Finding Her Way Home (13 page)

As Trace stepped into the hall, he bumped into Cheyenne. Her hands were loaded with medication boxes.

He reached out in reflex and caught her arms. His pulse accelerated like a Ferrari. Man, oh, man, something was definitely going on here.

“Hey.”

She righted herself and stepped back. He didn't loosen his grip. He didn't want to. Her arms were fit and firm, the skin feminine and soft. But neither her skin nor her looks alone compelled him. It was
her
, a woman of strength and character and decency. Why else would she have defended another woman against a larger assailant? Why else would she be kind to his child and Toby and the myriad animals and people coming through his clinic each day?

That pesky little voice inside his head reminded him that something was very wrong in Cheyenne's world, no matter how courageous and kind she might be. He ignored the warning completely when his eyes met—and held—hers. Something warm and hopeful flickered within Cheyenne's nearly black irises.

“You okay?”

Her glance slid away. “Great.”

She was on the defensive, her tough-girl face sliding into place like an invisible shield.

“Are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

“This morning.” He shrugged. “You know. I came on pretty strong.”

Her face softened. “I didn't see it that way.”

Did that mean she liked being in his arms as much as he liked having her there?

“Good, because Zoey's spring concert is tonight. Want to come over for an early dinner?”

Where had that come from?

She looked as startled by the invitation as he felt. “Do you want me to?”

More than anything he could think of. “I wouldn't ask if I didn't want you to.”

He held his breath, hopeful, but uncertain. Cheyenne was as unpredictable as Oklahoma weather.

“Is your mom cooking again?”

“Just me and Zoey and you.”

She seemed to struggle with indecision and Trace's hopes began to tumble. He took some of the boxes from her hands. “Zoey is counting on you being at the concert. She made me promise to remind you. I also had to cross my heart, hope to die and stick a thousand needles in my eye.”

Using Zoey was a dirty trick. He hoped it worked.

Cheyenne laughed. “Painful.”

“Tell me about it. I've learned never to break a promise.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “I think I promised, too. So in the spirit of avoiding needles in the eye, I'll say yes.”

A shout went off inside his chest.
Down, boy. Be calm. It's only a dinner and a kid's concert
.

“Great. We'll toss some steaks on the grill. How does that sound?”

“Perfect. I can whip up a salad, maybe even a dessert if you like simple.”

“You don't have to cook.”

“What if I want to?”

“Then I would be stupid to refuse. We can cook together. It'll be fun.”

Together.
The word resounded in his brain. He and Cheyenne side by side, in his house, like a couple.

He could handle that.

“If you don't get called out.”

“No house calls allowed on Zoey's Spring Concert night.” He hoped.

“But what if someone needs you?”

“Then I will need you more than ever.” The choice of words sent a ripple through him. “To video the concert, I mean.”

“Sounds like a plan. I can do that if necessary.”

“After the concert, if it's not too late, we'll come back home. Watch the video. Listen to Zoey tell every detail over and over and over again.”

“And eat more of your chili-cheese popcorn?”

“It could happen.”

Her mouth curved. “Promise?”

He crossed his heart with an index finger. “Hope to die and stick a thousand needles in my eye.”

“You are a brave, brave man.”

No, he wasn't all that brave, but he needed to move forward. And he was fairly certain Cheyenne Rhodes had something to do with getting his life off high center.

“It's a date, then. You, me, Zoey and dozens of singing, stomping kids.”

“I guess it is.”

His gaze never wavered from Cheyenne's face as they stood like two teenagers grinning at each other, flirting with their eyes.

Outside in the kennels a dog yipped, and up front a deeper dog voice responded.

But they were not teenagers. He was a single dad familiar with tragedy, and she was a woman of secret sorrows. If they had any hope of moving the relationship forward, Cheyenne had to open her heart and trust him.

 

A date. Trace had asked her on a real, bona fide date.

Okay, so the date was more for his daughter than for him, but the sense of anticipation brewing all afternoon was nothing short of breath-stealing.

After the moments in his arms that morning, she'd thought nothing could be better. She'd been wrong. The promise of
normalcy, of spending personal time with a man that she liked and respected started a melody in her head that wouldn't stop. A melody that crowded out the ugly, persistent memories.

She'd eaten meals with Trace before. She'd been to his home any number of times. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight he was a man. She was a woman. This was a date.

With the scent of beef sizzling on the air, Cheyenne roamed around Trace's spacious backyard past an aboveground pool that was still covered for the winter. Two puppies and a big, shaggy mutt followed. She'd never had a pet, but Zoey's animals were sweethearts. Like the child herself. And the dad.

“When do you open the pool?”

“Usually the end of May. Why? Want to go swimming tonight?” He pumped his eyebrows. “We could always go down to the river and take a dip.”

She laughed. “And freeze ourselves half to death. Besides, we have a concert to attend.”

“I meant after the concert.”

“In the dark?”

“Where's your sense of adventure?”

“Check back with me in July. I'm sure I'll be more adventurous in hundred-degree weather.”

“I'll do that. Only, Zoey will have nagged me into uncovering our pool by then.”

“Is she a good swimmer?”

“Excellent, but she's the reason our pool is aboveground.”

“To reduce the chance of her falling in accidentally?”

“Right. She has to climb the ladder on purpose to get in the water. Drowning is not an option.”

“You're such a good father.” He couldn't have an easy time raising a daughter alone, especially one with special needs. But he kept up on all the latest advancements for blind children, even belonged to a support group, all while juggling his extremely busy animal practice, church activities and civic duties.

“I'm trying.” His dimple-activating grin appeared. “Come on. The steaks are nearly done.”

She followed him into the house where Zoey was painstakingly setting the table. “Need any help?”

The child lifted her face, her left ear tilted toward Cheyenne. “I think I have everything. Don't I?”

“Yes. How did you know which bottle was steak sauce?”

“The shape.” Zoey elevated her shoulders in a cute shrug. “When I'm not sure I open the lid and sniff.”

“Smart girl.”

Trace set a plate of steaks on the table. Cheyenne and Zoey had already prepared the salad and bread. “All we need is drinks.”

“I'll get them, Daddy.” Zoey opened a cabinet door, took down three glasses and filled them with water. Cheyenne resisted the urge to rush in with assistance. Taking her cues from Trace, she understood how Zoey had become so self-sufficient and confident. Trace allowed her to do things for herself. If she spilled or made a mistake, he didn't make a big deal of it.

Smiling, Trace drew a chair away from the table and nodded for Cheyenne to be seated. She tried, and failed, to remember the last time she'd allowed a man to hold her chair. He repeated the courtesy for his daughter, adding a flourish and a wisecrack that made her giggle.

Trace Bowman was a special man.

Throughout dinner, the atmosphere vibrated with Zoey's excitement about the coming concert. The conversation ebbed and flowed with ease, from a discussion of the new large animal pens Trace was having built at the clinic to general talk about Redemption and the townspeople.

A couple of times, the past tried to crowd out her pleasure, but she fought the memories down. Just for tonight, she was determined to forget and to pretend that she was a normal woman having a normal date with an extraordinary man.

As soon as the meal ended, Zoey rushed to her room to get ready. Cheyenne began clearing away the dishes.

“You don't have to do that,” Trace's warm baritone said, close to her ear.

Her head swiveled toward him. Her pulse stuttered. He was impossibly, wonderfully close. So near that she could count his eyelashes. Amazingly, she felt no threat, no compunction to escape. She felt…happy.

“I don't mind.” She hitched her chin toward the table. “Grab those plates and I'll rinse them.”

“Bossy.” When she shot him a mock frown, he grabbed the stack of plates and thrust them at her. “But I like bossy women.”

She made a harrumphing sound. “Zoey's right. You're silly.”

“Is that a good silly or a bad silly?”

“Good silly, Daddy.” Zoey traipsed into the kitchen wearing a white blouse, a black skirt and Mary Jane shoes. “Cheyenne and me likes you a bunch. Don't we, Cheyenne?”

What else could she say? “I guess we do.”

Trace lifted one eyebrow and laughed. “Trapped like a rat in a maze?”

She couldn't resist. “Or not.”

She waited for him to catch her meaning, enjoying his look of pleased surprise.

“Zoey and me likes you a bunch, too. Don't we, Zoe?” he said, eyes dancing.

“Yep.” Oblivious of the undercurrents she'd created, Zoey hopped onto a chair and held out a hairbrush. “Cheyenne, will you fix my hair?”

“Be glad to.” Right after her insides stopped smiling. Trace's words tumbled around in her brain like numbers in a lottery bin. He liked her a bunch. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

Probably bad, but she just didn't want to deal with anything negative right now.

She took the brush and began to stroke Zoey's black silk curtain of hair.

She was enjoying herself. This man, this child, gave her something she'd been missing for a long time. They gave her hope.

 

The spring concert rocked!

Trace was wedged into a chair, his shoulders brushing Cheyenne on one side and Tooney Carter on the other. Tooney was the town mechanic whose daughter was in Zoey's class. Brushing shoulders with him didn't do a thing for Trace. Brushing shoulders with Cheyenne, however, was nice. Really, really nice.

A man was a pitiful creature. The things he would do to innocently be close to his woman of choice.

Along with the rest of the audience, he lifted his hands in applause as the third-grade classes took a bow. Cheyenne leaned over and whispered, “I think Zoey's up next.”

Sure enough, the second graders traipsed on as the third graders departed. Zoey, head held high with confidence, came arm in arm with another child and found her place on the risers. His chest swelled with pride. Zoey was going to make it in life. No matter what he had to do, his little girl would find her way.

Cheyenne slanted another glance toward him, and he saw his pride reflected in her eyes. “Look at her. She's gorgeous.”

“Yeah,” he said.

The music director, stationed below the stage, tapped a count of three and the squeaky recorder music began. On a scale of one to ten, the sound was a two, but like the other parents there, Trace thought the kids were awesome.

When the time came for Zoey's solo, Trace reached for Cheyenne's hand and squeezed, praying for his child to do well. He knew, in the large scheme of things, a recorder solo of “If You're Happy and You Know It” wasn't all that important, but tonight doing well was important to Zoey.

Cheyenne returned the anxious squeeze, her gaze glued to the brightly decorated stage.

Along with a cacophony of stomping and clapping, Zoey executed the notes with perfect clarity.

Under his breath, Trace murmured, “Yes!”

After the concert, Trace and Cheyenne wove through the jammed auditorium to collect Zoey, who waited in the wings with her teacher.

“Here comes your dad,” Mrs. McAlvaney said to her charge as Trace and Cheyenne approached.

Face alive with excitement, Zoey said, “And Cheyenne, too?”

Mrs. McAlvaney raised her eyebrows in question.

“I'm here, Zoey,” Cheyenne said.

Zoey broke away from the teacher and rushed forward, slamming into Trace's knees. “Was I great, Daddy?”

“Greater than great.”

“Can I have a hug?”

What an odd question. “Sure.”

He went down to her level and gathered her to his chest.

She struggled back. “No, Daddy, a group hug. You and me and Cheyenne, the way a family is supposed to be.”

You and me and Cheyenne. A family
.

With a twist in his heart, Trace knew his fear had come to pass. Zoey needed a mother, and she'd chosen Cheyenne.

U
lysses Jones ambled up the curved drive from the main road toward the grand old Victorian the Hawkins family had owned since the Land Run. The rambling house sat on the other side of town from his place, much closer to the river, but walking was no problem for Ulysses. The Lord Almighty had granted him strong legs even into old age and he didn't mind using them.

For once, he didn't carry a knapsack full of recyclables. He carried a bouquet of lily of the valley.

The enormous maples cast a thick shade over Lydia Hawkins's yard and left his approach in shadow. She sat so still, there on the wicker porch bench, that he wondered if she was asleep. She looked in perfect peace and right where she belonged. Lydia had never lived anywhere but here.

To his eyes, she was still as pretty as sunshine. In a yellow dress and straw hat, she looked the way she had the first time he'd seen her.

He removed his ball cap, shoved the wad of cloth into the pocket of his jacket and ran a hand over his hair. He'd painstakingly oiled, combed and slicked back the unruly sprouts she'd once admired. Once, a long time ago, when they were both young, before he'd taken the wrong direction.

He sniffed at his underarm and grunted with satisfaction. Before leaving the house, he'd dabbed on men's cologne—an ancient bottle of phoo-phoo water, as G. I. Jack called it—and the scent still lingered above any perspiration created by the long walk.

“Is that you, Ulysses?”

He swallowed. She'd never called him Popbottle the way everyone else did. The nickname had begun during the cruel years of junior high when his neck had outgrown the rest of him. He no longer minded. In fact, he even embraced the pseudonym, but Lydia had never used it.

“Indeed, it is. Have you a spare moment for an old friend to come calling?”

“Always.” And she told no lie. Lydia made time for everyone. One of her gifts was the powerful ability to make every single person feel as if he or she were the focus of her interest and her attention.

She pointed toward a pretty wicker chair. “Have a seat.”

He did so, gripping the bouquet against his belly.

“The flowers are beautiful. Lily of the valley.”

He held them out toward her. “Are they still your favorite?”

Lydia nodded. “Your mind always amazes me. How you remember such trivia, I'll never know.”

Though his intellect was significant, he would never consider anything about Lydia Hawkins as trivial.

He noticed then the fatigue around her eyes and the slight breathlessness with which she spoke.

“The rumors are true, then,” he said simply.

Lydia lifted the bouquet to her nose. “What rumors would that be?”

“About your health.”

“I'm aging, Ulysses, in case you hadn't noticed.”

He hadn't. “You're still a beautiful woman, but I can see you aren't well.”

“Annie has been talking again?”

“Annie cares about you, but yes, we encountered one another at the post office yesterday. I asked. She told me.”

“She's the finest nurse an old woman could have, but do you know she works day and night to care for those children of hers?”

“If Joey Markham had been a man, she wouldn't have to.” Annie had married on the rebound. The results had been disastrous. Now she was alone with two children to support.

“If only she and Sloan—” Lydia bit her lip and paused.

Ulysses knew he was treading on sensitive ground, but he asked anyway. “Tell me about Sloan. Does he know how sick you are? Have you been in contact?”

Golden-brown eyes stared off down the drive as if Sloan would come racing home at any moment. “He knows.”

Ulysses could see from the set of her jaw that she was not going to discuss Sloan. Not even with him. The ostracized nephew she'd loved like a son had not been back to Redemption in years. Most likely he would never return, not even when Lydia died.

The notion scraped his soul like barbed wire. He and Lydia were both aging. Time stood still for no man or woman, but God was faithful and just. When the body was no longer useful, the sweet Almighty stepped in.

But not Lydia, Lord. Not Lydia.

Since his return to Redemption years ago, Ulysses had made this trek at least once a month. Though neither ever mentioned what had happened between them all those years ago, Lydia had long ago forgiven him. Sloan may have forsaken her, but Ulysses never would again.

“Tell me the news, Ulysses.”

True to Lydia's nature, she never dwelled on sorrow or past mistakes. If she was dying, she would die with joy and grace.

So he told her the news. Of the construction of the new gymnasium, of the bass tournament for kids, of friends and neighbors, births and sicknesses. When he told her about Cheyenne
Rhodes, she frowned slightly and promised to pray. He had no doubt she would. And God would hear.

After a bit he saw her wearing down. She pretended differently, but he knew.

“Would you like to hear a poem?” he asked, sliding a thin brown volume from his jacket.

She nodded. “No one reads poetry the way you do, in that rich, elegant voice. I've always loved your voice, you know.”

He knew, but pride swelled inside his chest. Pride and concern. The short speech had cost her dearly. Though she'd sidestepped his queries about her health, he heard the raspy breathlessness and saw the pallor of her skin.

He flipped open the well-worn book. “Wordsworth?”

With a nod, she smiled and leaned her head back against the bench, lily of the valley clutched in her hands like the bride she'd never been.

Professor Ulysses E. Jones lifted his best orator's voice and entertained the woman who had held his heart for more than fifty years.

 

The battered woman arrived at Cheyenne's apartment Saturday afternoon, announcing her presence with a timid rap.

Cheyenne tossed a bright red T-shirt into a pile of dirty laundry and went to the door, grabbing the Glock on her way. Sure, she was paranoid. Probably always would be.

This morning, at Trace's request, she'd taken Zoey shopping for summer clothes. She'd had a blast. Since the spring concert when Zoey had made the remark about family, Cheyenne had tried to back away, but she couldn't. The promised piano lessons had begun and even if they hadn't, she liked being with the effervescent child almost as much as she liked being with Zoey's dad.

She was getting in deep with her boss and his daughter. Self-preservation said run while she could because being with Trace made her too happy.

She stank at self-preservation.

An ear to the door, she said, “Who is it?”

A near whisper answered, “Emma Madden. You helped me the other night—”

Cheyenne yanked at the knob, immediately alert to the danger. Standing to one side, on guard, she ushered the slender woman inside while scanning the area beyond before she shut and locked the door.

She spun, taking in the white complexion and heavy makeup. “You're hurt.”

Tears filled Emma's eyes. She ducked her head, ashamed. Brown hair fell over a dark bruise along her cheekbone. She wore long sleeves, a sure sign to Cheyenne that more bruises of varying colors resided beneath.

“I'm okay. I just had to get away for a little while and talk to someone.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though she feared her husband would hear. “He says he's sorry but he keeps on doing it.”

Cheyenne placed a careful hand on Emma's arm. The small woman trembled. “He'll go on hurting you, Emma. You need to get away from him, at least until he gets some help.”

Shoulders slumped, Emma stared at the floor. “I can't.”

“Can't or won't?”

“If I try to leave, he'll find me. Then there's no telling what he might do.”

Cheyenne sat down on the end of the bed and motioned for Emma to take the chair.

Precautions first.

“Does he know where you are right now?”

“Oh, no. He'd get really mad if he knew I'd come back here.” Her fingers tightened on the wooden chair arm. “I promised him I wouldn't.”

Cheyenne relaxed the slightest bit. At least, the bozo wouldn't come charging in with drunken fists flying. “He
made
you promise?”

A hesitation before a whispered “Yeah.”

The knowledge that the promise was extracted with a pound of flesh started a slow burn in Cheyenne's gut. She despised bullies. “What did you tell him?”

“Ray has poker on Saturday afternoon. I left a note saying I went to the library in case he comes back early. He never does, but—”

She didn't have to finish. Cheyenne knew the rest. If he returned to find her gone without a word, she'd pay dearly.

“I like to read. Sometimes Ray gets mad and rips up my books, but sometimes he doesn't care if I go the library.”

“As in after he gets drunk and beats you up? Then he's sorry and tries to make up by buying you things or letting you see friends or go places. Right?”

Emma's head came up. The ghastly bruise on her cheekbone was more visible beneath the overhead light. “How did you know?”

“Unfortunately, you aren't the first case of domestic violence I've encountered. And I doubt if you'll be the last. Mean-fisted losers are everywhere.”

“Ray says he loves me, but I don't know anymore. Lately, everything I do makes him mad. He says if I'd just learn my lesson he wouldn't lose his temper.”

“No one has a right to hit you. Not even your husband.
Especially
your husband.”

“I've been thinking a lot about that. About what you said that night and how you stood up to Ray. No one stands up to Ray, especially when he's drinking.”

“Are you ready to leave him?”

“I can't. I have no money. No place to go.”

“Ray controls the bank accounts?”

“Everything is in his name. He says I'm not smart enough to keep up with finances.”

“Do you have kids?” Having a child complicated matters. She'd have a much harder time escaping and an even harder time keeping Ray away from her.

“Not yet.” Emma gnawed her lip, her hands twisting in her lap. “You saw what he did to my dog. If he got mad, he might hit the baby. I don't want to get pregnant until we get things worked out.”

Cheyenne didn't hold out much hope for that to happen. A man like Ray had to
want
to change. “Smart thinking.” Probably the smartest thing the woman had done in a long time.

“I kept hoping things would get better. Ray can be sweet for days and I think everything is finally going to be okay.”

“And then something sets him off.”

Emma nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. “It's my fault. I know when he's getting mad, but I can't seem to keep my mouth shut and do what he says anymore.”

“Ray has issues that have nothing to do with you, Emma. He would have them no matter what you did or didn't do. How long have you been married?”

“We've been together since I was sixteen. He was twenty.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I was flattered that an older guy liked me. And then we started dating and…” Her voice fell away. “You know. Fell in love, I guess.”

“Has he always been like this?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“When did he start hitting you?”

“He gets real jealous. At first, I felt special because he loved me so much. But if a guy at school looked at me or talked to me, he'd get mad. We'd fight and—you know. After a while, I quit school. I thought things would get better.”

“They didn't.”

“No. Worse.” Her hands twisted until they were red. “Ever since then…He always says he loves me so much, he goes a little crazy.”

Cheyenne bought the crazy part. The love was another matter. “Do you believe that?”

“Not anymore. But I'm scared. He'll kill me if I leave.”

“Will you talk to the police? I'd go with you.”

Emma stiffened. “No. No. I didn't come here for that. Ray would find out and—” She started to rise. “After the other night, I thought—I don't know what I thought. I'm just stupid. Too stupid for anything. Maybe I should go.”

Cheyenne sighed. The story was a common one. Women were too scared to leave, too distrustful of the legal system and helpless otherwise. What Redemption needed was a shelter, a place where women could hide, heal and start over again.

“Don't go, Emma. I won't push you to do anything you aren't comfortable with, but you should know something.”

Emma teetered, one hand on the chair arm though her body tilted toward the door. “What?”

“I'm a former police officer.”

Her mouth formed a round circle. “That's why you have a gun. And you weren't afraid to stand up to Ray.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” She breathed the word. “Have you ever shot anyone?”

A pause while Cheyenne considered the wisdom of answering that question. “A police officer never wants to use deadly force.”

“But you have.”

Cheyenne sidestepped. “I've worked domestic violence cases for years. Trust me, I've seen some ugly stuff. You need to get away before he puts you in the hospital or worse.”

“No one hires a tenth-grade dropout.”

Cheyenne saw her point, and Ray probably fed into her low self-esteem by reminding her that she was uneducated.

“Don't you have family who can assist?”

Emma shook her head. “My mom says I made my bed and now I have to sleep in it. I think she's scared of Ray, too.” Her gaze slid nervously around the room. She stood, dusting her palms down the sides of pink capris. “I don't know why I came.”

When she moved toward the door Cheyenne caught her arm. Emma flinched and the reaction infuriated Cheyenne so much she was determined not to let Emma be hurt again. “I do. You
came because you know being abused is wrong. You know you're in danger and you want help. Why don't you stay here with me until we figure out the next step?”