Finding Her Way Home (17 page)

“Some healings take more time.”

“Sometimes we need other folks to help us get there. Trace is good folks.”

Both men stood as if the conversation was over. G. I. Jack unfolded her clenched fist and dropped the metal pieces inside before reclosing her fingers. Then the pair ambled off across the green flowered square, past the fountain and across the street.

Deep inside, she knew they were right. Her wounds were more than physical and emotional; they were dark places in her soul. Until she exposed them to light and love, she would never completely heal.

She opened her hand and looked down at G.I.'s gift. The worthless, broken pop tops had been transformed into a beautiful bracelet of silver butterflies.

 

Emma arrived at ten that night.

“Can I stay with you until the morning?” she asked when Cheyenne opened the door.

Cheyenne glanced around outside. The darkness pulsed with summer life—car noises, door slams, a dog's bark. “Come inside and we'll talk.”

Once the door was safely shut, Cheyenne asked, “What happened?”

“The same old stuff. Only this time I decided to get out before he exploded.”

“Smart. But I'm not sure staying here is the best idea.”

Emma's thin face twitched with uncertainty. “I don't know where else to go.”

If only Redemption would embrace her idea of a shelter.

“Okay, let me think a minute. Maybe Kitty has another unit available.”

“I don't want to be by myself.”

She had a good point. “Then I could stay with you, but I think Ray is likely to come to the motel first. You've been here before.”

“But not for a long time. And I don't think he suspects about the library meetings.”

“Let me call Kitty. She should still be awake.”

As Cheyenne reached for the telephone, the sound of car tires churning gravel caught her ear. A door slammed, prickling the hair on her scalp. Exchanging glances with Emma, she put the receiver down and started to the window.

Ray Madden kicked in her door.

T
race was restless as a housefly. He stalked from one room to the next, flipped the TV off and on, ate a piece of his mom's cherry cake he didn't want and even began to wish for an emergency call.

With Zoey spending the night at Grandma's, his mind was where it seemed to be too often—on Cheyenne.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Three days seemed like an eternity without talking to her. Was she okay? G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones had dropped by the clinic this afternoon with not-so-subtle hints that he should talk to Cheyenne “one more time.”

He'd been thinking about that.

Time to act instead of thinking. He grabbed his truck keys and hustled out the door.

 

“Get out of my apartment.” Without taking her eyes off the enraged man, Cheyenne said quietly, “Emma, call the police.”

She stood between Ray Madden and his wife, shaking on the inside but mad as a nest of hornets on the outside. Emma seemed nailed to the floor, too pale and scared to move.

As if Cheyenne wasn't in the room, Ray Madden started toward his wife.

Cheyenne grabbed his arm. The muscle was hard as cast iron. No wonder Emma was afraid of his fists. He paused, glaring a hole through her. “Back off.”

He spat a curse. Cheyenne curled her lip. Whoopee, the big bad boy knew a big bad word. She was so impressed.

“Sorry, dude. Not going to happen. In case you didn't notice, that was my front door you busted.”

“Not the only thing I'm going to bust.” He growled the threatening words.

“Just go, Ray,” Emma pleaded, voice trembling, face as white as paste. “I'm staying.”

“Don't be stupid. Get in the car now if you know what's good for you.”

Except for her obvious trembling, Emma didn't move. For once, she stood her ground. Ray's nostrils flared. His eyes bulged. Fury rippled off him in waves. Any minute now and he would blow. Sure as she'd worked these scenes dozens of times, Cheyenne knew.

“Why don't we do this the easy way, Ray?” she murmured. Sometimes the calm approach worked. Most times, not.

Swinging his massive forearm, the man shoved at Cheyenne. She stumbled back, caught her hip painfully on the edge of a table but didn't give in.

“Mr. Madden, you need to calm down a minute and let's discuss this like adults.” She shot another quick glance at Emma. “Call 9–1-1.”

Ray glared as if she was crazy. Maybe she was. But he wasn't taking Emma, nor was he going to hurt her. No other woman would suffer at the hands of a man if Cheyenne Rhodes had any say in the matter.

“No discussion,” he said. “She goes home with me. Emma, move now, or I swear—”

Cheyenne shoved a chair up beside him. “Why don't you sit down first?”

He kicked it. The chair flipped over, thudding against the carpet.

With the front door splintered and a clear shot into the living area, Cheyenne hoped someone nearby would notice and sound the alarm. Emma seemed too frightened to make the call, and Cheyenne couldn't get to the phone. The Glock was in her purse, out of reach. Just like before.

She squelched the aberrant thought. This was nothing like before.

“Please, Ray,” Emma whispered. She'd backed against the wall, near the bathroom. Why hadn't the woman grabbed the telephone first? “Just go home and get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.”

Go in the bathroom and lock the door.

Cheyenne tried to signal with her eyes, but the message was lost when Ray thrust her to the side and dove toward Emma. Cheyenne fell across the bed. Emma's scream ripped through the night.

God, if You're listening, let someone hear her scream. Show me what to do.

Clawing up from the rumple of covers and pillows, she stood on wobbly legs.

Ray had Emma pressed against the wall. The terror in the other woman's face was too much to bear.

With no regard for herself, she threw herself between Ray's raised fist and Emma's face. He struck Cheyenne's shoulder. Throwing her arm up to ward off another blow, she kicked for his shin.

The blow enraged him more.

Cheyenne's hair hung loose and he grabbed a handful, shaking her like a rag doll. Her teeth rattled. Her ears rang, but she fought back, jabbing her fist beneath his chin. He grunted.

In the melee, Emma had slithered to the floor and crawled away. From the corner of her eye, Cheyenne saw her go for the phone. It was too late for that. He'd be on her in a blink.

“Run. Get help.
Go!
”

As if survival instinct had finally kicked in, Emma bolted from the room, leaving Cheyenne alone. Alone with a raging maniac. Again.

 

Trace slowed the truck as he approached the motel and turned into the space next to Cheyenne's car. His truck lights slid over her apartment.

What he saw froze the blood in his veins. The front door stood open, the wood splintered into pieces. Emma Madden darted from the apartment, screaming.

Adrenaline jacked into Trace's bloodstream at Mach speed. He was out of the truck and had hold of Emma's arm before his brain connected the dots. “Where's Cheyenne?”

“Ray, he—” She pointed at the splintered door.

Her expression raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “Call the police.”

He hit the door running.

A man twice her size gripped Cheyenne's long, beautiful hair while she swung and kicked and dodged his other hand. With his superior strength and rage, there was no way she could ward him off much longer.

Trace Bowman was a peace-loving man, but he'd wrestled his fair share of mad bulls and wild stallions. Ray Madden was only a man.

He tapped the massive shoulder. “Hey, buddy. Wanna fight?”

Before Madden could react, Trace wrapped a biceps around the man's neck and yanked in, hard and tight. Madden went down like an anesthetized horse. The floor thundered with his landing.

“Trace. Oh, thank God. Trace.” Cheyenne launched herself into his arms, trembling like a drowned kitten.

He nearly crumbled. “You okay? Where are you hurt? Let me see.”

With a groan he buried his face in her tangled, matted hair.
Oh, her beautiful hair. He was tempted to stomp his boot on Ray Madden's unconscious nose.

“Trace,” Cheyenne said again as though his name was the only word that mattered.

“You're okay. I'm here, tough girl. You done good.”

She snuggled into him and let him hold her.

He could deal with that.

Sirens wailed nearby. Blue and white lights strobed the living room. Doors slammed, voices called and footsteps crunched the gravel outside.

Suddenly the room was filled with people. Cops, paramedics, Kitty and Emma, neighbors.

“Is Cheyenne okay?” Kitty, in a white robe and furry blue slippers, stood with an arm around Emma's shoulders.

Trace couldn't bear to loosen his hold long enough to look. He never wanted to let her go again. But paramedics insisted.

“Better let us check her over, Doc.”

Cheyenne came to life then. “I'm okay. Just get him out of here.” She shot a disgusted glance at the now conscious and clearly befuddled attacker. “Book him. Domestic abuse, breaking and entering, assault and battery. And, yes, I most definitely will press charges.”

The cop in charge lifted an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“I'm still thinking.”

Trace held back a laugh. She was mad. Good. That meant she'd recover.

She quickly filled the officers in on the situation, using precise coplike terms that had them all gazing at her with comical expressions. Emma spoke, too, though her remarks were given with a constant eye to her now-docile husband. Head down, handcuffed and defeated, he was a sad sight. Trace could almost feel sympathy for a man cursed by alcohol and jealousy.

But one glance at Cheyenne and the red mark on her cheek,
the tangle of black hair and the barely concealed fear in her espresso eyes stirred the fire in his blood again.

Gently, he touched the spot on her cheek. She winced.

“Sure you're not hurt?”

“No. How did you—?”

She stopped talking as Madden was hauled out of the building, trailed by the emergency crews. A visible shudder passed through her body. Trace couldn't help himself. He had to hold her again.

“I'm taking Emma to my place for the night.” Kitty appeared in his line of vision. “You'll take care of Cheyenne?”

“Count on it.”

If Cheyenne had objections she didn't say so. Too bad if she did. He was here. He was staying, even if that meant sitting outside on the porch until dawn with his back against this shattered door. A man didn't come this close to losing his woman without taking the matter personally.

Kitty's mouth curved in a knowing smile. She handed Trace a key. “She can stay in the next room. I'll call Jace and get him to fix the door tomorrow. Ya'll take care now. Good night.”

Cheyenne rallied then. “Wait.”

The other two women turned as Cheyenne walked over and spoke to the shivering Emma. “None of this was your fault, Emma. This was his choice, not yours. Ray made the decision to be violent. He made the decision to bust in here. Not you. You have a right to be safe. You have a right to live free from fear. Promise me you will remember that.”

Emma, arms crossed protectively over her pink T-shirt, nodded. Moistening her lips, she whispered, “I remember everything you've told me. If not for you—”

Cheyenne cut her off with a quick hug. “Go on now. Get some rest. You are going to make it.”

Trace's chest swelled with pride. This was his Cheyenne in action. No wonder he was crazy about her.

With gratitude, he watched the widow and Emma step over the busted door and disappear into the darkness.

The noise in Cheyenne's apartment subsided to a stunned silence, broken only by the traffic noise clearly heard through the shattered door.

When Cheyenne turned back, Trace could no more resist the need to keep her close than he could give birth. He reached for her.

“We have to talk,” she said.

He drew her to his chest, pleased when she came willingly, easily as though she needed his touch as much as he needed hers. After tonight, he never wanted her out of his sight again.

“I'd rather hold you.”

Her lips curved against his neck. “Talk first. Hold later.”

Did that mean—? He relinquished his grip and gazed down at her. “I'm going to hold you to that.”

“Ha-ha. Punny.” Her smile, though wan, was genuine. They were gaining ground. “I have to tell you something very important.”

He could tell he wasn't going to like it. “Okay.”

“But first, how did you do that? How did you take Madden down so easily?”

“Rear-naked choke hold.”

“I recognized the sleeper hold. How did you know how to do it?”

“High school wrestling team. Never used the maneuver, but always wanted to.”

He thought she might laugh. “Doc, I didn't know you had such aggression in you.”

“I have a lot in me when it comes to protecting someone I love.”

The tension around her eyes softened. She stroked his jaw. “Incredible man. What am I going to do about you?”

“Love me? Trust me? Let me inside that gorgeous head of yours.”

She bit down on her bottom lip. His belly flip-flopped.

“I want to.”

“That's a start.”

“I talked with G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones earlier. They had some advice. There are things you need to know about me. Bad things.”

“Nothing can change who you are to me. Don't you get that yet? The Cheyenne I know is strong and incredibly brave, loving and good.”

Tears glimmered, unshed in her dark eyes. “Not good. I'm not good, Trace.”

“I don't know who told you that, but I may have to use the sleeper hold on them, too.” He tugged at her. “Come on. Sit down and let's clear the air. My knees are shaking.”

“Mine, too.”

After righting the upturned chair, they both were seated at the small round dining table. Trace folded his arms on the tabletop and leaned toward her. “Talk.”

The scared look leaped into her face.

“Don't do that. Whatever you have to say, I'm ready to hear it.” He hoped he wasn't lying. But he knew she couldn't embrace the future until something in her past was laid to rest.

“Something happened in Colorado. About a year ago.”

“I figured as much. Does this have anything to do with the guy you shot in the line of duty?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, then cupped her fingers around her mouth, inhaling deeply as if gathering all the courage in the room.

Dread began to form in his belly. He knew beyond a doubt that he was about to hear something he would hate.

Lord, let me be what she needs. And give her the strength she needs to get past this, whatever it is. Heal her spirit. I love her, God. I love her.

As if reciting a story she'd relived hundreds of times, Cheyenne began to speak in a low, controlled, emotionless tone.

“I was assigned to a special task force to track down a—” She looked down.

Trace laid his hand over her fidgeting ones. “A what, honey?”

Her gaze flashed up and then away again. “A rapist.”

A shock of ice went down his spine. He held his breath, afraid to speak lest he say the wrong thing. The implications hung in the air like black smoke. She'd been tracking a rapist.

“A particularly heinous serial rapist,” Cheyenne went on in that empty tone that tore at his heart. “He found me first. In my garage. He'd been stalking me. He laughed about that during the—” She stopped, started again. “I was chasing him. He was watching me, waiting for a chance to get me alone.”

Trace shut his eyes against the despair in her voice. He knew. She didn't have to tell him that she'd been a victim. Everything he knew about her came to mind. Her fear of the dark, her defensiveness, her terror in a closed garage, the distrust.