Finding Her Way Home (12 page)

“Your heart was never in that relationship, son. Everyone knew that but you. Even Margo.”

“Probably. I feel bad about that. Margo's a good woman.”

“Best thing you could have done for Margo was to let her go. She and the city manager had dinner last night at the steak house. They looked mighty cozy.”

“No kidding?” Now, that was good news. He didn't feel quite so guilty now.

“Margo wasn't the right woman for you and Zoey. Not from the git-go.”

“Are you trying to say Cheyenne is?”

“Not saying anything of the kind, but she might be. Besides, that gal needs you, Doc. You can help her. I feel it right here.” He tapped his sternum again, this time with the butt of the knife. The thought crossed Trace's mind that he was glad to have his vet supplies in the truck in case G.I. wounded himself.

“God put her in my path for a reason.”

“Maybe more than one reason. Could be you need her, too.”

Trace didn't need any reminders. His brain was giving him enough fits. Even when Cheyenne wasn't in the room, he thought he smelled her very subtle perfume. And last night, when she'd sat across his dinner table, making small talk and looking too pretty for words, he'd wanted her to stay there. She was getting under his skin in a powerful way.

“Where's Popbottle Jones this morning?”

G.I. gave him an amused look as if to say he wasn't fooled by the intentional topic shift. He plopped the slab of cheese into a baggie and slid the zipper shut. “Here ya go. Enough there for Miss Cheyenne, too.”

Trace lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, and the old man chuckled, the sprouts of hair at his ears jiggling.

G. I. Jack shuffled to the fridge, opening the door. Hand braced on the upper edge, he bent forward and rummaged around. “Popbottle went over to the—”

A stomping, clattering noise drowned out the rest of his answer. Ulysses Jones came through the back door. A plastic shopping sack crinkled as he set it on the table next to Zoey's cheese. The tops of two paint cans, one red and one black, poked out.

“Ah, our good veterinarian, I see. Biscuit informed me of a visitor.” Popbottle chuckled. “Poor soul refused to come out from under the porch. I should have known you were the cause.”

Trace shrugged. “Sorry about that.”

“Not an issue, I assure you.” Popbottle fished in the bag and came out with a can of coffee and three badly bruised bananas. “For all his fiercesome size, Biscuit is of a timid disposition. By the time his next appointment arrives, you will have returned to best friend status.”

G.I. pointed a finger at Trace. “'Specially if you give him one of them doggy vitamins. He's fond of the liver flavor.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Trace pushed up from the table. “I need to get moving, boys, if Petunia's milk is ready.”

Popbottle Jones dropped into a chair and swiped a hand across his brow. “What did you think of Cheyenne's heroics? A bit foolhardy, if you ask my opinion, which you did not, but I must say our girl is full of spunk.”

“Yep.” G.I. plunked a gallon jar of goat's milk on the already crowded table. “Spunky.”

“I'm not surprised, though, were you? From the very first day we met, I told G.I. she was deep water, very deep water. Didn't I, G.I.?”

G. I. Jack's head bobbed. “You sure did. Deep water, he said. Real deep water.”

Trace looked from the bobbing army cap to the heavy bags under the eyes of Popbottle Jones. “You've lost me, boys. I don't know what you're talking about. What happened?”

“I thought G.I. would have informed you by now.” Popbottle cast a censorious look at the other man.

G. I. Jack shrugged. “Nope. Wasn't my story to tell.”

“Tell me what?” Trace leaned one elbow on the countertop and reached for his half-empty coffee cup. Popbottle would tell the story in his own way in his own time frame. No amount of prompting would hurry him along. The exiled professor loved to practice his long-unused oratory skills.

“Last night at the Redemption Motel, your lovely and able employee accosted an angry drunk with overactive fists.”

Trace choked on his coffee. G. I. Jack slapped him on the back, an action that did nothing but thrust him forward so the nanny goat could stick her nose in his coffee cup.

Sputtering, he asked, “Is she all right?”

Popbottle went on to tell the story of a runaway wife tracked down by a gorilla of an abusive, alcohol-soaked husband and how Cheyenne stepped in to defend the woman.

“I knew she had it in her,” G. I. Jack said, head bobbing. “Yes, sir, I knew it. See, I told you, Doc. She's a good 'un.”

“Where did you hear this?” And why hadn't anyone informed him?

“Our comely Widow Wainright was on the scene as well. She went to the sheriff first thing this morning to make an official report in case the man returns. Miriam Martinelli was delivering breakfast for the inmates and overhead.”

“And now the incident is all over town?”

“Correct.”

Trace figured the story had grown in proportion from the actual event, but his blood ran cold at the thought of Cheyenne facing down an enraged drunk. He'd seen her afraid and vulnerable and shaking like a sick kitten. How had she mustered the courage to do such a thing?

“You're positive she's all right? He didn't hurt her, did he?”

Earlier, when he had opened the clinic, Cheyenne had not yet arrived. Now his stomach twisted to think she might be at the motel, alone, scared, maybe injured. He remembered the way she'd
trembled against him that night in the garage. Now there was no one at her apartment to protect and comfort her.

He wasn't a violent man, but if some jerk put his hands on Cheyenne there was going to be more trouble than anyone had ever seen out of Trace Bowman.

The memory of Ray Madden and a mangled Yorkie flashed through his head. “Who was this creep? And why was Cheyenne involved? Why didn't someone call the police? What was going on over there?”

Popbottle gave him a long, searching look. “Simmer down, son. From all reports, she survived the disturbing encounter unharmed.”

“Put the rascal out on his ear.” G. I. Jack smacked his lips together in satisfaction. “That's what I heard. Tossed him right out like a bag of garbage.”

Coffee splashed out as Trace thunked his cup on the counter. The story worsened with every telling. “What was she thinking?”

Both men turned to look at him.

“Apparently not of herself,” Popbottle said. “She was concerned for the other woman. Courageous, if somewhat foolhardy.”

Trace couldn't wrap his head around the story. Sure, Cheyenne was tough, but she was fragile, too. A drunk was especially dangerous. She could have been killed.

His gut twisted at the notion. He thrust an agitated hand to the back of his head.

He asked again, “Why weren't the police called?”

“That, my boy, is a very reasonable question.”

“And one I intend to ask.”

The next thing Trace knew he was out the door and in his truck.

 

Popbottle Jones stood in the doorway, patting Gravy's intrusive head as the animal doctor roared away. “G.I.?”

G. I. Jack, munching a piece of goat cheese, ambled up for a look. “Yep?”

“I stopped by the library today.”

“Wondered what took you so long.”

“The World Wide Web is a fount of information. Did you know you can put your name in and find out all kinds of things?”

“No!” G. I. Jack looked horrified. “You didn't find my name, did you?”

“Yours was not the name that had me interested. I am fully aware of your former indiscretions as you are fully aware of mine. No need to resurrect the long-buried and forgiven.”

“True.” G.I. lifted his cap and scratched. “Whose, then?”

“Cheyenne Rhodes.”

“Find out anything interesting?”

“Our lovely young heroine has a painful past.”

“No surprise.”

“She killed a man, G.I. Self-defense. Justifiable homicide in the line of duty. She was a police officer.”

G.I. chewed a bite of cheese, thinking. “Must have been a bad criminal.”

“One of the worst, a serial rapist who tortured his victims.”

The implication hung in the air unspoken.

“You gonna tell Doc?”

Popbottle sighed as though the weight of knowledge was a heavy load. “I shall have to give the matter serious thought.”

“He's falling for her.”

“Which only adds to my concerns.”

G. I. Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Trace is a good man. He can handle it.”

“I hope you're right, my friend. I hope you're right.”

“H
ave you lost your mind?”

Cheyenne spun around at the sound of Trace's outraged words. He stormed into the exam room where she was clipping the nails on a shitzu, slammed the door behind him and strode toward her. She took a step back.

“What's going on?” Her gaze went to the closed door. She and Trace were alone inside this room. She should be nervous. Instead, she was thrilled to see him, even if he was furious about something.

He stopped in front of her, jaw pulsing with tension. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“You know what. You should have told me yourself.”

Fear and guilt and shame swept over Cheyenne like an avalanche. He knew. Just as she was beginning to hope again, he'd discovered the ugly truth about Dwight Hector—and her.

“How did you find out?” The words squeezed out through a throat tight with emotion.

He kept coming, moving into her personal space and closer. Cheyenne started to back away, bumped up against a table and stopped. Her heart was pounding like the hooves of a dozen racehorses, but she wasn't afraid of Trace Bowman. Quite the contrary.

“Did you think you could keep something as serious as this a secret? Redemption is a small town.”

Why did he have to discover the ugly truth about her now? Last night with him and Zoey was the first time in months she'd felt whole. And now he knew she was anything but whole.

“I didn't want you to know.”

“Why?”

Why? How could he ask a question like that? A brutal attack and…what came after…was not exactly dinner conversation.

“I—I—” She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the overwhelming disappointment. He knew, and the death knell was sounding on a…friendship that had only begun. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry isn't enough. You have to promise me.”

Hand at her throat, Cheyenne whispered, “Promise you what?”

Trace spoke through clenched teeth. “
Promise
me.”

She had no idea what kind of promise he was trying to extract. Promise not to be attacked in her own garage? Promise to tell him every horrific detail of a night she couldn't bear to remember and yet couldn't forget?

“I don't know what you mean.”

One minute she was holding a shitzu like a shield and in the next, she was yanked into Trace's arms, the dog pressed between them.

She should have been insulted. Instead she was stunned and more than a little thrilled. For the first time in a long while, she wanted to be in a man's arms. No, not any man's. Trace's.

Her stomach didn't roll and her blood didn't run cold. She didn't think of Dwight Hector's rancid breath or overpowering rage. She didn't think of the humiliation and pain.

She thought of nothing and no one but Trace Bowman, of the strong corded muscles of his arms tenderly cradling her against him, of his warm breath soughing against her hair.

“Cheyenne,” he said in a half growl, half plea as though she was precious. The notion disarmed her. “I was—”

“You were what?”

“Scared.”

“Trace,” she murmured, hearing her no-nonsense voice turned to a quivery whisper. “I don't understand—”

“Shh. Just let me hold you. Let me know you're okay.”

Why would he want to touch her now that he knew? Paul hadn't wanted to. Her loving fiancé had never even kissed her again afterward.

Could Trace possibly be different?

A terrible yearning rose in her, like a tattered kite reaching for the blue sky. A yearning to love, to be normal again, to believe that a man could see the real woman inside, not the victim of a brutal crime.

She could no more reject the tenderness flowing from Trace Bowman than she could change what had happened that fateful night. This kind, gentle man filled the empty chasm of her heart with an indescribable hope.

She leaned into him, pulse thrumming, emotions trembling.

“Tell me you're okay,” he murmured, voice throaty and rough with masculine tenderness.

She would never be okay. She didn't even know what okay meant anymore. Didn't he realize that?

But for one moment in time when Trace smoothed her hair from her face and stroked her cheek with enough genuine concern to bring tears to her eyes, Cheyenne needed to believe healing was possible.

She shivered, not with fear and loathing, but with hope and longing. If she were a normal woman—

But she wasn't. And Trace knew that now. He knew her darkest secret and pitied her.

Trembling a little, she pulled back, drawing with her the unique scent of him—warm male and antiseptic, dogs and fresh outdoors.

The air-conditioning kicked in and the waft of cold air from the ceiling vents raised goose bumps on her arms. She shivered, clutching the stunned shitzu for warmth.

Trace reached for her again. She shook her head.

“You don't want to do that.” But she wished he would.

“That's where you're wrong, tough girl.” Fists on his hip bones, his intense blue gaze bored into her with laser power, but he didn't touch her again. As much as that hurt, she understood. “You could have been killed.”

“I wasn't.” Though there had been many times she'd almost wished she had been. The aftermath had been a kind of death. The person she'd been before no longer existed.

“Why didn't you call the police?”

“No time.” She swallowed, sick with the pictures whirling through her memory. “Can we talk about this some other time?”

He moved in again. His chest rose and fell in agitation. “Not until you promise me.”

“Okay. I promise.”
Whatever. Just stop making me think about it
.

“Never—do you hear me?” He jabbed a finger into the space between them. “Never take on an abusive drunk again by yourself. Call the police. Call me. Call that shitzu in your arms. But don't bust in like Eliot Ness all by yourself. Domestic violence is nothing to monkey around with.”

Cheyenne blinked, uncomprehending. She could hear the words but they made no sense. “What?”

“You. Last night. The drunk.”

She stared at him, stunned. Relief drained the heat from her cheeks. He was talking about last night, not last year. He didn't know.

An exam table poked against her back. She wilted against the hard metal, and closed her eyes. “Thank goodness.”

She felt him move, felt the stir of air as he came close again. A strong hand touched her face. She loved that. She loved his tender touch and warm compassion.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Never better.”

When she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her with an expression that stopped the breath in her lungs.

“Don't play tough with me.”

The shitzu wiggled. Glad for the excuse to look anywhere but at Trace, Cheyenne dropped her gaze and loosened her tight grip. “I'm smashing this dog.”

“I noticed.” He took the animal and set him on the floor. The shitzu waddled away, casting troubled glances at the vet and his helper.

Cheyenne gripped the table with one hand. Her knees were abnormally wobbly today. “You heard about the incident at the motel.”

Trace tilted his head, giving her a curious look. “Isn't that what we've been talking about for the past five minutes?”

No
. She moistened lips gone as dry as the sand. “Who told you?”

“Popbottle Jones.”

“Whatever he said must have scared you. The situation really wasn't that bad.” Right. And she threw up in the bushes like that all the time.

“Promise me, Cheyenne.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Oh, yes. It matters.” He reached for her again, but seemed to think better of touching her again, and let his hands fall helplessly to the side. “I don't want you hurt.”

The notion sent a disturbing stab of sorrow to a heart she'd thought too scarred to penetrate. She didn't want him hurt, either, but he would be if he knew. They both would be. Maybe Zoey, too.

The stab went deeper. Trace still did not know the worst about her. If he did, the past three glorious minutes in his arms would never have occurred.

Somehow, in the short space of time, with his innate kindness and Pollyanna attitude, Trace Bowman had found a crack in her armor.

She was falling in love with her boss.

The jubilant realization was quickly replaced by searing sorrow.

“They said you took on an abusive drunk single-handedly. Why did you do that?”

Cheyenne battled and conquered the tide of emotions washing through her. A cop either got tough or took the ugliness of humanity home with her at night. She'd done both.

“Emma was crying. Bleeding. I had to do something.”

Trace's blue eyes registered horror. “So the jerk was Ray Madden, oversize dog stomper. And he'd been hitting his wife.”

If Trace was horrified by hitting, how would he react to what had happened to her?

Not well, she was sure. He was a Christian, holy and pure. A violent personal crime would send him running for the nearest exit.

Disappointment rose in her throat with the nasty taste of bile. She swallowed it back. No use getting soft. Life was what it was. That was why she was here in Redemption instead of investigating crimes in Colorado Springs.

Putting on her best tough-girl facade, she jacked a rueful eyebrow. “Abusers generally hit their victims.”

“That's so far out of my mind-set, I can't go there.”

How well she knew. “A lot of women go there on a regular basis.”

“Was Emma hurt badly?”

“Just roughed up from what I could tell.” She bit down on her bottom lip, caught herself and stopped. “The scene was ugly. I'm worried about what he may have done after they left.”

“She went with him?”

“I thought Popbottle Jones told you.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn't actually wait around to hear the entire story.”

Some of the tough-girl starch seeped out of her, and that pesky glow of pleasure crept in again.

“According to Kitty, Emma comes to the motel with some frequency. If she comes again, and I know about it, I'm going to help her. Maybe next time I can convince her to leave the dirtwad.”

“For a tough girl, you've got a big heart.”

With a sniff of contempt, she tossed her head. “I don't like bullies.”

“But that doesn't mean you have to take them on single-handedly.”

“There was no one else around.”

“My point exactly. Your courage is admirable but you could have been hurt.”

“Next time, I'll get her away from him.” She hoped. “Is there a women's shelter in Redemption? Or a safe house?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

A wheel spun inside Cheyenne's head. When a woman needed to escape from an abuser, she needed a place to hide. She also needed a compassionate shoulder to cry on. If anyone understood that, Cheyenne did. The police force had sent her to counseling, but no one could relate to the trauma she'd suffered.

A surge of purpose flooded through her veins. She understood. She could relate. She was a former cop with know-how. If making a difference meant taking a risk—well, she had nothing left to lose.

 

Later that afternoon, Trace replayed the scene with Cheyenne over and over, wavering between awe and confusion. Thinking of nothing but her, he'd charged into the clinic and grabbed Cheyenne as if he had a right.

The second he'd touched her, a shower of sparks had erupted behind his eyelids and he'd temporarily lost his mind. He'd wanted to go on standing in the exam room with her in his arms for the rest of the day.

For a few amazing seconds, she'd melted into him as if she belonged there.

Emotions flew around inside him like a roomful of agitated parakeets. Trace didn't know where to go from here. Cheyenne was his employee, a wounded soul he'd wanted to help, but now he wanted more than that. He wanted her. He wanted her to trust
him enough to share what had hurt her so badly. He wanted her to teach his daughter piano and eat his bachelor's popcorn. He wanted to make her smile, and he wanted to hold her in his arms again.

Man, did he have a lot of praying to do! He needed Somebody bigger and wiser to guide him through the minefield that was Cheyenne Rhodes.

“Dr. Bowman?”

Trace jerked his head up. “Yes?”

Jilly gazed curiously at him. He never failed to be amazed by the number of freckles dotting her nose. “Are you going to remove those staples or admire them?”

His focus returned to the hamster flopped on his back on the table. The relaxed little rodent had suffered a close encounter with the family cat. A pair of glazed, beady eyes stared up at him, accusing. “Are you gonna fix me or not?”

“Sorry. I drifted.”

“I noticed. You've drifted a lot today. Is anything wrong?”

Everything was wrong. He was falling for a mystery woman who took risks. A woman who would probably run the other direction if she had any idea of the effect she was having on him. A woman who had also captured his daughter's heart.

“Everything's fine.”

The door cracked open and Jeri poked her head inside. “Margo called. Something about a Chamber meeting today at noon.”

He let out a groan. “I completely forgot.”

“That's what she figured. She said it was no biggie. She'll send you the minutes.”

G. I. Jack was right. He and Margo had parted amicably for good reason. They were never a match. He never remembered the things that mattered to her and vice versa. He hadn't understood the implication of that before. Now he did. Without Margo, life went on normally. If Cheyenne walked away, he would not be as accepting. And the notion scared him spitless.

He quickly finished the staple removal and returned the
hamster to his owner. The little fella looked relieved to escape the distracted vet.