Finding Her Way Home (11 page)

Kitty shook her head. “No. Well, yes. This is the first time anything bad has happened, but she's spent the night in one of my units three or four times. She usually arrives late or on Saturday evening.”

Cheyenne's teeth clenched. “Whenever he gets drunk and mean. I knew something bad was going on with them.” She told Kitty about the incident at the clinic. “I suspected abuse that day. So did Trace.”

“Terrible.” Kitty blew daintily over the top of her tea. A curl of steam rose and circled her nose. “I've noticed the bruises, old ones and new ones on her arms. Sometimes on her face, too. I figured she comes here to hide from him, but when I've tried to talk to her about it, she shuts me out. Then she checks out early the next morning before I can try again. This is the first time her husband's found her, though.”

Cheyenne's lip curled. “The dirtbag.”

A small twitch of humor lifted Kitty's lips. “You sound like a cop when you say that.”

“Even when I was a police officer, my hands were tied unless the victim wanted help.” She dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into the hot tea and stirred. The peppermint scent rose up, soothing. “That's what frustrates me most about domestic violence. Until she asks for help or he kills her, there's nothing we can do.”

“We can pray.”

Yeah, well, she wasn't holding her breath on that one.

Kitty set her cup aside and casually asked, “Want to talk about why you're not a cop anymore? Redemption can always use another good police officer.”

“I don't see myself going back to law enforcement.”

“What happened? And don't say nothing, because I've known from the first day you walked in the office that something bad had happened.”

“Everyone has problems.”

“True, but not everyone leaves a career and moves across the country because of them.”

Cheyenne clinked the red cup into the saucer and pushed back from the table. “I really should go. You need to get some sleep.”

Kitty placed a forestalling hand atop hers. “Finish your tea. I promise to hush my mouth.”

Cheyenne eased back in place. “Sorry. I don't mean to be touchy. You've been wonderful to me, but Colorado was a bad time.”

“I understand about bad times, Cheyenne. You'll be surprised to find a lot of kindred spirits here in Redemption.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” she said, trying to lighten the heavy topic. “Redemption is some kind of magical magnetic force field for damaged souls.”

Kitty laughed softly. “Magic has nothing to do with Redemption. Have you seen the well at Town Square?”

Cheyenne didn't understand what some nineteenth-century well had to do with anything, particularly her. She was practically a stranger in Redemption. “I've seen it, but I don't get the significance.”

“Give yourself time. You will.”

The cryptic statement didn't help at all.

“Trace took me there, and I felt as if he was disappointed because I didn't have a big revelation from God or something.”

Kitty paused, one hand over her teacup. “Trace took you to see the well?”

Cheyenne glanced away, uncomfortable with the speculation
in Kitty's eyes. “He and Zoey were showing the new girl around. No big deal.”

“Burgers at Big Bob's, late nights at the clinic, supper at Trace's house.” She dipped a tea bag up and down in the cup of steaming water. “I think something's going on with the two of you.”

Cheyenne's heart bumped. “How could you possibly know all that?”

Kitty's merry laugh rang out. “Redemption is a small town, and Trace is a single, attractive businessman. Anything our good doctor does is noticed. People like him.”

“They should. Half of them never get charged a dime.”

“And I can guess which ones. The older folks on fixed incomes. The single mothers whose kids love their pets but can't afford vet bills. Trace cares about people as well as animals, Cheyenne.”

Trace cared about everyone, not just her. She was his latest project, his employee. That was all.

She should feel good about that. She didn't.

After tonight's unexpected battle with a drunk, abusive husband, her emotions were in a worse jumble than ever. With all the garbage piled up inside her, she was scared to examine her feelings for Trace Bowman lest she open a Pandora's box she couldn't handle.

“He's a good guy.”

“A very good guy with a special child to consider. I wouldn't want to see either of them hurt.”

Cheyenne's stomach tightened. Kitty's warning was laughable. Several women “dropped by” the clinic on a regular basis, including Margo, the woman Trace had been dating. He couldn't be attracted to a messed-up former cop.

Yet some indefinable emotion buzzed between the two of them every time they were in the same building. Whether alone or with patients and staff around them, she knew where Trace was all the time. When she glanced his way, his twinkling gaze met hers.

And Zoey—darling Zoey—touched a maternal spot she hadn't known existed. Concern for the little girl was one very good reason not to fall for the father. Zoey deserved better.

“Neither would I,” she said finally. She would leave town before causing hurt to either of them.

Depression crept over her like a dark cloud—a cloud that had followed her from Colorado Springs to Redemption, Oklahoma.

“Can we talk about something else?” she asked, and heard the despair in her tone.

Kitty's guileless blue eyes seemed to look deep inside her. “Anything you choose, Cheyenne. I want to help, not make things worse.”

“You have. You are. I appreciate your friendship more than I can tell you.”

“Enough to come to Bible study?”

Cheyenne gave a short laugh. “I'll think about it.”

“Good enough.” Silky hair swinging, Kitty pushed back from the table. “I need a cookie. How about you?”

“Sure.” She watched while Kitty opened a whimsical kitten cookie jar and returned with a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. “Cute cookie jar.”

“Mmm-hmm. I like it. Jace bought it for me.”

“Jace? Is this your guy?”

As if startled at the suggestion, Kitty shook her head. “Jace Carter is a good friend and the best building contractor in Redemption. He does all the upkeep on the motel.”

“And he buys you kitty cookie jars? Sounds like a very interested friend to me.”

A powerful sadness shifted over Kitty's usually upbeat countenance. “I was loved by Dave Wainright. No one can ever top that.”

Silence hung over the scented tea and cookies. Though normally averse to prying, Cheyenne had to know. “Tell me about Dave.”

“He was my one true love. Strong and funny and full of God.”

A sad smile lifted the corners of her bow mouth. “I can't remember a moment of unhappiness in our two-year marriage. Every day I woke up beside him was a gift of joy. He never went to sleep before I did. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because he said he didn't want to miss one moment of our time together.” Graceful fingers fiddled with the tea-bag string. “He would prop up on his elbow and smile down at me until I fell asleep.”

“What happened?”

“He went to war. Not much else to say.”

The overdose of patriotic memorabilia suddenly made sense. “I'm sorry.”

“Me, too. Oh, me, too.” Kitty's blue eyes grew glassy. “You want more tea?”

“I should go.” Cheyenne glanced at the clock above Kitty's stove. The timepiece matched the kitten cookie jar. “Morning will be here soon.”

But neither made a move.

“I don't think I can sleep,” Kitty said. “Can you?”

Cheyenne wondered what Kitty would say if she told her how little she'd slept in the past year. “Not much hope.”

“I notice your lights stay on really late.”

“Insomnia,” she said, though more than the inability to sleep kept the lights burning. Fear, as much as she hated to give in to the emotion, gathered like buzzards after dark. If she turned off the lights, they flapped around her bed as they'd done that night in Trace's garage, threatening to pluck her heart out.

“I had trouble sleeping after Dave died.”

“What did you do?”

“I cried a lot.” Kitty's lips curved in self-mockery. “Friends here in Redemption helped. And I prayed. Oh, how I prayed.”

“Weren't you the least bit ticked off at God?”

“Absolutely! I told Him about it, too. There were days I'd
drive out to the river where no one could hear me and I'd yell at Him. I'd demand to know why the best man I ever knew had to die and I'd pray to die, too. Sometimes I'd lie down and beat the ground with my fists.”

The admission both surprised and saddened Cheyenne. Calm, cheery Kitty was not the screaming, pounding type. Her agony must have been overwhelming.

“Did it help?”

“Gradually. Pain that deep doesn't heal in an instant, Cheyenne. But God tenderly let me take out my grief on Him. I could feel Him all around me, loving me even when I was so terribly angry.”

The comment gave Cheyenne food for thought. She wasn't angry, though. She was wrecked, a jumble of painful emotions that she couldn't always understand or control. She hated being weak, hated being out of control. Guilt and shame and depression warred with common sense and the need to move past that awful day last year. Could God fix that? Trace said He could. And now Kitty.

She closed her eyes and breathed in. Oh, how she wished the words were true.

As if Kitty could read her thoughts, she lightly touched Cheyenne's wrist. “When you're ready to talk about whatever happened, I'm a very good listener. And I know how to keep my mouth shut. You can count on that. And I can pray.” She lifted slender shoulders in a graceful shrug. “I'll pray anyway. God knows what's bothering you even if I don't. And He cares, sweetie. He really cares.”

A lump formed in Cheyenne's throat.

Oh, God, if it were only true.

T
race's boots made a hollow echo as he stepped up onto the old wooden porch. He lifted the knocker, a bizarre apparatus made from a shoe heel. A wire snaked from the heel through a tiny hole in the door. He knew from experience what would happen the moment he knocked.

He struck the heel against the lopsided door, a salvaged castoff from somewhere, as were most of the items in the home of G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones.

The
oogah
horn of a Model T Ford vibrated through the wall.

As if she'd been watching and waiting—and she may have been—a Nubian nanny goat came galloping around the corner, bleating her head off. Petunia was the best watchdog in town. No one sneaked by on her watch.

When she saw her vet, she put on the brakes, her slick hooves skidding over the wooden planks like skis on ice. Long ears flying out behind, she came to a slow, screeching halt six inches away.

Trace rubbed the hard skull with his knuckles. “Good morning, Petunia. Anybody home around here?”

Two dogs crawled from beneath the elevated porch and shook themselves, fluffing out thick, shaggy coats. The first, an enormous brindle mutt with short, half-cocked ears and a comical
expression, took one look at the visitor, yelped and belly-crawled back under the porch.

Trace grinned. Apparently, Biscuit remembered his last trip to the clinic. “Sorry, buddy. No hard feelings.”

The other dog, an odd-looking creature with short, stubby legs, a disproportionately long body and enough dirty white fur to be a sheep, held no grudges. The fat plume curled over his back flopped back and forth in greeting. He groveled toward Trace, his teeth showing in a doggy smile.

Trace went to a knee to ruffle the thick mane. “How ya doin', Gravy?”

Gravy flopped over for a belly rub. Petunia, disturbed by the dog's interference, butted Trace's shoulder as if to say, “I was here first.”

Disentangling himself from the animals, Trace tried the knocker again. The old gentlemen were usually home this early in the day, having made their sunrise trek to the Sugar Shack for breakfast and the latest news.

Shading his eyes against the morning glare, Trace looked around the yard.

G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones lived on the edge of town in a red-framed house that may have once been a barn. The outside was littered with the results of their avocation—Dumpster-diving. In the backyard, outbuildings and lean-tos housed even more of their discoveries and included a snug little barn for the animals. An old tractor, a hay baler that probably hadn't worked in thirty years and an ancient, rusty pickup with the hood lifted rounded out the landscape.

There was no sign of G.I. or Popbottle.

The
oogah
, however, activated the goat and Gravy. Gravy barked. Petunia bleated. The doorbell
oogahed
. Biscuit stayed in his hiding place.

“What's all the racket up here?”

Trace pivoted to the opposite side and saw G. I. Jack limping
around the corner of the house, wiping his hands on an old towel. His ever-present army cap was on backward and tufts of gray hair poked up around his ears. His camo jacket hung open to reveal a T-shirt announcing his donation to a recent blood drive. A small bag of red peanuts peeked from his chest pocket.

Both the dog and the goat abandoned Trace the moment their master appeared.

“Oh, it's you, Doc. How ya doin'?”

“Good. Yourself?”

“Tolerable. Tolerable.” G.I.'s old head bobbed with each word. “Come on in the house. We'll find a cup of joe.”

Trace followed the older man inside. Petunia tip-tapped in behind him.

Trace had visited the home enough not to be surprised by the disorder surrounding him. The two old gents collected anything and everything and found uses for most of it. Boxes and barrels held items for recycling—everything from the usual aluminum cans and plastics to ink cartridges and packing peanuts. In the center of a living room decorated with a hodgepodge of intriguing, often unidentifiable objects, a bicycle stood on its head, the wheelless body sticking up in the air. Of particular interest was a sculpture taking shape next to the woodstove.

“What's this?” Trace asked.

“Gonna be a horse. Maybe just the head, I'm thinking.” G.I. removed his cap and scratched at the thatch of hair. “I never know until I'm done. Stuff just kinda takes shape on its own.”

With genuine interest, Trace studied the growing arrangement of metals and wires. Was that a hubcap he spotted? If he used his wildest imagination, he could make out the image of a horse. “Got a buyer yet?”

“That museum up in Minnesota's been calling. I think they might like this.”

Newcomers were often surprised to discover the comical old veteran was a gifted artist and inventor who made a pretty fair
living with his art by using nothing but junk for his creations. The chandelier hanging overhead was one such project, made of colored bottles and draped with discarded beads that refracted light in interesting, almost stained-glass patterns.

G.I. shuffled to a counter littered with spare parts and empty jars. “You needin' more of Petunia's milk?”

“That I am.” Trace took the offered cup of coffee. “Can you spare a gallon or two?”

“Petunia's happy to share her milk, aren't you, darling girl?”

The nanny was too busy chewing on the vinyl tablecloth to notice.

“Now, you stop that. You've had breakfast.” G.I. pushed the goat's head to one side. She bleated her annoyance but refrained from eating anything else.

“Sit down, Doc. Take a load off while I get that milk. I got a hunk of Petunia's cheese, too. Think Zoey would like that?”

“I know she would.” G.I. always had a little something for Zoey, be it a gadget he'd made or a chunk of cheese. “She's still driving me crazy with that whistle.”

A few weeks ago, G.I. had presented Zoey with a whistle made from an empty shotgun shell. Neither Trace nor the kennel full of dogs had enjoyed the gift nearly as much as Zoey had.

G.I. chuckled. “How's she and Cheyenne getting on?”

The question caught Trace off guard. His pulse bumped against his collarbone. He'd done his best all morning not to think about Cheyenne, but she invaded his thoughts at every turn. “Cheyenne and Zoey?”

“Um-hmm. They getting along all right?”

The truth was Zoey had formed a fast attachment to Cheyenne. They'd bonded over piano, puppies and subtraction problems. This morning, Zoey was full of Cheyenne-isms.

Cheyenne brushed my hair. Cheyenne said I have beautiful blue eyes. Cheyenne took ballet when she was little. Can I take ballet?

All he said to G. I. Jack was, “Zoey likes everyone.”

“That's our Zoey.” G.I.'s grizzled head bobbed. “Child like her don't need eyes, 'cause she's got vision.”

For a simple man of little education, G. I. Jack sometimes showed astounding wisdom.

“I guess you're right, G.I. Zoey's got a lot of love.”

“Mmm-hmm. Sure does.” The older man scrubbed his hands under the faucet and then took a cloth-wrapped package from the refrigerator. “How about you? You like her?”

“Zoey? Crazy about her.”

G.I. guffawed. “You know who I mean.”

Trace knew all right, but he wasn't ready to go there. “Cheyenne's a quick learner. She's becoming a great assistant in a hurry.”

“Work ain't what I'm talking about.”

“Work is what
I'm
talking about.”

“Okay, okay.” Chuckling, G.I. extracted a butcher knife from a drawer and sliced into the chunk of pale goat cheese. “Did you show her the well the other night?”

“I did. She didn't say anything.” He'd hoped the Bible verse would generate some questions or get her to discuss what was bothering her. It hadn't.

“Well, healing takes time.”

“You noticed, too?”

“Couldn't miss it. First day we seen her, me and Popbottle spotted trouble. We figured you and the Lord was what she needed to fix her right up.”

Trace's heart dropped into his boots. Hadn't he been thinking the same crazy thoughts? “Me?”

“Sure. You and Zoey. You said Zoey likes her. And we're figuring you do, too. We notice things, you know.”

The two old dudes didn't miss a thing. If they started in on him, he was toast. His head swam with thoughts of Cheyenne constantly. The more he was with her, the closer he wanted to be. Now G.I. and Popbottle were noticing his distraction.

Dangerous. He was not only risking his own heart; he was risking Zoey's.

Zoey gravitated to any creature in need. From frightened, abused animals and the slow but gentle Toby to her overweight best friend from school, Zoey saw with her heart. And her heart saw something special in Cheyenne Rhodes.

His gut clenched. He did, too.

“I can promise you right smart that Cheyenne's taken with Zoey, too. Any woman would be.”

“She offered to teach Zoey piano.”

“You gonna let her?”

“Probably.” He'd already agreed, but the sensible, protective part of his brain wanted to hold back.

“Might be good for the child to have a woman's attention.”

“She's got my mom.”

“A fine woman, your mother.” The knife
whack-whacked
against the kitchen counter. “Does your mother play piano?”

Trace's lips twisted. G. I. Jack would get his point across one way or the other. “I don't want Zoey hurt.”

G.I. paused, the knife poised over the pale mound of cheese. “And you're thinking Cheyenne might walk.”

“No.” Trace steepled his fingers together and stared at them. “I think she might run. She's run away from Colorado. What's to say she won't keep moving?”

“I got this feeling.” G.I. tapped his sternum with a backward-pointing thumb. The knifepoint nearly poked him in the chin.

“Cheyenne's only been here a short time and already Zoey's more attached to her than she ever was to Margo.” Trace reached for his coffee cup.

“Maybe you are, too.” G.I. returned to his work.

Trace swirled the remaining coffee round and round, staring at the blackness. His own reflection stared back. Was G.I. right? Had his original desire to minister to Cheyenne become something more personal?

He was afraid it had.

In defense, he said, “When did you take up matchmaking, G.I.?”

G. I. Jack chuckled. “Long time ago, and you know it.”

The butcher knife slid through the cheese and thumped hard against the countertop. “Zoey needs a mama. You need a wife. Nothing wrong with friends giving you a little push in the right direction.”

“Who's to say Cheyenne is the right direction? We barely know each other.” Although last night, when he'd walked in on Cheyenne and Zoey, he'd felt as if he were coming home for the first time in years.

“I knew my Ethel three weeks before we married. We was happy as pigs in a mud wallow till the day she died. Forty-two years.” The grizzled gray head bobbed. “Forty-two and not near long enough. How long you know each other don't matter, boy. Heart time and listening to the Lord's leading, that's what matters.”

The old man had a point, but as much as Trace was drawn to Cheyenne, he was afraid, too. He'd loved before, deeply. Losing a love like that cut deeper that G.I.'s butcher knife. “I like the things I know about Cheyenne. It's the things I don't know that worry me.”

“Does she ever talk about 'em?”

“No, but once…” He paused, hesitant to discuss that night in the garage. Cheyenne had a right to privacy.

G. I. Jack pointed the butcher knife at him. “Might as well tell me. Somebody will.”

Few things in Redemption got past the sharp eyes and ears of G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones.

Trace sipped at the coffee, realizing that this, not the goat's milk, was the reason he'd come here. G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones had been there for him when he'd first moved to Redemption. Their prayers and advice had helped set him on the right path.

“Just between us, all right?”

“Sure thing. Well, and maybe Popbottle. We're partners in prayer, remember.”

Trace nodded. Though the two old gents knew everything in town and didn't mind sharing news, their word was golden. He'd shared secrets at this table before and never had one betrayed. “I invited her to the house one night after a call.”

“For some of your mama's popcorn, I guess.”

“My popcorn,” he corrected, grinning. “Everything seemed normal. We got out of the truck and started inside and…” He paused, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I don't know how to explain what transpired. One minute she was fine and the next she was shaking and scared and wanted out of the garage.”

G.I. put aside the knife, eyes narrowed in thought. “What did you do?”

“I tried to calm her down.” He remembered how fragile and lovely she'd felt in his arms, and how holding her had made him feel like the biggest man on the planet. He'd never been all that macho driven, but the tough girl brought out the protective male in him. “She said garages made her claustrophobic.”

“Well, there you are, then.”

“I don't think so. Something more than claustrophobia was happening. It was as if she was in the garage with someone else, someone who scared her. She didn't
see
me, G.I. At least not for a few minutes.” He blew out a gusty sigh. “I don't know. Maybe I'm overreacting.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You gotta go with your gut.”

“My gut says she was having some kind of flashback. When she snapped out of it, she was embarrassed. She didn't come inside.”

“She ran?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear your worry. You're thinking she'll keep on running and leave you and Zoey in the wake.”

“Maybe I am, G.I. I don't know. I like her a lot.” There. He'd admitted the truth—as if G. I. Jack hadn't guessed fifteen minutes ago. “I haven't felt anything this strong for a woman in a long time. I tried with Margo, but—”