Finding Her Way Home (15 page)

Hope pinched up inside her. “How?”

“Mom poured scriptures into me. Even when I wanted her to go away, she'd sit next to me and read certain verses from the Bible, or she'd bring over a CD or a book on God's way of handling grief and loss. Pretty soon the Word soaked into my thick skull.”

She shook her head and the movement made soft swishy sounds against Trace's cotton shirt.

“I don't know much about the Bible. I always thought of myself as a Christian, but somewhere along the line I sort of lost my way.”

“All you have to know is that God loves you. He wants you healed and happy, and He's there for you, all the time.”

Too simple. No one did something for nothing. Not even God.

“I haven't been all that holy, Trace. The night—” She stopped, started again. “That night, I'd had a few drinks before the shooting.”

“And you wonder if the alcohol impaired your judgment.”

“It happens.”

“But that doesn't change God or the way He loves you. His forgiveness and peace and healing are still yours to claim. He wants to fix this, Cheyenne, if you'll let Him.”

Like Emma, the ball was in her corner.

She'd tried everything else.

A car passed on the bridge, sending a brief sweep of yellow light across Trace's face.

Cheyenne's stomach quivered. Integrity, honor, decency flowed from Trace Bowman. She understood his earnest desire
to see her healed. She felt the same way about Emma. Trace stirred a long-dormant seed of hope within her.

She touched his cheek, grasping at straws, afraid to believe and too lost not to try.

 

Long after she'd come back to the apartment, Cheyenne sat curled in the rose-colored armchair meditating on the evening's events. What had begun as a house call to deliver a colt had become a curious blend of romantic interlude and soul purging. Only she was not cleansed. The truth remained hidden, muddied now by half-truths and omissions. She was a trained cop. Taking out a criminal was an unpleasant, troubling, always regrettable part of the job, but cops do what they have to do. Contrary to what Trace now believed, the shooting wasn't what haunted her.

Ah, Trace. She sighed and leaned her head against the padded chair as her mind replayed the riverside scene.

She was not naïve. Trace had not needed her assistance to deliver the shiny, wobble-legged foal. He'd wanted to be with her. She could see his feelings growing, but the trouble was, those feelings were not for her. They were for the person he thought she was.

Instead of resolving the issue, she'd made the problem worse. Some deeply deluded section of her brain clung to hope with stunning tenacity.

Why couldn't she stick to her plan? If God had drawn her here, as everyone claimed, what was He trying to do? Give her a nervous breakdown?

From the small table at her side, she took Kitty's dog-eared, underlined devotional. Her friend and landlady had given her the book the day Emma asked for prayer. With no real choice in the matter, Cheyenne had gone to Kitty's house to relay the message. What transpired afterward was still a mystery to Cheyenne.

Over fragrant cups of rose tea, time seemed to drift away, and before either realized, four of Kitty's faithful had gathered for more tea, crunchy sugar cookies and a lively discussion of the Bible.
Though out of her element, Cheyenne had listened, saying little, but when the party broke up, Kitty thrust the book into her hands with orders to read something every night before going to bed.

So far, she'd ignored the advice.

The pocket-size book fit easily in her hands. She thumbed through, noted Kitty's tidy hand-printed comments on practically every page. This was a book Kitty loved. Why would she give it away?

As she turned another page, her attention fell to the words jotted along the margin.
I don't have to go through this alone. God is my refuge.

Cheyenne could practically feel the anguish Kitty must have endured when her husband died. Yet here in this little book, she'd found solace.

Was solace, hope, healing really possible?

The prospect intrigued her so much she read the scripture printed on the page.

She'd heard that somewhere before, but where? She squinted in thought and the image of Redemption's Town Square materialized. Trace had taken her to the well, clearly expecting her to understand something she didn't.

Curious now with a strange lift beneath her rib cage, she reread the scripture. She certainly qualified as one of the weary. Dear God, she was tired of carrying around the heavy load of despair and shame. Even more tired of feeling sorry for herself. At some point, she had to get over this and move on.

…and I will give you rest
.

She read that part four times. The promise was too easy. Surely God expected her to do something first, like build a church or give thousands that she didn't have to send missionaries to Africa.

She flipped to the next page and went on reading, devouring the words as though they were medicine for a sickness. Maybe they were medicine. Medicine for a sick and floundering soul.

In His unfailing love, my God will come and help me
.

Could God possibly love her after what had happened? She'd felt unclean and unworthy for a very long time.

She read the startling words again.

In His unfailing love, my God will come and help me.

Cheyenne's eyelids slid closed.

Oh, God, please come and help me.

But she'd prayed, even screamed those words a year ago in her own garage, and no one had come to help.

She shoved the thoughts aside, desperate to move away from that black night.

Come and help me, God. Give me rest. Let me sleep in peace. Make me feel safe again
.

She wasn't sure how long she prayed and read and then prayed some more, but after a while she could no longer hold her eyes open to decipher the letters.

Whispering one final prayer, she climbed beneath the bedcovers and snapped off the lamp, sending the room into utter darkness.

“Y
ou've got that look.”

G. I. Jack thumped a thick white mug on the table, talking loud enough that the mayor, the banker and three of Trace's patients turned from their hearty Sugar Shack breakfasts to gaze curiously at the vet.

Trace, himself nursing a cup of strong, black coffee and the beginnings of a headache, squinted at the old codger. “You mean the look that says I treated three coon hounds for copperhead bites before sunrise?”

His head felt like a hot air balloon, and he wondered if bug-eyed-from-exhaustion was the look G. I. Jack referred to.

“Ha. Not even close. You look that way every day.”

Miriam appeared, topped off their coffee with a smile and moved on, alternately grousing at and teasing customers as she worked. That was Miriam, a mix of gruff and cranky, sweet and kind.

The Shack was packed as usual on a weekday morning. Smells guaranteed to cause Pavlov-type behaviors floated around the cramped bakery and friendly chatter competed with the clatter of cups and plates. A couple of fellas sat at the counter, perusing the morning paper, probably talking politics and baseball. Last he'd heard the Redemption Rouges had only lost one game.

Not that he'd seen one. Trace rarely had time to do more than grab a box of doughnuts. The early morning call, while robbing him of sleep, allowed a longer stop at the Sugar Shack for friendship and plenty of Miriam's rich-roast coffee.

He took a long, noisy sip.

“You and Cheyenne enjoy the movie last night?”

Oh. This was about Cheyenne. After the night on the bridge, their relationship
had
shifted. Though neither voiced the change, he no longer had to use after-hours calls as an excuse to be with her. He asked. She accepted.

She'd even begun attending Kitty's Bible study, a move that caused a veritable symphony in his spirit.

“She understands the well now,” he said simply, partly to share the good news and partly to deflect the question.

Popbottle Jones, who had been deep in conversation at another table, returned, carrying a brown paper sack filled with 8-track tapes. Trace didn't even know the things existed anymore. Knowing Popbottle Jones and G. I. Jack, they'd concoct some use for the outdated recordings and probably make money in the deal.

“She stopped by the house one day.” Popbottle turned to G. I. Jack. “Saturday evening, wasn't it?”

“Seems to be my recollection, though my memory ain't what she once was.”

The fact that Cheyenne had visited the two old gentlemen came as a surprise to Trace. She hadn't said a word.

“I believe she's on the mend, Doc.” The dignified old man, dressed in his ever-present suit of castoffs—this one of olive worsted—nodded sagely. “Did she mention how her Saturday afternoon library circle has grown by yet another woman?”

Trace was impressed with the library circle, as Cheyenne called the weekly meeting of abused women. Though Emma remained in the home with Ray, she was studying for her GED at the library, a class Cheyenne had arranged. Maybe someday she'd stand on her own two feet. Cheyenne was ecstatic with her
progress. He was ecstatic with Cheyenne, though he was afraid to let that bit of news out on the wind just yet.

He still worried about her and the other woman, given the husband's predilection for rage. So far, nothing volatile had occurred. He hoped the peace lasted.

“She has. I understand I have you to thank for the latest addition.”

“Favor Lee's been down the road of domestic violence and come out on the other side, stronger and better. We figured her experience would give the other women encouragement that they, too, can be happy and safe again.”

Cheyenne's little group now consisted of five, including herself. And she was badgering the Chamber and the Town Council and anyone else who would listen to investigate the feasibility of opening a shelter in Redemption.

He had a sudden memory of her eyes, darker than Miriam's espresso, as she spoke of her plans. She wanted to make a difference. Trace had no doubt she would.

“She's amazing,” he said.

Popbottle Jones arched one bushy white eyebrow. “I didn't realize you knew Favor Lee that well.”

Heat crept up Trace's neck and burned in his ears. The two old dudes burst out laughing.

“I told you so,” G. I. Jack guffawed. “You got the look.”

Might as well ask. He set his coffee cup carefully onto the saucer. “Exactly what kind of look, G.I.?”

The old man slipped a biscuit into his pocket and, with a grin bigger than a melon slice, said, “Love, boy. You got the look of a man in love.”

 

She was healed. Set free. Alive again.

“Like this, Cheyenne?” Zoey's small fingers trilled the treble clef notes while Cheyenne added a simplified bass rhythm.

“You got it, doll face.”

For three weeks now, Cheyenne had not had a nightmare or
a flashback. Not since the night she'd prayed and really believed that God loved her enough to give her a restful sleep—with the lights out.

God loved her. She could hardly take it in. Trace and Kitty claimed He loved everyone no matter what.

Of course, they didn't know the worst about her. But God knew.

Since that night, she'd slept, she'd worked, she'd gotten involved in Redemption's city politics in an attempt to help battered women, an act that had scared her silly at first. What if the cops ran a background check? But why would they? And if they did, so what? She'd done nothing illegal. Ethically as well as legally, the cops could not discuss her private life.

The only fly in her hopeful ointment was Trace Bowman and this incredibly precious little girl, Zoey.

She'd been less than truthful on that front, but like the moth drawn to the flame, she went right on spending time with him. At first, the piano lessons had been an excuse to stay longer, have dinner, watch TV, take a walk. But now neither of them bothered with excuses.

Sunday he'd invited her to church…and she'd gone. That alone gave her a new excuse. Trace was a missionary masquerading as a veterinarian. She was his latest project for God. Her brother said she was asking for trouble. Kitty claimed God was trying to bless her. And her interesting new friends, G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones, did nothing but extol Trace's virtues—which was completely unnecessary. She already knew the man was a cross between Pollyanna, some holy saint and the best-looking movie star in Hollywood.

Abruptly, Zoey stopped playing, leaving the birthday song dangling in the air. “Am I, Cheyenne?”

Cheyenne rested her left hand on the keyboard. “Are you what?”

“A doll face? What does my face look like?”

The child had a way of getting right to the heart of matters and touching Cheyenne to the core. Love splashed in the center
of Cheyenne's being and sent concentric waves of joy flowing through her.

“You're very beautiful, Zoey. I'm sure your friends have told you.”

“Yes, but I want to know what you think.”

“Now you know,” she said softly as she traced a finger around Zoey's hairline, outlining her cheek and jaw and forehead. “You have an oval face, a special shape associated with beauty. Your mouth curves upward so you look happy all the time.”

“That's because I am happy.”

“And your nose is perfect. Not too long, not too short.”

“What about my eyes? Are they weird?”

Cheyenne swallowed. “No.”

“Jeremy Pilson said they were. He said I look creepy because my eyes don't go anywhere.”

The cruel bluntness of children. Cheyenne ached for the little girl. “Your eyes are blue like your daddy's. A beautiful dark blue surrounded by very black eyelashes. They beam with an inner light so powerful, women around the world envy eyes such as yours.”

She ended the description with a tap on the nose and a quick hug. Zoey clung to her for a second longer before sitting back.

“What do
you
look like, Cheyenne? Daddy says you're really, really pretty. He gets a funny sound in his voice when he talks about you. Can I touch your face and see with my fingers?”

Daddy said that? He gets a funny sound in his voice. What did that mean?

“Sure.” She remained still while Zoey explored, wiggling her nose once because the light skim of fingers tickled.

Zoey laughed. “You're ticklish.”

“Feels like spiders crawling on my face.”

This delighted the little girl. She tickled some more and Cheyenne responded with exaggerated facial gyrations beneath the curious fingers that brought more giggles. Soon, an all-out tickle fest ensued.

When the giggles ended, Zoey threw her arms around Cheyenne and clung like Saran Wrap. “I love you, Cheyenne.”

What else could she say but the truth? “I love you, too, doll face.”

 

Twice a week Trace entered his living room to this same sight. And yet his heart never adjusted. The foolish muscle skittered, stumbled, regrouped and pounded like bongos.

Zoey and Cheyenne seated at the piano, long black hair flowing down both their backs, took his breath away. Once, he'd compared Cheyenne to Pamela. No more. Now his stomach lifted along with his spirits to know Cheyenne would be waiting when he arrived, nurturing his daughter as her mother would have. Pamela would not only approve; she would be grateful. As he was.

He paused in the doorway to observe as he often did, letting the sight fill him to the brim.

“Color is like music,” Cheyenne was saying.

“How?” Zoey's pretty face tilted toward her teacher. “Like brown is chocolate pudding?”

“Sort of. Take green for instance. Green is cool, relaxing and calming. Green is the smell of a fresh mowed lawn and the sound of water flowing over the rocks in spring. Listen. This is green.” Cheyenne's fingers moved over the ivories in a graceful, flowing motion as she played a soothing tune that did indeed remind him of green pastures and calming waters.

He closed his eyes, letting the music sweep over him, along with G. I. Jack's words. The old gent was right. He loved Cheyenne Rhodes. If he hadn't loved her before, he loved her now. She was the other half of him that had been missing for eight years.

Thank You, God, for another chance to love. Don't let me mess this up.

When the gentle sweep of music finished, Zoey's face lit up, enraptured. “Wait until I tell Daddy.”

Trace's breath clogged in his throat. He cleared away the thick emotion. “I leave you two alone for an hour and look what happens.”

Both females swiveled toward him. Zoey slid off the piano bench, one arm extended, and came in his direction. “Daddy! I know green.”

He swooped her up. “I heard. Pretty impressive.”

His gaze sought out Cheyenne. She was smiling gently, her love for Zoey as obvious as God's love for them all. She loved his child. Did she love him, too? Everything inside him said she did.

As Zoey skipped away to call her best friend with the glorious news about musical color, Trace decided then and there. He loved Cheyenne Rhodes. He wanted her in his life. And there was no time like the present.

 

The expression on Trace's face brought a tremor to Cheyenne as he came toward her, hands outstretched. As if connected by an invisible cord, she rose from the piano bench and twined her fingers with his.

“You're amazing,” he said as he pulled her close and kissed the hair above her ear. She shivered with the pure beauty of being in Trace's arms again. Not since the night on the river bridge had he held or kissed her, other than holding her hand on walks.

“How was the patient?” she murmured.

“Fine. Forget the patient.” His tone was gruff and manly, a combination that sent a surprising thrill down her spine. “I want to talk about us.”

“Us?” She heard the squeak in her voice.

With exquisite care, Trace threaded his fingers along her jawline and into her hair, cupping her chin with the heels of his hands. Eye to eye and heart to heart, his lips grazed hers, his breath warm and minty.

“I love you, Cheyenne.”

“Oh, Trace.”

A quizzical curve lifted the corner of his mouth. “That's all? Just, oh, Trace?”

Running her fingertips along his jaw, she smiled into eyes dark
with emotion. Every fiber of her being yearned toward this good, good man. Did she dare take a chance?

A sudden realization slammed into her like the recoil of a .44 mag, only without the giant bloody mess. She loved Trace Bowman. Really, really loved him. Not the adolescent, self-seeking emotion she'd felt for Paul. The kind of love that not only wanted to laugh at his jokes and work beside him in the clinic, but the kind that wanted to understand his dark places, soothe his hurts and make his life better. She wanted to make his life perfect and good and beautiful.

Please, God, let this be right.

“You're the finest man I've ever known. And—” she drew on every last ounce of courage “—I love you, too.”

The relief and joy in his expression melted her.

“I want you in my life. With me and Zoey. Forever. How does that sound to you?”

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“Good.”

The word was muffled by the sweetness of his lips. She quivered like Jell-O, yearning to be everything he needed, to bring him happiness the way he'd done for her.

The old doubts surfaced, threatening and reminding. He didn't know everything. Would he still love her then?

But she was healed. The past was behind her. She was no longer a basket case ready to go off the deep end at any moment.

Some things were better left unsaid.

Weren't they?

“I want to show you something,” he said, gently breaking their embrace.

Bemused, happy, she responded, “What is it?”

“A surprise.” He tugged her hand. “Come on.”

“What about dinner?”