rang out. “Another time. Gotta wash your sheets today.”
The man waved again and slammed the door of his truck. The engine roared, sending a puff of exhaust into the atmosphere as he pulled away.
Small-town friendliness was something Cheyenne would have to get used to.
Kitty picked up the conversation where she’d left off. “Redemption draws people, Cheyenne. I don’t know how exactly but the Lord must lead them here.”
A skeptical Cheyenne searched the motel owner’s guileless face. Kitty Wainright seemed too nice to be one of those religious wackos. “You’re saying God told me to come to this town?”
That was about as far from true as the woman could get.
“No.” The sun gleamed off blond hair as Kitty shook her head. “I said He leads people—people who need what Redemption has to offer.”
“I have to be honest with you, Kitty. I’m not sure what I believe about God anymore.”
Kitty slid the room key into the door marked with the number 4. As she pushed it open and cool, potpourri-scented air wafted out, she turned and placed a hand on Cheyenne’s arm. “Then I have good news for you, girl. Those with questions, those who are struggling, they’re exactly the ones He leads to Redemption.”
Chapter Three
Cheyenne awoke the next morning with a headache and the remnants of the dream lingering like a bad odor. She sat on the side of the bed, head in her hands, for several minutes to clear the fog.
Last night as usual, after checking and rechecking the locks, she’d lain awake for hours with the lights on. Her thoughts had run the gamut from the old bums to the handsome vet to Kitty’s curious comment about God.
She’d stumbled onto the town of Redemption by accident. A spot on the map. A place to land. There was no other explanation. Certainly not some mystical voice from God.
She scrubbed at her face with both hands, ashamed of her cynical attitude. Kitty hadn’t talked about voices, though her meaning was as mysterious as a voice would have been.
After a glance at the clock-radio, Cheyenne dragged herself out of bed and to the shower. Today was the first day of the rest of her life and she was determined to find a job and get on with living.
By the time she was dressed and ready to hunt down the Sugar Shack, her cell phone jingled. After checking the caller ID, she answered. “Hi, Brent.”
“Hey, sis.” Her brother’s deep voice eased an ache in her chest. “Where are you? Still sleeping in your car?”
“Believe it or not, no.” She looked around the motel room. Kitty took pains to make the units more homey than most. “I’m in a motel in Redemption, a little town in Oklahoma.”
Brent whistled. “Long way from home, sis.”
“Which is what we all agreed was best.”
“I know. Still—”
“A fresh start, new faces and time to forget.”
“You can come home anytime, Chey. Dad and I will take care of you.”
She wanted to take care of herself again, not huddle in her bedroom afraid of shadows and cruel speculation. Her dad and brother thought she should “put what happened behind her,” to “forget about it” and move on. She knew they meant well and she longed to follow their advice. She simply had not been able to do so.
“Maybe someday when things blow over.”
She reached under the pillow and moved a gun to her purse. Kitty probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing her new renter slept with a nine-millimeter Glock. Though Cheyenne never wanted to use the weapon again, she couldn’t fall asleep without that lethal assurance. Even then, sleep was fitful and filled with things she didn’t want to remember.
“You should see this place, Brent. Redemption is like a step back in time. Homey, friendly.” She told him about the Dumpster-divers and savored his warm laugh. “They were interesting, let me tell you.”
“I can imagine,” he said dryly.
“And the woman who owns the motel hosts a Bible study every night.”
Cynic that he was, Cheyenne could imagine Brent’s grimace. “Look out for weirdos.”
“She’s not like that. Really. Although she said something strange about God leading needy souls to Redemption. Or some such.”
“Told you. Weirdo.”
Cheyenne pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and grinned. “You always know how to cheer me up.”
“You’re not planning to stay there in Weirdo-ville, are you?”
“For now. I’m job-hunting today.”
“Where?”
She heard the tension in his tone.
“Not police work.” Heaviness pulled on her insides like lead weights. “I know I can’t do that anymore, Brent.”
“I’m sorry, sis,” he said softly.
“Me, too.” More than sorry, she was brokenhearted. Being a police officer had been her life’s ambition.
“How are you otherwise?”
She knew what he meant. They never discussed the incident that had changed her life. Like everyone else, Brent and her father had wanted to pretend nothing had happened to her. If they didn’t talk about it, the issue would go away. They were wrong.
The silence of friends and coworkers was one of the reasons she’d left Colorado Springs. No one but the antagonistic press wanted to discuss that night. No one wanted to admit that something terrible and life-changing had happened to strong, sensible Detective Rhodes. She looked all right on the outside, so she must be fine. Only she knew how wrong they were.
The news media reminded her on a regular basis. Even after the investigation and the grand jury, reporters and gun-law activists stayed in her face. They were the second reason she’d fled her hometown.
The other reasons went deeper and she suspected they’d followed her here.
“I’m coping.” She would never be the same and she would always wonder what she’d done to deserve such a thing happening to her, but she was determined to keep living. Dwight Hector had hurt her. He’d stolen her peace, her sense of security, her relationships, her career and a year of her life, but she would not let him destroy her.
“Good. Good.” He paused before continuing. “I guess you haven’t heard the latest news.”
“Good or bad?”
“Depends on your perspective, I guess. But it’s news I didn’t want you to hear from someone else.”
“Am I being prosecuted?”
“Chey, no. That’s over. You were cleared of all wrongdoing.”
After her being under a cloud of suspicion for a year, the final ruling still didn’t register.
“I keep expecting something else to pop up.” Like Dwight Hector, though she’d watched him die and knew he would never hurt another woman. She pushed at her hair and sighed. “I don’t know. I’m so tired of it all.”
“Let the past go, sis. Be healed and happy again. I miss you.” Her brother’s pensive voice wrapped around her with love.
“So what’s the big news?”
A moment of silence told her she wasn’t going to like his message.
Brent cleared his throat.
“Spit it out, Brent. I’m immune to bad news.”
“Right. That’s why you’re in some hick town called Redemption.”
“Redemption is not a hick town. I like—” She stopped the sentence, realizing Brent was stalling. “Tell me.”
“Paul is getting married. To Melinda.”
Her eyes fell shut as she imagined her former fiancé marrying someone else, a someone else who happened to be her friend. “Good for them. I’ll send a card.”
“Are you okay?”
“Never better.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it, Brent. Paul walked out on me when I needed him most. Why would I care about a man like that?”
“Right. Okay. Sure.”
She’d adored Paul Ramos, but now she felt nothing but sadness—not for Paul, but for the woman she’d become. A woman no man would want. Paul had taught her that.
A lull ensued when neither could think of anything to say and Cheyenne ended the call. She loved her only two relatives, but they had been adversely affected, too. Whether they admitted it or not, and no matter how much she hurt to know, Dad and Brent were glad to have her gone.
The Sugar Shack smelled sweet enough to give her a toothache. If the crowd gathered at round tables and along a low counter with stools was any indication, the Sugar Shack was the local meeting place, at least for breakfast. Besides the scrumptious pastries and breads filling the display cases and tinting the air with a warm, yeasty fragrance, the shop served country breakfast fare and sandwiches.
As she stood inside the door, analyzing the inhabitants, several heads turned her direction. But instead of suspicion, their expressions showed only momentary interest before they turned back to their companions or their steaming coffee cups. After looking for a seat and finding none, Cheyenne made her way toward the cash register. The chatter of friendly voices mingled with the clink of thick white mugs against matching saucers and the occasional ka-ching of the cash register. A few customers nodded a polite greeting as she walked by.
The small gesture buoyed her.
As she turned sideways to ease around one table, a voice called out, “Miss Cheyenne.”
She glanced down into the whiskery face of G. I. Jack.
“Did Doc Bowman take the puppies?”
The grizzled old bum had an undeniable sweetness about him. She smiled. “He did.”
The man pushed at the extra chair between himself and Popbottle Jones. “You’ll not find another empty. Sit down and we’ll treat you to breakfast. Won’t we, Popbottle?”
His Dumpster partner hoisted a cup in her honor. “Indeed we will.”
They’d treat her? These two raggedy old derelicts? “Oh, I couldn’t, but I will share your table if you don’t mind.”
G. I. Jack frowned, thick bushy eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment. “Why would we mind? We invited you.”
Barely holding back a grin, Cheyenne took the offered chair. “This place is busy.”
“Always is. Best biscuits and gravy you’ll find anywhere.” He poked a forkful of the aforementioned food into his mouth.
“Thank you for your help yesterday.”
“Glad to be of assistance.”
“Good because I’d like to ask you something else.” Considering how full his mouth was, she didn’t wait for his reply. “I need a job. Any kind of job.”
G. I. Jack’s brow creased in thought, but he kept right on shoveling food into his mouth.
Popbottle Jones lowered his coffee cup. “Dr. Bowman hires a person now and then.”
The handsome vet again.
A stick-thin woman in a baker’s apron sashayed up to the table. Graying black hair yanked straight back from an angular face met in a bun at the nape of her neck. Long, bony hands with overlarge knuckles wielded a pad and pen.
Cheyenne gave her order before saying, “I’d like to speak with Miriam. Is she here?”
“She sure is.”
G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones chuckled. The woman shook her pencil at them before turning a friendly look to Cheyenne. “I’m Miriam. Whatcha need?”
Popbottle Jones laid aside his fork. “She’s new in town. Her name is Cheyenne.”
“She’s looking for a job.” Without the least bit of self-consciousness, G. I. Jack slid a fluffy biscuit into his shirt pocket. Yesterday fries, today biscuits. “She’s staying over to Kitty’s. And she likes dogs.”
How did they know where she was staying?
“Well, let’s see.” Miriam took the order pad, ripped off a page, turned the sheet over and began to write. When she finished, she handed the short list to Cheyenne. “A lot of places have shut down in the past few months or cut back. The economy, you know. But these are worth a shot.”
“I appreciate your help.” As Cheyenne started to fold the list, Miriam reached for the paper again.
“Wait. I thought of one more place. G.I. said you like dogs.”
Cheyenne had a feeling she knew what Miriam was writing. Sure enough, when she took the paper, there he was again—Trace Bowman.
By noon, she’d gone through the list of potential employers and found nothing but a town filled with mostly friendly folks and an assortment of entertaining characters. Worse, she kept hearing about the bad economy and Trace Bowman.
“Is there some kind of conspiracy in this town to find the vet an assistant?” she muttered as she slid behind the wheel of her car and slammed the door, discouraged.
Just as she cranked the engine, her cell phone jingled.
Cheyenne’s eyebrows lifted. Brent again? She punched Talk. “Is something wrong?”
“Nah, just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Right. Two calls in one day means something. What’s up?”
“No hurry, but if you’re settling in Weirdo-ville for a while, I’ll forward your mail. You’ve got some bills here.”
“Lovely. More bills. I thought I had everything paid. What are they?”
She heard the swish of paper as he shifted through the envelopes and rattled off a few minor debts. “Anything major?”
“Law offices of Windom and Green…”
Cheyenne groaned. She’d already paid them an enormous amount. “How much is that one?”
“I’ll have to open it.”
“Go ahead.”
She heard the rip and then the hiss of indrawn breath.
“Wow.” He named a sum that made her gasp as well. Her remaining severance pay from the police department wouldn’t cover the amount. The price of proving oneself guilty of nothing except being a madman’s victim was exorbitant.
After giving Brent the address of the motel and assuring him she had everything under control, she flipped the cell phone shut and leaned her head on the steering wheel. On the floorboard lay Miriam Martinelli’s job list. With a sigh of resignation, she picked up the paper. All but one suggestion was crossed off.
Dr. Trace Bowman.
“Dr. Bowman, Barry is on the phone. His raccoon has diarrhea.” Jeri Burdine, the middle-aged assistant who answered the phones and maintained the clinic accounts, peered around the doorway of Exam Room One. Bright beads rattled at the ends of tidy black cornrows.
Trace barely looked up from examining a dog with a high fever.
“Tell Barry the treatment’s the same as usual. Give him a teaspoon of Kaopectate every four hours as needed. No food, but a lot of liquids, especially Gatorade. Bring him in if he’s not better tomorrow.” Ten-year-old Barry was a kid after his own heart. He rescued critters, the latest being a baby raccoon whose mother had been hit by a car.
The coffee-brown face flashed a grin. “Will do.”
A cacophony of yapping dogs had Trace raising his voice to be heard. “And tell Toby to check that sheltie pup in the kennel again. I have a bad feeling.”
“Got it.” Jeri’s wide hips sashayed away with her usual cheerful efficiency. Some days he wished for a dozen Jeris. Days like today.
One hand around a slim muzzle, Trace slid a needle into the dachshund on the table. The clinic was busier today than yesterday. Every member of his staff was moving as quickly as possible but the line in the waiting room grew longer. His thoughts flashed to Cheyenne Rhodes, the woman he’d tried to hire last night. Too bad she’d turned him down. He would have hired three of her, bad attitude and all.
Gently, he opened the dog’s mouth and shone a flashlight inside for the owner to see. “She has a bad tooth that needs to come out but not until the infection resolves. This shot will get her started but you’ll need to give her some pills at home.”
“So that’s why she won’t eat.”
“Would you?”
The teen shuddered. “No way. Poor baby.”
Once Trace was finished, the teen gathered the dog into her arms and left. As he walked her down the hallway to the reception desk, Cheyenne Rhodes came striding through the entrance. As had happened last night, his heart jump-started. The bristly woman had a strange effect on his cardiac muscle.
“Afternoon,” he said, suddenly not as busy as he thought he was. “Here to see the puppies?”
“Not really.” She tossed her hair back in a self-conscious gesture. “I mean, I’d like to, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” Trace felt a bewildering zing of energy. “All right, then. Come on back. We’ll talk while you say hello to the pups. They’ll like that.”
He led the way down the hall, past a room in which his bubbly red-haired assistant, Jilly Fairmont, was grooming a poodle, and made a left turn toward the kennel area. “I hope you don’t mind the smell of bleach. We disinfect the pens and floors a couple of times a day.”
“Smells clean to me.”
Her acceptance pleased him. Some women, specifically Margo, curled her nose and avoided the kennel as much as possible. He should have understood, but her reaction had always hurt his feelings.
“Here they are. Frog and Toad. My daughter named them after her favorite book characters.” He squatted before the wire kennel and clicked up the latch. Zoey named all the animals, no matter how brief their stay. “Hey, little dudes. Look who came to see you.”
His shoes scraped the concrete as he pivoted toward Cheyenne. She crouched down as well, bringing her lean, jean-clad form close to his. He was a Christian but he was also a man, and it was difficult not to notice how pretty she looked in snug jeans and fitted top.
Handing her one of the pups, he kept the other, and watched as Cheyenne raised the animal to her cheek and closed her eyes. The pup rewarded her kindness with a few licks.
Jilly poked her head into the kennel. Rust-colored freckles stood out against pale white skin. “Doctor, we’re ready in the surgery suite when you are.”
“Be right there.” He glanced at his visitor. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. You can stay with the puppies as long as you like.”
She rose with him, still cradling the small dog. “Before you go—about that job you offered last night…”
He stopped in his tracks, surprised but hoping. “Are you asking if the offer still stands?”
She bit down on her lip before saying a reluctant “Yes.”
Trace studied the darkly pretty woman before him. She didn’t want to take the job, but she was going to. He probably should resent her attitude, but he was just glad she’d come back. He suspected that Cheyenne needed the job for more reasons than a paycheck. Maybe the Lord had sent her. Maybe she needed the warm, accepting love of cats and dogs.
And he could use the help. Maybe he also wanted to know her better. For ministry purposes of course. And if he was a little too happy about the prospect of getting to know Cheyenne Rhodes, so be it.
Chapter Four
Within minutes, Cheyenne had shucked her leather jacket to follow Dr. Bowman around the clinic, observing and learning.
“No time for formal training,” Trace said. “If you see something that needs doing, ask someone or just do it.”
He handed her a five-by-seven index card, listing info for Bennie, a fat beagle with skin allergies. “We make notes on these. Rabies inoculation updates, worming, anything pertinent that will go into the permanent chart later. I’ll tell you as we work.”
She hadn’t expected to start immediately and she certainly hadn’t expected to assist the man himself. But she took the card and read the entries already on it.
“He’s been a patient since he was a pup,” she murmured, half to herself. “You must be a good doctor to inspire such loyalty.”
“Not necessarily.” Trace flashed a sparkly grin. “I’m the only vet for fifty miles. It’s me or nothing.”
Good-looking and self-effacing, too. Why couldn’t he be more of a jerk so she could dislike him for a reason other than his Y chromosome?
“Are you?”
“What?” With one hand resting on the dog’s back and the other rubbing the animal’s long ears, he glanced up. “A good vet?”
She nodded, looking away from a gorgeous pair of light blue eyes. Yesterday, she’d been in such a state she’d barely noticed. Now she did, just as she noticed the slight indention in his left cheek and the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth. She also noticed that his left hand was ringless. Hadn’t he mentioned a daughter? She’d feel a lot more comfortable if he was married with a dozen kids. Although a wife was no real indicator of what a man was or wasn’t capable of.
“I do what I can.”
“Don’t let his modesty fool you. He’s the best,” offered the beagle’s owner, a thirtysomething woman in a blue nurse’s smock and sensible white shoes.
“I could return the compliment.” To Cheyenne he said, “You probably haven’t met Annie Markham. Annie, this is Cheyenne Rhodes. She’s new in town.”
The women exchanged pleasantries before Trace went on, “Annie is a home health care nurse. The older folks of Redemption have nominated her for sainthood.”
Annie laughed. “Oh, right. Tell that to Ted Sikes. He threatened to shoot me off the porch if I drew another vial of blood.”
Despite the fatigue around her green eyes, Annie Markham was an attractive woman. Honey-blond bangs and hair pulled back in a ponytail framed a face with clear, translucent skin. As far as Cheyenne could tell, she wore no makeup and yet her eyes were rimmed with dark lashes. With a strange twinge, she wondered if Trace was interested in Annie Markham.
“Ted threatens everyone,” Trace said, eyes twinkling. “I heard he told the mailman not to deliver another piece of junk mail or he was toast.”
“That sounds like Ted, the silly old goose.”
Trace looked at Cheyenne and pointed toward the corner. “Hand me the big white bottle on the second shelf.”
Bottles and boxes, glass-fronted cabinets and interesting tools lined the walls and cluttered the countertops. Cheyenne went to the cabinet he indicated.
“This?” she asked, rattling pills as she lifted a bottle toward him.
“That’s the one.” He took the medication and counted out thirty tablets, then scribbled something on a small blue packet before sliding the pills inside.
“Is this Ted guy dangerous?” Cheyenne asked, her cop instinct kicking in.
Trace pried open the beagle’s mouth, popped a pill inside and then gently rubbed the animal’s throat. “Old Ted likes to bluster, but I don’t think he’d hurt anyone, do you, Annie?”
“Ted? No. You should see him when I have the kids with me. Gives them candy, lets them have races on his treadmill and gather eggs from the chicken coup. They scare the chickens half to death, but Ted just cackles like the hens.”
So Annie was married with children. Not that Cheyenne cared one way or the other.
“Speaking of the kids. How are they doing?” Trace asked.
“Looking forward to summer break.”
“Zoey, too.”
“Summer’s great for kids. Not so great for single moms.”
“Or dads,” Trace said.
Okay, so they were both single. And attractive. Big whoop. She wasn’t here to admire the vet. She was here to work.
“They’ll be relieved to know their beloved Bennie will be all right,” Annie was saying.
At the mention of his name, the beagle looked up with sad eyes and moaned. All three adults laughed.
“Bennie needs to lose a few pounds and stay out of the tall grass and weeds. These allergy capsules, one each day, should suppress the worst of the skin rash. You know the drill. Other than that, Bennie is as good as new.” Dr. Bowman handed Annie the small blue package. “Tell the kids to come over this summer and swim with Zoey.”
“They’d love that. Thanks, Doc.”
Trace set Bennie on the floor and snapped a thin cloth leash into the ring on his collar. He handed the end to Annie. “Are you still looking after Miss Lydia?”
“Every day.”
“How’s she doing?”
Annie paused, a sad look crossing her face. “You know Lydia. If you ask her, she’ll smile that sweet smile, tell you she’s dandy and then ask about you. By the time the conversation is over, I feel better but I haven’t helped her much.”
“How bad is she?”
“Her heart gets weaker all the time. And lately, she’s really slowed down. Winter was hard on her. She hasn’t spent one day this spring in her flowers.” Annie started toward the door. “You know how beautiful her flowers always are.”
Trace politely reached around and opened the exam-room door. “I’m sorry to hear that. Tell her she’s in my prayers.”
“I will.”
Cheyenne listened in as Trace and Annie Markham stood in the hallway and chatted a while longer about the Lydia woman with the pretty flowers and great attitude. She felt like an outsider, which she was, but she appreciated the way both Trace and the nurse glanced her way, including her in the conversation, even though she had nothing to add.
After a bit, with Bennie moping along beside her, Annie said her goodbyes and left.
“She seems nice,” Cheyenne said as she and the vet walked down the narrow hallway to the reception area.
“Annie? Yeah. She’s had a rough few years but she’s stayed strong.”
Cheyenne didn’t know whether to ask for details or remain quiet. She chose the latter.
“Dr. Bowman?”
Trace turned toward the voice. Jilly, his other assistant, stood in the door leading to the kennels. “Do you have a minute to help me with this horse?”
“Be right there.” He handed Cheyenne Bennie’s manila folder. “Would you give this to Jeri at the desk?”
“Sure.” She took the chart to the reception area.
A middle-aged woman with dozens of neat, tiny braids covering her head and forty extra pounds, mostly on her hips, manned the desk. From what Cheyenne had observed in the short time she’d been there, Jeri Burdine was as grossly overworked as her boss. She booked appointments, escorted patients, answered the phone and collected payments, stocked shelves and generally ran the business end of the clinic.
“If you’ll show me what you want done, I’ll help,” she told Jeri. “I don’t think the doctor needs me right now.”
Jeri pushed at a pair of rectangular reading glasses. “Girl, you don’t have to ask twice. We have billing to do. Get your cute self back here and I’ll show you. There’s nothing to it but good record keeping.”
With an inward grin at the woman’s friendly chatter, Cheyenne said, “I can handle that.”
A cop kept good records or paid the price in court.
In minutes she was sliding bills into envelopes and slapping on computer-generated mailing labels. Some of the bills were seriously overdue. “Does he charge a late fee?”
“A what?” Jeri looked at her curiously. “Dr. Bowman? You gotta be kidding.”
Well, no, she wouldn’t kid about a thing like that. This was a business, not a charity. But she kept her opinion to herself.
She was piling a stack of envelopes into an outgoing mail container when the outside door burst open. Instinctively, Cheyenne jerked toward the sound, hand going to her nonexistent revolver. A woman’s frantic voice raised the hair on her arms.
“My puppy is hurt bad. Can you help?” The voice quivered as she held out the limp body of a very small Yorkshire terrier.
Cheyenne dropped the pile of envelopes and moved into action. “What happened?”
The young woman cast a furtive glance behind her. “Uh, he—uh, my husband stepped on him by accident. He didn’t mean to. Chauncy got underfoot and he’s so little. Ray would never hurt him on purpose.”
Some instinct warned Cheyenne that the woman was being less than truthful. She protested just a little too much. About that time, a hulking man came through the door. His focus went immediately toward the shaking woman.
“Emma.” The tone, instead of tender and concerned, was harsh.
The woman jumped, her eyes widened in fear. “They’re getting the doctor now, Ray.”
Her look pleaded with Cheyenne to agree.
Something was not right here. Every cop instinct inside her was screaming.
Jeri took one look at the injured animal and said to Cheyenne, “Take them on back to the exam room. I’ll get Dr. Bowman.”
As a cop Cheyenne had worked accidents, murders, shootings and just about every violent crime known to man. She’d seen unspeakable injuries up close and personal. Open wounds didn’t shake her. But the dog was basically a ball of bloody fur. Even the smell was deathly.
The woman named Emma was trembling like an earthquake. “Is he going to die?”
Probably. But Cheyenne didn’t say that.
“Quit bawling, Emma,” the man said. “If he dies I’ll get you another one.”
Yeah, as if that was going to help. Cheyenne wanted to clobber the insensitive clod.
Instead she asked, “Is your dog a regular patient of Dr. Bowman’s?”
“No.” Tears raced down Emma’s face and dripped on the dog. She was crying but doing her best not to make a sound. The effort worried Cheyenne. This was a traumatic event. Why should her husband be angry if she cried?
“No problem. What’s his name?”
“Chauncey Ray. He’s named after my husband.”
“I bought him as a special gift for her birthday. Didn’t I, Emma?”
Cheyenne managed a smile. She’d never had time for an animal and couldn’t comprehend the attachment pet owners felt for their furry friends. But she understood heartache.
The man placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder. She tensed.
Cheyenne narrowed her eyes in thought. There was a smugness about this Ray character that set her nerves on edge. She couldn’t put her finger on the problem, but her cop gut labeled him a jerk.
They met Dr. Bowman in the hallway. “What’s the emergency?”
Emma’s waterworks restarted. She shook all over, far more than the situation warranted. Her husband gave her an annoyed look and said, “The dumb dog got underfoot.” He lifted a heavy boot, almost grinning as if he was proud. “I got a pretty big foot. I told her to keep him out of the way.”
Trace gave the man a cool glance. “Put him on the table, and let me have a look.”
The woman did as she was told, small hands trembling as she gently laid the tiny dog on the paper-covered table.
Cheyenne saw then what she’d missed in the hallway. Bruises on the inside of Emma’s upper arms. Fingerprint bruises. She looked closer. The faint outline of a handprint marred the woman’s cheek. Earlier, Cheyenne had dismissed the red cheek as the result of crying. Now she had a different thought.
Her hackles rose. This oversize clod was hitting his wife. And she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’d hurt the dog intentionally.
“Is he going to die?” Emma asked again, standing back from the exam table. Her husband put an arm around her, but she did not look comforted.
“Let’s get some pain medication into him first and then we can do some X-rays to see what kind of damage we’re dealing with.” Dr. Bowman offered Emma an encouraging glance, before turning his full attention on the dog. “Think positive. Injuries are not always as bad they initially appear.”
Cheyenne, cynic that she was, figured he said that to everyone. She’d already pegged him for a male Pollyanna.
He reached behind her for a bottle and syringe. Cheyenne dipped a shoulder, uncomfortable when his forearm brushed against her.
“You’ll have to assist,” he said, plunging a needle into a rubber stopper. “Jilly’s busy with that mare’s feet.”
Cheyenne’s stomach lurched. Assist with what? She was accustomed to investigating the aftermath. Accidents never happened when a police officer was watching.
An unpleasant emptiness spread through her. She wasn’t a police officer anymore. What she had or had not done before did not apply in this scenario. She was a veterinary assistant now. She clamped down on her back molars.
Deal with it, Rhodes.
Keeping her expression bland, she muttered, “Sure. Whatever.”
“Ma’am, would you and your husband prefer to wait in the waiting area?”
Emma’s lips quivered. “Whatever you think is best.”
Her husband gripped her arm. “You heard what he said. Come on.”
With one jerky nod, Emma pivoted and left the room with her husband.
Expression grim, Trace glanced toward the door. “What’s wrong with that picture?”
“I was thinking the same thing. Do you think he hurt this dog on purpose?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“He abuses her.”
Trace glanced up, surprised. “How do you know that?”
“Observance. She has bruises on her arms and a handprint on her cheek. They’d been fighting when this happened.”
“All the more reason to think he stomped or kicked this little dog. The injuries are not consistent with merely being stepped on.”
“Can you save him?”
“Gotta try.” His intelligent eyes studied the unmoving animal. “We’ll have a better idea after the X-rays and a thorough exam. You up for this?”
Cheyenne gave one short nod. She’d handled plenty worse.
Over the next few minutes, the vet instructed her in restraining and positioning the limp little animal while he ran an X-ray machine. All the while, her mind whirled with the ramifications of the couple in the waiting room. A woman shouldn’t put up with a man like that.
“Wear this.” Trace tossed her an apron that weighed a ton.
“What’s in this thing? Bricks?” She draped the gray apron around her neck.
“Close. Lead. Keeps you from being exposed to radiation.” He disappeared behind a short wall. The hum and thump of the machine filled the room. Trace reappeared to reposition the animal again. “A couple more.”
Cheyenne kept her hands where he instructed while he finished the procedure.
“All done. Hang the apron inside here and then stay with Chauncey while I process these.”
He disappeared again and Cheyenne stared down at the sedated dog. He was a mess. Blood coated his golden brown coat. Cheyenne was pretty sure the white protrusion on his leg was a bone.
She shivered and tried to think of something else.
Noises came from behind her. Thumps and thuds. Buzzes and bells. And then the vet was back again, standing next to her. His focus was on the patient, but Cheyenne edged away from him and the peculiar sizzle of nerve endings he caused. She didn’t know whether she liked or hated the feeling, but liking it wasn’t an option.
“Other than the mangled leg, I don’t see anything life-threatening.”
She flicked him a glance. “Seriously?”
“I’ll need to keep him overnight to rule out internal injuries, but he doesn’t seem to be as bad as I first thought. I wasn’t kidding when I said sometimes the worst-looking injuries end up not being so bad after all.”
“That’s true. I’ve seen people I didn’t think would survive but they did.”
He swiveled toward her, expression curious. “You have?”
Cheyenne mentally kicked herself. She hadn’t intended to discuss her former life with anyone in Redemption. Let the past lie buried. If it would.
Avoiding the doctor’s intensely blue eyes, she fiddled with the crinkly paper beneath the Yorkie. “I just meant—you know, on the road and stuff.”
Dr. Bowman didn’t respond, but she could feel him looking at her, curious. At least she thought she could. Lately, her emotions didn’t always line up with reality. She knew this but she couldn’t always control it.
Lack of control made her mad. Life in general made her mad. The feelings thrashing and banging around inside every time Trace Bowman came close made her mad.
But then, she’d been mad for the past year. Had she really expected things to improve just because a town was called Redemption?
Trace shook droplets of water from his hands and reached for a paper towel. The surgery on the Yorkie’s leg had taken longer than he’d hoped, so Jeri had sent waiting patients home until tomorrow. A half dozen of the sickest had chosen to wait, but the injured dog was resting peacefully, still sedated, in a soft enclosure.
The pet owners had left, although the man had been blunt about not running up a huge vet bill. “Put him to sleep. I’ll get her another.”
Trace usually liked everyone. He couldn’t say that about this guy. “That won’t be necessary. We can work something out.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Doc.” And with that warning he had ushered his wife from the clinic.
Some people.
With a weary sigh, he shot a look at his new assistant. She was an enigma. Not very friendly, either, but he’d known that when he hired her.
Even though the capable Jilly had returned, once the surgery was set up and ready he’d called Cheyenne in to help, too. Some perverse part of him must admire a tough woman with a chip on her shoulder.
Troubled. He could see it in the tense set of her shoulders and jaw. He could hear it in her terse answers. And he could read it in her soulful glares and the way she overprotected her three feet of personal space.
The question was why? And what exactly did the Lord expect him to do about Cheyenne Rhodes?
“Pretty good assistant for a first timer.” In a light tone, Trace tossed the compliment casually over his shoulder but didn’t move in her direction. He’d already discovered that if he got too close, her defenses went up and she’d back away. “You didn’t faint or gag or run away.”
“I don’t faint.” She stated the fact as though slightly insulted. He noticed she didn’t mention the other two.
“You’d be surprised how many grown men turn pale when I start drilling into bone.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “You did the hard part. All I did was play gofer.”
He turned slowly, leaning his hips on the sink behind him as he dried his hands. “Appropriate job in an animal hospital, don’t you think? A gopher.”
Her full lower lip curved. “Have you ever treated a gopher?”
Trace felt a rush of energy through his very tired body. Any hint that he was getting through that iron wall of hers cheered him immensely.
“This is a community of tulips and smooth, green lawns. Saving a gopher could get me tarred, feathered and run out of town.”
For a nanosecond her dark, dark eyes twinkled and he held out the hope that she’d come back with a snappy retort. She turned her back instead. Stainless steel surgical tools clattered against a metal basin as she dunked them into antiseptic cleaning liquid. “What do I do with these after they’re washed?”
Fighting down a frisson of disappointment, Trace studied his new employee’s stiff shoulders. Did friendly conversation always make her nervous?
Lord, I’m trying, so give me a little direction here, okay?
“Toss them in that box for a trip to the autoclave.” He ripped a couple more paper towels from the dispenser and sprayed antiseptic cleaner on the metal table. “I can’t stop thinking about that couple.”
The comment forced her to look back over one tense shoulder. “Me, too.”
“Think we should contact the police?”
“Won’t do any good.”
“How do you know that?”
She hesitated for one brief second before turning back to the sink. “I just know.”
Spoken like a woman with secrets.
He threw the paper towels in the trash can and studied his assistant. For the first day of work, she’d done all right. But her work ethic wasn’t what concerned him. The way he felt with her in the room did.
She was puzzling and bristly. Yet despite those negatives, he wanted to know her better.
Her hair pooled like black ink against the blue lab jacket he’d loaned her. There was something about Cheyenne Rhodes that made him want to go on looking at her. He felt a little stupid about that. The woman was pretty, sure, but so was Margo, and though they’d dated off and on for a year, he’d never wanted to stand and stare at Margo Starks. Cheyenne’s beauty wasn’t the thing that intrigued him, really. Rather, he was fascinated by the way she narrowed her eyes in speculation, the way she held herself aloof and the subtle sense he had that she was hurting every single minute.
Something was sorely wrong in Cheyenne’s world, and he was a doctor, a man called and trained to ease suffering. He wouldn’t rest until her wounds, whatever they might be, were healed.
Chapter Five
Cheyenne was feeling better about her new job. Maybe this would work out all right after all. The vet was easygoing and didn’t lose patience even when she couldn’t find something. The other women were cordial, even though the clinic buzzed with patients, phone calls and animal sounds until they seldom had a spare moment. Cheyenne figured this was a good thing. Being busy kept her mind off everything else. Everything, that is, except the handsome vet. All he had to do was walk into the room and a buzz of energy shimmied along her nerve endings.
After feeling dead inside for so long, the reawakening stung like frozen fingers warmed too quickly. Wisdom warned to tread carefully.
Last night, when she’d arrived at the motel, her thoughts were torn between the too-attractive vet and the Yorkie owner. She was convinced Emma was a battered wife. This morning the husband had picked up the dog, paid the bill and left without a thank-you.
Cheyenne couldn’t help wondering where Emma was. But she’d dealt with plenty of abuse victims and as long as they lied for their abusers, there was nothing anyone could do.
The knowledge burned inside her. She hated feeling impotent.
Over the spray of water, Cheyenne caught the sound of a humming baritone. At the moment, Dr. Bowman was at the sink, scrubbing up after the suture of a lacerated ferret. The vet was a happy guy. Either that or he put on a good act.
“Doc? You in here?”
The voice was male, but the words were thick and carefully formed as though the speaker had a speech impediment.
Curious, Cheyenne dumped the washed instruments into a box marked Redemption River Animal Clinic, threw a wad of empty plastic packaging into the trash and turned toward the opened door. A young man, probably in his late teens, with the rounded body and moon face of Down’s syndrome shuffled into the room.
When he spotted Cheyenne, he stopped. Face a mix of confusion, curiosity and friendliness, he blinked rapidly. “Hello. I don’t know you.”
The air stirred and her skin prickled with awareness, a sure sign the singing vet had moved into her radar range. Annoyed to be so vulnerable, she took a step to one side.
“Toby,” Trace said. “Come in and meet our new helper, Cheyenne.”
Expression sweet and friendly, the teen stuck out his hand. “Hi.”
Cheyenne took the spongy fingers in hers and shook. “Hello, Toby. I’m glad to know you.”
“Toby is my right-hand man,” Trace went on. “He keeps the kennels and cages in tip-top shape, feeds and waters and exercises. Couldn’t run the place without him.”
Toby responded with a huge grin. “Dr. Bowman likes me. I’m a good worker.”
“I didn’t see you on my first day. Were you here?”
“Wednesdays I’m not here. I got appointments. Doc cleans up for me. But the rest of the time, Toby does it.” He patted his chest with the flat of one hand.
Though wearing a man’s body, Toby was childlike and likeable and touched a soft spot in her heart. “I noticed how clean the kennels are.”
“Yeah. Doc showed me how to make them really, really clean. Only put one little bitty cup of bleach in the bucket. Right, Doc?”
“Right, and no one does a better job than you.”
“Not even you?”
“Not even me.” Trace clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Did you need something, or just come inside to say hello?”
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