Finding Her Way Home (10 page)

His mind flashed to Pamela. She had played like an angel and had dreamed of playing professionally until he'd come into her life. She'd loved the old Steinway, and even after her death Trace had retained the instrument for Zoey. No one had played that piano in years.

But someone was playing it now.

He pushed through the back door and into the kitchen where the warm, spicy scent of Mom's casserole set his belly to growling. He was starved. But first, he wanted to let the ladies know he'd returned earlier than he'd dared hope.

The music covered his entrance and he stopped in the doorway between the dining and living room. His heart bumped hard at the sight before him. Their backs turned, black hair flowing, the pair could have been mother and daughter. On the floor at their feet, two pups sprawled in sleep, undisturbed by the piano.

He stepped up by the piano bench, and Cheyenne stopped playing. “You're back.”

Before he could explain, Zoey whipped around, her face alight. “Daddy, I'm learning the piano. Just like Mommy. Cheyenne's teaching me. Aren't you, Cheyenne?”

Cheyenne stroked Zoey's hair. “If your dad agrees.”

Trace got a funny lump in his throat. “No way I'd turn down an offer like that.”

Cheyenne, still seated at an angle on the bench, smiled gently at his daughter. “She's an apt pupil. Very impressive.”

“Yes, I'm impressive, Daddy. Cheyenne said. Let me show you.” Zoey felt along the keys, placing her fingers just so. “Is this right, Cheyenne?”

“Play the notes and see if they sound right to you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Starting with the thumb, Zoey played one note at a time, calling out each name, until she'd completed a scale. “I did it. I did it! Daddy, did you see me? Did you hear me? I know the keys now. Cheyenne showed me.”

“All this in a little over an hour? I can't imagine what would happen if I left the two of you alone for an entire day.”

“Cheyenne said next time I'll learn a whole song. Won't I, Cheyenne?”

Cheyenne, Cheyenne, Cheyenne. His daughter was clearly enamored of her new friend.

“I didn't know you played piano,” he said to Cheyenne.

She shrugged as though her considerable skill were no big deal. “My family is musical. Everyone plays something. I took lessons from age four until I became a rebellious teenager.”

“Zoey's mother played.”

“Zoey told me. You don't play?”

“I wish, but these fingers only know how to doctor animals.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Especially when you're as good with animals as you are.” Her simple little compliment made his head spin. “Is Greg Teague's cow okay? You're back sooner than we expected.”

“Old cow with a new calf. Greg thought she might have a prolapsed uterus, but she didn't. After an exam and a little conversation, I was out of there.”

“I'm glad.”

She was? Well, so was he, and no, he wasn't ready to name the glow of pleasure beneath his collarbone.

“Thanks for letting me stay with Zoey.”

He frowned. “Why wouldn't I?”

One shoulder came up in a feminine shrug. “After last night…”

He'd never considered worrying about Zoey with Cheyenne. Maybe he should, but not for the reason she thought. “The past is forgotten. Remember?”

She laughed. “Forgotten. Remember. Is that double talk? Or are you trying to confuse me?”

He grinned. “I like hearing you laugh.”

Looking flustered, she pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “You must be hungry.”

The comment sounded wifely. Trace nipped that very dangerous thought in the bud faster than he could say penicillin.

“Starved.” That was why he was anxious to get home. Food. Not a certain mysterious woman whose laugh had his stomach doing acrobatics.

Cheyenne patted Zoey's hand and pushed off the bench, taking care not to step on Frog and Toad. “Go ahead and play if you want, Zoey. Your dad needs to eat dinner.”

“I can fix my own. No problem,” he said.

She gave him an appraising glance and went right on into the kitchen to dish up dinner. He followed after her like a grateful pup, willing his eyes not to watch her walk and his brain not to enjoy the bounce of her hair.

“Your mother is a great cook,” she was saying. “This stuff is incredible.” She set the tantalizing dish on the table, steaming hot. “Want some salad? Zoey and I made one.”

“Sure. I'll get it, though. You're my guest.”

“I don't mind. Sit down. You look exhausted.”

“Sweet-talker.” But he scraped a chair away from the round table and sat, grateful to relax, while Cheyenne moved around his kitchen as though she'd been here dozens of times.

How long had passed since a woman other than his mother had served him dinner? Margo had been here on occasion, but he'd done the cooking and serving. Margo had always been a guest. With Cheyenne—well, Cheyenne seemed to belong.

He grabbed for the glass of ice water and gulped, washing down the aberrant thinking. What was the matter with him to think such a thing? Last night, Cheyenne had bolted out of his
garage like a startled deer. Just because she and Zoey got on well was no reason for him to start thinking crazy thoughts.

His belly clutched at the realization. His little girl was forming a powerful attachment to Cheyenne. At the clinic, Zoey wanted Cheyenne's attention every minute. She talked about her at home, too. And now, tonight, she'd wanted to be with Cheyenne instead of him.

This was not good. She could get hurt.

Face it, Doc
, a small voice whispered.
You could get hurt, too.

Cheyenne was touchy and unpredictable, with plenty of pain lurking behind those beautiful dark eyes. Her protective wall might be too high to climb.

And where would that leave him and Zoey?

He'd best remember that she was his employee, one that baffled him much of the time. She was the needy one, not him. God had sent her along for him to help, not fall for.

Crazy as it sounded, he feared he could fall for her very easily.

Sometimes the heart of a man made no sense at all.

He'd spent a year wishing he could fall in love with Margo and finally coming to the realization that she was a friend and could never be anything else. She was a good woman, wife material, and kind to his daughter. He should have been able to love her. Yet he couldn't.

Then Cheyenne stormed into his life with a box of puppies, a chip on her shoulder and sorrow in her eyes, and he couldn't think of anyone but her.

He scooped a man-size helping of cheesy casserole onto his plate and shoved it around with a fork.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe his overactive sense of Good Samaritan had kicked into high gear.

But he didn't think so. The feelings stirring inside him did not qualify as compassion.

He cast a furtive glance at the troublesome woman. She was at the refrigerator, her back to him, long, glossy hair tumbling
around her shoulders. She turned suddenly, salad bowl in hand, and caught him staring. He quickly looked down at his plate, as uncomfortable as a blushing, bumbling teenager.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Thanks for looking after Zoey tonight.”

“No problem.” She slid the fluted bowl of green salad in front of him along with a bottle of salad dressing and took the chair across from him. Seeing her there, arms folded on his table, leaning toward him with a tilt at the corners of her mouth, did strange things to his insides. “We had fun. She's a great little girl.”

“Yeah. She is.” He shoved a bite of cheesy casserole into his mouth.

Too great to have her heart broken.

But what could he do to stop it from happening?

T
his time she fought. No one would ever again say she hadn't fought hard enough, that she could have done more, that she could have avoided the attack.

Straining with all her strength, she shoved hard at his chest. He was so heavy. And terrifyingly stronger. Why didn't people understand that?

Her head made sharp contact with something metal as her attacker shoved her down into the car seat. Rough cloth and a protruding seat belt dug into the bare skin of her back.

The acrid taste of terror and her own blood pooled on her tongue.

The smell of him filled her nostrils. She struggled not to gag. For weeks, she couldn't wash away his smell.

She grabbled at her side for the Glock. Where was it? Where
was
it?

A knife pressed against her throat, cold and sharp. Her breath caught just behind the metal blade. She shoved at his arm, then sank her teeth into his flesh.

His fist slammed into the side of her head. Gray sparks shot everywhere. Her arms went weak. Helpless.

Not again. Not again. Please, please, not again. Struggling to
remain conscious, she thrashed her head from side to side, trying to escape. But there was no escape.

Sweat beaded on Dwight Hector's evil face and dripped into her wide, desperate eyes. He laughed.

She saw her own reflection in his mad irises and feared she was going to die.

Cheyenne screamed. The sound echoed in her head, and went on and on and on.

With a jolt, she awakened and sat upright, panting. Her heart pounded hard enough to break a rib.

Another scream came and then a whimper.

Though her body quaked from the nightmare, she dragged both hands over her sweating face and tried to awaken. The lights were on, as they always were. She couldn't sleep without light anymore. The counselor called the behavior a coping skill. She called it psychotic, but she left them on just the same.

The scream came again. A muffled, short cry.

Cheyenne was fully awake now, but the remnants of the nightmare toyed with her sanity.

Someone was screaming and it wasn't her. A woman. In the unit next to hers.

Reaching beneath the cool pillow, she closed her shaky fingers around the cold, comforting steel of the baby Glock.

Pushing away the covers, she tiptoed to the wall and leaned an ear to listen. Pleading moans came from the other room. Whimpers. A woman's voice raised in desperation.

The cop in her reacted.

In three minutes flat, she had tugged clothes over her pajamas and was banging on the door of Unit 5.

“Hello, hello!” she called. “Open the door.” She almost said, “Police,” but caught herself in time.

A curse followed by a flurry of movement went on inside the unit. When heavy footsteps came closer, Cheyenne concealed the
pistol behind her back and stepped slightly to the side, ready for whatever and whoever opened that door.

The door opened a crack. Light seeped out. A man's face appeared. A familiar face. The man who stomped a Yorkie and abused his wife. Ray Madden.

Even in the blocked lighting, his eyes were bloodshot, but a glimmer of recognition flashed through them. “What do you want?”

Alcohol breath assailed her.

“I'm in the next unit.” Cheyenne surreptitiously slid the toe of her boot into the opening. “Does someone in here need help?”

“No.”

But Cheyenne saw his sneer and the way his gaze slid to the side as though someone was behind him. She wasn't leaving until she saw Emma. “I heard a scream.”

“Bad dream.” He raked a hand over the top of disheveled blond hair. When his arm came up, Cheyenne caught a glimpse of the small woman huddled on the bed behind him.

“Are you alone?” She leaned to peer around him.

He shifted to block her view. “You offering company?”

She was running out of patience. “Look, we both know your wife is in here and I'm not leaving until I talk to her.”

“This is a private family matter. You should mind your own business.”

Ignoring the hulking man, she called out, “Emma, I'm here to help. You don't have to stay here. You can come with me right now and I'll see that you're safe.”

“She don't need anybody's help.”

“Let
her
tell me that.” She shoved her boot a little farther inside, giving the door a push.

“You could get hurt busting in here.” The man's voice was a low growl of warning.

Using her iciest cop stare and a voice that said she was in charge, even though she felt as weak as a cooked noodle, she demanded, “Let her talk to me.
Now.
”

A string of bourbon-soaked expletives dirtied the air, but the man relented. Opening the door, he pivoted toward the pale woman. “Get over here, stupid. Nosy witch won't leave until you do. Tell her to get lost. To mind her own business if she knows what's good for her.”

Emma was crying, one hand over her mouth to stifle the noise. Her white blouse was spotted with blood, probably from the bleeding nose and mouth.

Fury rippled through Cheyenne. She was sorely tempted to stick the Glock in this buzzard's face.

Instead, she kept her voice soothing. “Do you need help?”

Head down, the cowed woman moved across the beige carpeting on shaky legs.

“No,” she whispered, but even in the dim lighting, her bruises told a different tale. “I'm okay.”

Sure she was. And pigs flew. A two-hundred-fifty-pound man with fists like hams beating up on a wife half his size did not make her okay. Cheyenne had witnessed this scenario plenty of times, but nowadays she took it personally.

“You heard her,” the dirtbag said. “She's fine. Now get lost.” He started to close the door. Cheyenne braced an arm across it.

“You don't have to stay here and be abused. I'll help you. Just walk out right now. Come with me.”

Temptation flickered in the woman's face but was quickly extinguished when her husband placed his hand on the back of her neck.

“Me and Emma just had a little lovers' spat and now I've come to take her home and make up. She knows I can't live without her.” His fingers tightened on the woman's neck. She flinched but didn't try to escape. “Isn't that right, baby?”

Cheyenne kept her attention on the woman, willing her to listen, to escape while she could. “Emma, this has happened before, hasn't it? He hurt your dog, too.”

Emma answered with a rapid blink of red-rimmed eyes, but
only said, “Ray, he gets a little jealous when he's drinking. I'm all right. He didn't mean anything by it.”

“You can come with me. I'll see that you're safe.”

“You heard her, lady. Back off.”

“I'm not leaving until
she
says so.”

His nostrils flared in fury. His jaw clenched and he leaned toward Cheyenne, menacing. “Beat it!”

She braced herself, glaring back, warning him.

The fingers of her right hand, still behind her back, slid into position on the pistol.

Give me a reason, you dirtbag.

Like most bullies, he must have seen the steel in Cheyenne's manner and understood that she would not back down. He changed tactics.

“Well, if you ain't leaving, we are. Get your stuff, baby.” He gave a not-too-gentle thrust that sent Emma scurrying toward a backpack on the foot of the bed. “We're going home.”

Though her nose still dripped blood, Emma followed her husband's orders. While Cheyenne watched in sad silence, the trembling woman tossed a few things into the backpack and sat down on the end of the bed, hands twisting in her lap. She refused to meet Cheyenne's probing gaze.

“I guess that answers your questions, lady. Emma is my wife. She stays with me. Till death do us part.” His mouth curved in an ugly smile.

Every one of them recognized his last words as a threat, but unless Emma wanted help, Cheyenne could do nothing.

“Are you sure, Emma?” Cheyenne asked one more time.

Eyes downcast, Emma nodded.

Cheyenne had seen domestic violence dozens of times and though she'd studied the psychology of abuse, she could never understand why women refused help. Still, most times they did. All she could do was offer hope.

“If you should change your mind, I'm next door. And I will get you help and keep you safe. You have my word.”

Emma's soft thank-you was nearly lost as the door slammed in Cheyenne's face.

 

Shaking all over, Cheyenne dropped the pistol hand to her side and leaned the back of her head against the exterior wall. The siding was slick and hard, the night air cool. She took a deep, shuddering breath, barely able to remain upright now that the danger was over. Adrenaline jacked through her system like rocket fuel.

What had she been thinking to accost this perp single-handedly with no backup? She hadn't been thinking at all. She'd been dreaming.

The doorknob rattled as if the guests in Unit 5 were coming out. Security lights glowed above each unit, making her far too visible. She edged behind a squat evergreen and crouched low, out of sight, pistol resting on her thigh.

She mustered all her inner determination not to sink to the ground, roll into a ball and let the terror sweep over her in waves the way it had before.

The door opened. She slowed her breathing to match the quiet night.

The man and woman came out. The oversize creep had his arm around Emma. As if he knew Cheyenne was watching, he stopped beneath the light, tilted his wife's chin and kissed her, long and deep.

Cheyenne nearly gagged. Emma simply submitted.

“You know I love you, baby,” he said.

Emma nodded, then dropped her head and followed her husband to a car. She opened her own door and got inside. And they roared away into the darkness.

If she thought it would do any good, Cheyenne would have said a prayer for the very young woman.

As the engine noise slowly faded and quiet night sounds returned, cold sweat popped out on Cheyenne's face and neck.

She dragged in more fresh air. Green grass. Cedar. The lingering smell of alcohol.

Stomach roiling, she bent forward, rested her hands on her thighs and threw up.

Ray Madden had reminded her too much of Dwight Hector. Her fingers had itched to shoot his leering face. She'd wanted to.

When the sick spasm ended, she raked a shaky sleeve across her mouth.

What kind of person had she become?

 

“Cheyenne? Is that you?”

The voice, coming out the dark night and on the tail of the incident, shot electricity through Cheyenne's bloodstream. She spun, both hands on the weapon, ready.

On the narrow pathway between the parking lot and the cedar bushes, Kitty Wainright froze. Beneath the unnatural security lighting, her face turned as white as her flowing robe. “You have a gun.”

At the quivery, stunned words, Cheyenne slid the pistol into the back of her jeans. “Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.”

Mule slippers scraped against the white gravel as Kitty stepped closer, her expression a jumble of emotions. She must have rushed out, tossing the robe on as she moved. The soft yellow chenille hung open over pale-colored capri pajamas. Her usually upswept hair hung loose and long, surprisingly to her waist. She looked like a modern-day Rapunzel.

“I heard a noise, and then saw a car drive away as if someone was chasing it. Who was that? What happened? Is Emma all right?”

Calmer now, though her insides were still raw and acidic, Cheyenne related the story in her best dispatched manner.

Kitty wasn't as calm. “Cheyenne! You could have been hurt. Why didn't you call the police?”

“I
am
the pol—” She stopped, but it was too late.

Kitty's eyes widened. She crossed her arms, shivering a little. “You're a cop?”

Cheyenne squeezed her eyelids tight. Now she'd done it. “Was.”

A silence ensued. She could practically hear the questions flying around inside Kitty's head. Questions she did not want to answer.

Kitty touched her arm. “You look shaken. I think we could both use a cup of tea.”

A year ago, Cheyenne would have requested tequila—straight up—but she'd learned the lesson of sobriety the hard way. Tonight, she was glad for the offer of tea.

In minutes, she was seated in Kitty's kitchen, a room every bit as breezy and cheerful as its decorator, but the rattling in her bones continued. She couldn't get the battered Emma off her mind.

She knew how a woman felt to be helpless and scared and at the mercy of a stronger, meaner opponent. Propping an elbow on Kitty's pretty glass table, she leaned her head on the heel of her hand and closed her eyes.

The ugly scene played out again with a familiar refrain. Could she have done anything differently?

Cheyenne sighed in futility and sat back, forcing her attention to anything except the visions in her head. She'd not sleep another minute tonight.

The pilot igniter made a click-clicking sound as Kitty turned on the gas and plunked a red teakettle on to heat. She opened a glass-fronted cabinet, took down two shiny red mugs with matching saucers and set them on the table. Her long, sun-blond hair swung and swayed as she moved around the small space.

With upraised brows, she lifted a little pink and green basket filled with a variety of bagged teas. “Peppermint might ease your stomach.”

Kitty had seen her puking her guts up. Lovely. “Peppermint's fine.”

“I have coffee if you'd rather.”

“Tea is better. Thanks.” She was already so hyped up she
could thread a running sewing machine. Coffee was the last thing she needed.

Kitty finished the preparations and placed the two cups, milk and sugar on the table before sitting down.

“I suspected this was the reason Emma's been coming here,” she said, elbows on the table, cup lifted halfway to her lips.

“Tonight isn't the first time?”