Finding Her Way Home (16 page)

His dimples flashed. “Dinner? Woman, I've waited for you for eight years. Dinner can wait a while.”

Laughing, breathless and more lighthearted than she could remember being in a long time, Cheyenne let him lead the way. Whatever the surprise, she would love it because she loved him.

He led her past the living room, through the kitchen and into the utility room that opened into the garage.

No big deal. She'd been inside his garage a couple of times.

In broad daylight. With the big door open to the outside.

“My great-grandpa gave this to my great-grandma as a betrothal gift,” Trace was saying. He opened the door leading into the garage. Her muscles tensed. The breathlessness became exaggerated.

Trace stepped down inside, but Cheyenne hesitated on the threshold, staring into the dark confines. One glimpse toward the end told her the door was closed.

She'd managed to avoid a closed garage since that hideous night when she'd had a flashback in front of Trace.

Oblivious to her distress Trace opened a storage room. “After her dad agreed to let them marry, Great-Grandpa cranked this victrola and serenaded his bride-to-be.”

He pulled away some kind of cover to reveal an antique record player, but Cheyenne couldn't focus.

Tightness squeezed at her throat. She swallowed hard.

She could always ask him to press the garage-door opener first.

But he would ask questions.

Besides, there was no need to open the door. She was over all that. This was Trace's garage and she was with Trace, the man she loved.

The man she loved.

“I love you,” she whispered, putting one foot on the first of two steps down into the garage.

“I even have the old record they danced to.” He turned, holding out his arms. “Will you celebrate with me the way my grand—Hey, you're shaking!”

Cheyenne paused, trying not to let her anxiety show. Trace studied her, and his bewilderment slowly turned to comprehension. His arms fell to his sides. “Wait, I'll open the door.”

But it was too late; she'd stepped into the darkened space and though the light overhead flickered on, Trace began to fade. In seconds, she no longer saw the man she loved.

She saw Dwight Hector.

“No.” She stumbled back, one hand flung up in defense. “Back off. I have a gun.”

The clawing in her brain accelerated. Thrust back in time, she relived the smell and terror and pain.

She fought the feeling, telling herself to snap out of it. This was a flashback. The attack was not really happening. Dwight Hector was dead.

Some part of her understood. Another part refused to listen.

Arms, far too strong to defeat, wrapped around her.

“Cheyenne.” He shook her. “Cheyenne.”

She fought and kicked but could not escape. Whimpering now, helpless and hopeless, she collapsed on the cold cement floor and let him do the unthinkable.

“Cheyenne, sweetheart, you're okay. I'm sorry. I forgot about the claustrophobia. I'm so sorry. Please, you're scaring me to death. Come back to me.”

Fighting the dreadful undertow of terror, Cheyenne leaned toward the frightened voice. Trace?

Slowly, the fog began to lift.

“Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.” A gentle hand raised her chin.

She didn't want to see a dead man's face. But the voice didn't belong to Hector. This was Trace.

“Trace?”

Struggling harder, determined to regain control, she forced her eyelids up.

The concern and fear in Trace's expression shattered her.

She was huddled on the floor of the garage, knees drawn up tight to her chin. Trace held her from the side, shaking more than a little. If her heart hadn't already been broken, that would have done it.

“I thought I was healed,” she whispered, throat ragged and raw.

But she wasn't healed. She would never be. Whatever peace she'd found in this town and in Kitty's book had only been a temporary reprieve.

“You are. You will be. We'll get through this. Whatever the problem is, we'll get through it together.”

With her heart splintering into a million pieces, she pulled away from his wonderful embrace, straightened her trembling legs and stood.

“No.” She shook her head.

He stepped toward her but she backed away. “No. I'm sorry. This won't work.”

“What are you saying? What won't work?”

She shook her head again. “Us. We won't work, Trace. I need to go.”

“No way you're leaving like this.” He gripped her shoulders.

“Don't touch me.” Her voice rose. She jerked away.

His expression stricken, his hands fell to his sides.

She clamped her eyes shut against the pain in his face. He didn't deserve to go through this. He didn't deserve a damaged woman with more baggage than the airport.

“Talk to me, Cheyenne. Trust me. With God's help, we can work through this.”

The hurt sliding over his handsome features threatened to bring her to her knees. Of all the stupid things she'd done in the past year, getting involved with the town vet ranked at the top.

“There's nothing to work out. I don't—” She drew in a breath of musty, garage-scented air. “I don't want to work things out.”

The lie tore through her heart like a flaming arrow.

“What are you talking about? You love me.”

How could she deny such a beautiful thing?

“Love isn't enough.” And with deep sorrow, she knew the words were true. She loved Trace and Zoey too much to saddle them with her.

The only way she could make life better for the two that held her heart was to leave them alone. As badly as she wanted, she couldn't be the woman they needed.

The hardest thing she'd ever had to do happened in that moment. Harder than hearing her life and mistakes played out in the media, harder than testifying in court. Harder even than enduring a brutal rape.

She walked out of Trace's garage—and his life—and didn't look back.

O
ver the next couple of days Trace wandered around in a fog. He went through the motions, treated patients, responded to friends and employees, but inside he was shell-shocked.

He still couldn't understand what had happened that night. One minute, Cheyenne declared her love and the next she'd walked out. Other than a voice message on the office machine tendering her resignation effectively immediately, he hadn't been able to make contact. All his phone calls went unanswered. He'd driven by the motel a couple of times, too, but if she'd been home, she'd pretended otherwise.

He'd even stooped to telephoning Kitty, but all the motel proprietor could tell him was that Cheyenne seemed okay. How could she be okay when he was destroyed?

She wasn't okay. He knew as surely as he knew the precise dosage of rabies vaccine. Something was deeply wrong in Cheyenne's world and if she would only let him in, with God's help, they could fix it.

Usually, he loved his job but today the stream of dogs and cats had seemed endless. Add to that the stares and concerned glances of his employees, their whispers when they thought he wasn't listening, and he'd been ready to throw up his hands and quit.

He had been relieved when the day was finally over.

With a weary sigh, he collapsed on the sofa, and rubbed work-roughened hands over his face.

Soft footfalls stirred the carpet.

“Want to talk about it, son?”

“No point.”

“Sometimes talking helps to clear the air.” His mother perched next to him, a comforting hand on his knee. “I've noticed Cheyenne hasn't been around the past day or two.”

He kept his burning eyes focused on the speckled beige pattern in the carpet. “No.”

“Is she the problem?”

Hesitating, he heaved a sigh. “Yes.”

Mom was a nurturer. She'd have to fight the need to rush in and make things right, but telling her eased the band of pain around his chest.

“Dad and I could tell you were falling for her.” Mom's voice was soft, compassionate.
Thank You, God, for a great mother
.

“Hard.”

“Because she reminded you of Pamela?”

“Maybe at first, but not now.” He sat back, rolling his head toward her. “I love you, Mom. Thanks for caring. I just need some time, okay?”

This wasn't a knee scrape she could kiss.

She patted his leg and rose. “You know where we are if you need us, honey. Don't brood too long. The Lord has a plan and purpose. Keep looking.”

Body heavy with fatigue and emotion, he followed her to the door, kissed her cheek and watched her drive away, leaving behind her love and lasagna.

“Daddy?” Zoey's voice sounded small and worried behind him. “Is Cheyenne mad at us?”

Slowly, he closed the door, waited for the latch to click before responding. “No one could be mad at you, pumpkin.”

“But she didn't come today. And I heard what Grandma said. I thought maybe she was mad at us.”

How did he explain the complexities of adult relationships to a second grader? He hunkered in front of her, hands on her soft, slender arms. She was like fairy dust, fragile and tender and utterly beautiful. All that he was as a man and a father existed to protect his special child from hurt.

“She's not mad. Cheyenne is sad. We have to pray for her.”

Zoey's sensitive, brilliant fingers found his cheeks. “You're sad, too.”

“Yes.”

“Is she never, ever coming back?”

“I don't think so.”

“But she works for you. She still comes to the clinic, doesn't she?”

He shook his head, aware that another heart, other than his, was aching. “She quit.”

“Did you say something mean to her?”

To his recollection, a declaration of love was not mean. There was no way he would discuss Cheyenne's panic attack. Zoey would be terrified.

“No, Zoey. I'd never do that.”

“I know you wouldn't, Daddy.” She patted his cheeks. “You're too nice.”

“Yeah.” And nice guys finish last.

He was not usually into self-pity, but today he'd euthanized a family's suffering Labrador retriever and then hadn't been able to save a rancher's mare. The colic had gone too far before he'd arrived, but still he blamed himself. Bad day all the way around.

“I love her, Daddy.” Zoey moved in, clung to his neck, her head against his shoulder. “I thought she loved us, too. I want her to be my mommy.”

He nearly choked on the admission. “She does love us, pumpkin. I'm sure of it.” But according to Cheyenne, love wasn't
enough. “We have to pray real hard for Cheyenne. She's sad inside about something.”

“About what?”

“I wish I knew, but she won't tell me. She thinks she's bad for us.” He stroked a hand down the cascade of silk hair so like Cheyenne's.

“But she's not. She taught me colors and piano and she started learning Braille, so we could read together.”

Trace squeezed his eyes tight. He hadn't known about the Braille.

Zoey's head came up. “I have an idea, Daddy.”

“And what might that be?”

“Let's go get Cheyenne and fix her. We'll tell her how much we love her and tell her she never has to be sad anymore. You can give her one of the puppies and buy her presents, and we'll all live together and be happy. Okay?”

If life were only that simple.

“Let me explain something.” He shifted her around onto one thigh. “The Bible says God has a perfect plan for your life and for mine.”

“And Cheyenne's?”

His eyes dropped shut while he prayed for guidance. Whatever he said now could influence Zoey's attitude toward God forever. “Yes, baby. Cheyenne's, too.”

She sighed, her face a wreath of confusion.

He tried again. “You know God loves you, right?”

“Yep. More than you do. More than chocolate chip cookies or baby puppies.”

Those were two of Zoey's most loved things. He smiled, though the motion was filled with sadness. “Right. He loves you so much He wants the very, very best for your life.”

“Cheyenne is the best.”

Lord, help me.

“Someday, when God is ready, He will send the right mommy for you and the right wife for Daddy.” He hoped he wasn't lying
to his child. “But until then, we have to be patient and wait for His perfect timing.”

A huge tear leaked from the corner of Zoey's sightless eyes. “But I don't want a perfect timing. I want Cheyenne.”

Staring across his living room to the silent piano, Trace pulled Zoey against his chest and held her.

What more could he say? He wanted Cheyenne, too.

 

“Sorry, hon, I hired someone yesterday. Must have forgot to take down that sign.”

The woman whipped around the counter of the Charity Lane Git-and-Go Convenience Store and ripped the cellophane-taped poster from the window.

Cheyenne's shoulders drooped. This was the fourth help-wanted sign so far today that had “accidently” been left in a window.

“If you hear of anything else—” she started.

The woman paused and cocked one hip. “Listen, sweetie, why don't you go on back out to Doc Bowman's? I hear he could sure use your help. And that Zoey child misses you something awful.”

Bringing Zoey into the equation was a low blow. She was already suffering enormous guilt in that department. She wanted to talk to the child, to explain…something. Maybe she'd call her after school before Trace arrived home. But what could she possibly say that would make any difference? What could she say that wouldn't make things worse?

“Thank you, anyway,” she said, and left the store.

This exasperating, endearing bunch of townspeople clearly adored their vet and his daughter. And they were not going to give up easily.

She missed Zoey and Trace something terrible, but her feelings didn't matter. She'd made the right choice for them. They might not understand that, but she did.

She glanced down at the weekly newspaper lying open on the car seat. Most of the ads were outdated by now, but she might as
well check them out. Jobless was not an option. Find work or move on to a larger town.

Perhaps that was the best idea. Hit the road. Move on. Keep running. Don't look back.

The very idea stole her breath.

But she had to consider leaving town as a valid option.

“Cashion's Laundromat and Car Wash,” she muttered, and clung to the fading prospect that someone in Redemption wasn't a born matchmaker. If life had any compassion at all, that particular person would own and operate the local pink laundry.

Winding past downtown, she spotted the Town Square. Something pulled at her. She'd not been back to the pretty park since the night Trace had brought her.

Parking parallel, she hopped out of the car and crossed the street to enter the square. The flowers in bloom had changed since her first visit. Yellow and red cannas now swayed like stately ladies beside the pathways. Fresh grass clippings scattered along the concrete shot green smells into the air and warned of the lawn mower ahead. Sure enough, two city employees were hard at work, grooming the square.

A pair of teenagers sat on one bench, iPod buds crammed in their ears while eating carryout. On another, a young mother and two children fed bread crumbs to two brown squirrels. Both animals sat upright like tiny, endearing children, begging for bread.

Cheyenne passed them by with a smile and a nod. She'd learned to do that in Redemption, to say hello to perfect strangers. As Zoey said, “A stranger is just a friend you've never met before.”

Her heart crimped.

Zoey. Precious Zoey.

What would it hurt to stop by and say hello? Maybe offer piano lessons again after school?

No, that was asking for trouble.

Approaching the well, she went directly to the plaque and read
the inscription. For a while, she'd believed the words, but now she was right back where she'd started. Well, maybe she wasn't as tormented and angry, but she was every bit as broken. Only this time for a different reason.

“Kinda makes a body feel good, don't it?”

At the intrusive voice, Cheyenne startled, turning to find Popbottle Jones and G. I. Jack standing right behind her.

“I didn't hear you walk up,” she said, amazed not to have slapped her side for a weapon. Amazed even more not to have been frightened. Maybe she had changed more than she thought.

“Pardon the surprise attack but we were perusing the municipal bins for untapped treasures and witnessed your arrival.”

G. I. Jack's grizzled gray head bobbed. “Yep. And we been wanting to talk to you.”

“Really?” Her defenses shot up. “About what?” As if she couldn't guess.

“Well, why don't you humor two pitiful old men and give us a few minutes of your time?”

These old codgers were anything but pitiful, but they'd been kindness personified. How could she refuse?

“All right.” Stiffly, she followed them to a bench and perched. G.I. and Popbottle settled in, one on either side.

“How you been doing, Cheyenne?” G. I. Jack removed a handful of discarded pop tops from his pocket along with a Boy Scout knife and a thin cord of some type.

“All right, I guess. Jobs are hard to find in this town.”

“Well, you see, my dear, that is precisely what we wished to speak with you about. You are not in need of a job.”

She clenched her jaw. If he told her she had a job with Trace, she'd scream. “Yes, I am.”

“No, my dear. What you need is a heart transplant.”

“A what?” she asked, laughing at Popbottle's ridiculous statement.

G. I. Jack bobbed as Popbottle Jones went on talking. “Each
of us suffers difficulty in this life. That's the nature of the universe. None of us gets through unscathed. A pity, but factual nonetheless.” His dignified old head pivoted toward her. Green eyes pierced her as though they knew her secrets. With a sinking realization, she figured they did. “But the Lord Almighty with His vast and generous love makes a way to escape.”

“That's Bible right there, Miss Cheyenne.” G. I. Jack twisted and snipped at the pop tops, a worthless mess of metal, if you asked her. “Corinthians, I believe.”

“Indeed. The Lord offers us a heart transplant, a chance to make all things new again. He can take something broken and worthless and make it beautiful.”

She scoffed. “Impossible.”

Both men stiffened. G. I. Jacks's fingers paused in cutting a bit of the cord.

“We are speaking of God Almighty,” Popbottle said. “Creator of the universe.”

Properly chastised, Cheyenne clapped her mouth shut. Let the old dudes speak their piece. Even if she disagreed with their theology, they meant well.

“Your soul has been battered and your heart emptied, but the Lord has sent a fine man and a very special child to fill it up again.”

Staring at the close-clipped grass, she said, “You don't understand the situation.”

“I think we do. But let me ask you a question. Is it better to live in the light but to be filled with inner darkness and fear? Or to be like Zoey, who lives in darkness and yet she is full of light and has no fear?”

“That's not a fair question.” Zoey was a child. She'd never seen the ugly side of life.

An arrow pierced her conscience. Zoey would never see anything.

“Oh, but the question
is
fair, Cheyenne.”

“Yep. Sure is. God is light.” G. I. Jack looked up from his
work, but his thick, shockingly agile fingers never stopped working. Sun glinted on the metal pieces. “That's what the Good Book says. If we have Him, we have the light.”

“But I've prayed and I read Kitty's devotional. The nightmares went away and I was doing better. I thought the worst was over and then—” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, shutting off the flow of words before she revealed too much. “It's not fair to Trace and Zoey.”