Finding Her Way Home (3 page)

“Hello, hello. Sorry to keep you waiting.” A tall, willowy blonde carrying a basket of snowy white towels swept into the office with an air of cheerfulness. Cheyenne did a double take. This young, beautiful woman could not be the Widow Wainright.

Pale hair pulled into a loose topknot with unfettered strands framing a delicate, heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes, she made Cheyenne think of a fairy-tale princess. There was a vulnerable sweetness about her completely out of context with Cheyenne's idea of an independent widow.

“Are you Mrs. Wainright?”

“Kitty, please. We don't stand on ceremony in Redemption.”

So much for assumptions. “I'm Cheyenne Rhodes.”

“How can I help you, Cheyenne? Need a room? Or just looking at the gift shop? I have some great gift ideas.”

“A room please.”

“You're in luck! I just happen to have a vacancy.” She made a cute face and bunched slim shoulders in a girlish gesture. “Too many of them, actually, but that's the nature of Redemption. The only time I'm filled up is during the Land Run celebration.” She dug out a registration form and pushed it across to Cheyenne. “New in town or passing through?”

Was everyone in this town nosy?

“New.” Using one of the pens with a flying eagle topper, Cheyenne bent her head to the form. “Do you have a room with cooking facilities?”

“Oh, sure. Half of my units are long-term rentals with kitchenettes. Otherwise, I couldn't keep the doors open.” Kitty placed her forearms on the glass countertop. Rose potpourri stirred around her. Everything about this woman was fresh and clean and inviting. “Does this mean you'll be staying a while?”

“Until I find an apartment.” Or move on.

“Great. You can come to our Bible study and meet some of the other townsfolk. Redemption is a nice place to settle.”

As much as Cheyenne wanted to make friends and have a real life again, she wasn't excited about a Bible study. If she'd ever had any faith, it had disappeared the night Dwight Hector broke into her garage.

“If you'll just sign the guest register here.” Kitty tapped a finger against the lined page. “I'll take down your credit card info and we'll be all set.”

Feeling as if she'd stepped back in time, Cheyenne complied, waiting patiently while Kitty entered the numbers the old-fashioned way, without the use of a credit card machine. When the widow finished, she took Cheyenne's registration form to a metal file box.

“Well, look at that,” she said, holding the card at an angle above the box. “You're from Colorado.”

Cheyenne tensed; the thought raced through her head that Kitty had put the name and state together and come up with a news report.

“Formerly,” she said, words terse and defensive.

Kitty lifted wistful blue eyes, apparently unaware of her guest's reaction. “My late husband and I honeymooned in the mountains near Breckenridge.”

Cheyenne took a second to make the mental shift from her anxious thoughts to Kitty's meaning. The place steeped in pain and sorrow for Cheyenne was a place of loving memory for the young widow.

“The mountains are a beautiful honeymoon destination,” she managed, wondering if she would ever stop feeling edgy and suspicious.

“Yes, they were.” The woman stood for several seconds, lost in thought and probably in memories of the man she'd loved and lost. Cheyenne ached for her. Why did life have to be so cruel?

Not knowing what to say, she waited in an oddly comfortable silence. As a police officer, she'd done her share of bringing
bad news to hapless families, but she'd never been around for the aftermath.

With a pat to her heart, Kitty's pink-glossed lips tilted, though her eyes remained sad. “I'll have to show you my photo album sometime.”

“I'd like that. He must have been a great husband.”

“The best.” She fanned herself with Cheyenne's card. “I see Dr. Bowman recommended my fine establishment. You know Trace?”

“Not exactly.” Cheyenne told the widow about the puppies.

“Well, that's Trace. He takes in all the strays. Always has.”

Was that why he tried to hire her? Because she looked like a stray to be pitied? “So you've known him a long time?”

“Long enough to know he's a soft touch, but then everybody in Redemption knows everyone else. Familiarity is the blessing of small-town living.”

Or maybe the curse.

“He offered me a job.” Cheyenne added a light laugh as though the notion was facetious—and maybe it was. What kind of sensible human hired total strangers off the street without so much as a reference?

“Oooh.” Kitty's eyes twinkled in speculation. “You must have made an impression.”

Cheyenne stiffened, her guard firmly back in place. “He said he hires a lot of people.”

Kitty laughed merrily. “Yes. He does. Trace is always trying to help someone and from what I've seen the clinic can use all the assistants he can find. I was teasing you, though you have to admit Trace Bowman is a cutie-pie.”

“I didn't notice.” Liar, liar.

Kitty laughed again. “Then you need to make an appointment with Dr. Spencer to have your eyes checked.”

Cheyenne tweaked a shoulder. “Well, maybe I did notice.”

Kitty slapped the top of the glass counter and set a half dozen military bobble-heads in motion. “Now you're talking. I may be
a widow but I know
fine
when I see it. And that man is über-fine. Why didn't you take the job, you crazy woman?”

“Not the kind of work I'm looking for, but I do need a job, so if you know of anything…”

Kitty stuck a pencil through her blond topknot. “What kind of job
do
you have in mind?”

Anything but the über-fine vet. “Office work, waitressing, retail, that kind of thing.”

“Quite a variety there. I'll keep my ear to the ground. You'd do a lot better asking at the Sugar Shack, though. Everyone and everything filters through there. Talk to Miriam. She owns the place.”

“All right. Thanks. I'll do that.”

Kitty opened a drawer and took out a key. “This is for Unit 4. I'll walk over there with you to make sure the room suits you.”

“I'm sure it's okay.”

“Me, too, but I could use a little more girl talk.” Blue eyes widened, she bunched her shoulders in a charming gesture. Kitty's delicate femininity left Cheyenne feeling like a wrestler. “It's not every day I rent a room to someone near my age.”

“All right, then, lead the way.” As long as Kitty didn't pry too deeply, they could girl-talk all she wanted. Kitty could talk. Cheyenne would listen.

Exiting the office, they followed a curving graveled path past three motel doors, each bearing a shiny brass number. Red, white and blue impatiens bordered the gravel in a cheery repeat of Kitty's favorite color scheme.

“What brings you to Redemption, Cheyenne? Relatives?”

“I don't know a soul.” And no one knows me. For the people of Redemption, she was a clean slate, just the way she wanted to be.

“No relatives and no job,” Kitty said, “so that leaves only one other reason for coming here.”

And Cheyenne hoped no one discovered what that reason was.

Knowing when to keep her mouth shut, she shoved her hands
into her jacket pockets and stared down at the white gravel crunching beneath her boots.

Kitty raised a hand to greet someone. “Hi, Henry. Nice day for fishing. Going to the river?”

Cheyenne looked up. A middle-aged man, fishing rod over one shoulder, hoisted a tackle box in greeting.

“I sure am. Wanna come along?”

Kitty's merry laugh rang out. “Another time. Gotta wash your sheets today.”

The man waved again and slammed the door of his truck. The engine roared, sending a puff of exhaust into the atmosphere as he pulled away.

Small-town friendliness was something Cheyenne would have to get used to.

Kitty picked up the conversation where she'd left off. “Redemption draws people, Cheyenne. I don't know how exactly but the Lord must lead them here.”

A skeptical Cheyenne searched the motel owner's guileless face. Kitty Wainright seemed too nice to be one of those religious wackos. “You're saying God told me to come to this town?”

That was about as far from true as the woman could get.

“No.” The sun gleamed off blond hair as Kitty shook her head. “I said He
leads
people—people who need what Redemption has to offer.”

“I have to be honest with you, Kitty. I'm not sure what I believe about God anymore.”

Kitty slid the room key into the door marked with the number 4. As she pushed it open and cool, potpourri-scented air wafted out, she turned and placed a hand on Cheyenne's arm. “Then I have good news for you, girl. Those with questions, those who are struggling, they're exactly the ones He leads to Redemption.”

C
heyenne awoke the next morning with a headache and the remnants of the dream lingering like a bad odor. She sat on the side of the bed, head in her hands, for several minutes to clear the fog.

Last night as usual, after checking and rechecking the locks, she'd lain awake for hours with the lights on. Her thoughts had run the gamut from the old bums to the handsome vet to Kitty's curious comment about God.

She'd stumbled onto the town of Redemption by accident. A spot on the map. A place to land. There was no other explanation. Certainly not some mystical voice from God.

She scrubbed at her face with both hands, ashamed of her cynical attitude. Kitty hadn't talked about voices, though her meaning was as mysterious as a voice would have been.

After a glance at the clock-radio, Cheyenne dragged herself out of bed and to the shower. Today was the first day of the rest of her life and she was determined to find a job and get on with living.

By the time she was dressed and ready to hunt down the Sugar Shack, her cell phone jingled. After checking the caller ID, she answered. “Hi, Brent.”

“Hey, sis.” Her brother's deep voice eased an ache in her chest. “Where are you? Still sleeping in your car?”

“Believe it or not, no.” She looked around the motel room. Kitty took pains to make the units more homey than most. “I'm in a motel in Redemption, a little town in Oklahoma.”

Brent whistled. “Long way from home, sis.”

“Which is what we all agreed was best.”

“I know. Still—”

“A fresh start, new faces and time to forget.”

“You can come home anytime, Chey. Dad and I will take care of you.”

She wanted to take care of herself again, not huddle in her bedroom afraid of shadows and cruel speculation. Her dad and brother thought she should “put what happened behind her,” to “forget about it” and move on. She knew they meant well and she longed to follow their advice. She simply had not been able to do so.

“Maybe someday when things blow over.”

She reached under the pillow and moved a gun to her purse. Kitty probably wouldn't appreciate knowing her new renter slept with a nine-millimeter Glock. Though Cheyenne never wanted to use the weapon again, she couldn't fall asleep without that lethal assurance. Even then, sleep was fitful and filled with things she didn't want to remember.

“You should see this place, Brent. Redemption is like a step back in time. Homey, friendly.” She told him about the Dumpster-divers and savored his warm laugh. “They were interesting, let me tell you.”

“I can imagine,” he said dryly.

“And the woman who owns the motel hosts a Bible study every night.”

Cynic that he was, Cheyenne could imagine Brent's grimace. “Look out for weirdos.”

“She's not like that. Really. Although she said something strange about God leading needy souls to Redemption. Or some such.”

“Told you. Weirdo.”

Cheyenne pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and grinned. “You always know how to cheer me up.”

“You're not planning to stay there in Weirdo-ville, are you?”

“For now. I'm job-hunting today.”

“Where?”

She heard the tension in his tone.

“Not police work.” Heaviness pulled on her insides like lead weights. “I know I can't do that anymore, Brent.”

“I'm sorry, sis,” he said softly.

“Me, too.” More than sorry, she was brokenhearted. Being a police officer had been her life's ambition.

“How are you otherwise?”

She knew what he meant. They never discussed the incident that had changed her life. Like everyone else, Brent and her father had wanted to pretend nothing had happened to her. If they didn't talk about it, the issue would go away. They were wrong.

The silence of friends and coworkers was one of the reasons she'd left Colorado Springs. No one but the antagonistic press wanted to discuss that night. No one wanted to admit that something terrible and life-changing had happened to strong, sensible Detective Rhodes. She looked all right on the outside, so she must be fine. Only she knew how wrong they were.

The news media reminded her on a regular basis. Even after the investigation and the grand jury, reporters and gun-law activists stayed in her face. They were the second reason she'd fled her hometown.

The other reasons went deeper and she suspected they'd followed her here.

“I'm coping.” She would never be the same and she would always wonder what she'd done to deserve such a thing happening to her, but she was determined to keep living. Dwight Hector had hurt her. He'd stolen her peace, her sense of security, her relationships, her career and a year of her life, but she would not let him destroy her.

“Good. Good.” He paused before continuing. “I guess you haven't heard the latest news.”

“Good or bad?”

“Depends on your perspective, I guess. But it's news I didn't want you to hear from someone else.”

“Am I being prosecuted?”

“Chey, no. That's over. You were cleared of all wrongdoing.”

After her being under a cloud of suspicion for a year, the final ruling still didn't register.

“I keep expecting something else to pop up.” Like Dwight Hector, though she'd watched him die and knew he would never hurt another woman. She pushed at her hair and sighed. “I don't know. I'm so tired of it all.”

“Let the past go, sis. Be healed and happy again. I miss you.” Her brother's pensive voice wrapped around her with love.

“So what's the big news?”

A moment of silence told her she wasn't going to like his message.

Brent cleared his throat.

“Spit it out, Brent. I'm immune to bad news.”

“Right. That's why you're in some hick town called Redemption.”

“Redemption is not a hick town. I like—” She stopped the sentence, realizing Brent was stalling.
“Tell me.”

“Paul is getting married. To Melinda.”

Her eyes fell shut as she imagined her former fiancé marrying someone else, a someone else who happened to be her friend. “Good for them. I'll send a card.”

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Forget it, Brent. Paul walked out on me when I needed him most. Why would I care about a man like that?”

“Right. Okay. Sure.”

She'd adored Paul Ramos, but now she felt nothing but sadness—not for Paul, but for the woman she'd become. A woman no man would want. Paul had taught her that.

A lull ensued when neither could think of anything to say and Cheyenne ended the call. She loved her only two relatives, but they had been adversely affected, too. Whether they admitted it or not, and no matter how much she hurt to know, Dad and Brent were glad to have her gone.

 

The Sugar Shack smelled sweet enough to give her a toothache. If the crowd gathered at round tables and along a low counter with stools was any indication, the Sugar Shack was the local meeting place, at least for breakfast. Besides the scrumptious pastries and breads filling the display cases and tinting the air with a warm, yeasty fragrance, the shop served country breakfast fare and sandwiches.

As she stood inside the door, analyzing the inhabitants, several heads turned her direction. But instead of suspicion, their expressions showed only momentary interest before they turned back to their companions or their steaming coffee cups. After looking for a seat and finding none, Cheyenne made her way toward the cash register. The chatter of friendly voices mingled with the clink of thick white mugs against matching saucers and the occasional
ka-ching
of the cash register. A few customers nodded a polite greeting as she walked by.

The small gesture buoyed her.

As she turned sideways to ease around one table, a voice called out, “Miss Cheyenne.”

She glanced down into the whiskery face of G. I. Jack.

“Did Doc Bowman take the puppies?”

The grizzled old bum had an undeniable sweetness about him. She smiled. “He did.”

The man pushed at the extra chair between himself and Pop
bottle Jones. “You'll not find another empty. Sit down and we'll treat you to breakfast. Won't we, Popbottle?”

His Dumpster partner hoisted a cup in her honor. “Indeed we will.”

They'd
treat her? These two raggedy old derelicts? “Oh, I couldn't, but I will share your table if you don't mind.”

G. I. Jack frowned, thick bushy eyebrows pulled together in bewilderment. “Why would we mind? We invited you.”

Barely holding back a grin, Cheyenne took the offered chair. “This place is busy.”

“Always is. Best biscuits and gravy you'll find anywhere.” He poked a forkful of the aforementioned food into his mouth.

“Thank you for your help yesterday.”

“Glad to be of assistance.”

“Good because I'd like to ask you something else.” Considering how full his mouth was, she didn't wait for his reply. “I need a job. Any kind of job.”

G. I. Jack's brow creased in thought, but he kept right on shoveling food into his mouth.

Popbottle Jones lowered his coffee cup. “Dr. Bowman hires a person now and then.”

The handsome vet again.

A stick-thin woman in a baker's apron sashayed up to the table. Graying black hair yanked straight back from an angular face met in a bun at the nape of her neck. Long, bony hands with overlarge knuckles wielded a pad and pen.

Cheyenne gave her order before saying, “I'd like to speak with Miriam. Is she here?”

“She sure is.”

G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones chuckled. The woman shook her pencil at them before turning a friendly look to Cheyenne. “I'm Miriam. Whatcha need?”

Popbottle Jones laid aside his fork. “She's new in town. Her name is Cheyenne.”

“She's looking for a job.” Without the least bit of self-consciousness, G. I. Jack slid a fluffy biscuit into his shirt pocket. Yesterday fries, today biscuits. “She's staying over to Kitty's. And she likes dogs.”

How did they know where she was staying?

“Well, let's see.” Miriam took the order pad, ripped off a page, turned the sheet over and began to write. When she finished, she handed the short list to Cheyenne. “A lot of places have shut down in the past few months or cut back. The economy, you know. But these are worth a shot.”

“I appreciate your help.” As Cheyenne started to fold the list, Miriam reached for the paper again.

“Wait. I thought of one more place. G.I. said you like dogs.”

Cheyenne had a feeling she knew what Miriam was writing. Sure enough, when she took the paper, there he was again—Trace Bowman.

 

By noon, she'd gone through the list of potential employers and found nothing but a town filled with mostly friendly folks and an assortment of entertaining characters. Worse, she kept hearing about the bad economy and Trace Bowman.

“Is there some kind of conspiracy in this town to find the vet an assistant?” she muttered as she slid behind the wheel of her car and slammed the door, discouraged.

Just as she cranked the engine, her cell phone jingled.

Cheyenne's eyebrows lifted. Brent again? She punched Talk. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Right. Two calls in one day means something. What's up?”

“No hurry, but if you're settling in Weirdo-ville for a while, I'll forward your mail. You've got some bills here.”

“Lovely. More bills. I thought I had everything paid. What are they?”

She heard the swish of paper as he shifted through the envelopes and rattled off a few minor debts. “Anything major?”

“Law offices of Windom and Green…”

Cheyenne groaned. She'd already paid them an enormous amount. “How much is that one?”

“I'll have to open it.”

“Go ahead.”

She heard the rip and then the hiss of indrawn breath.

“Wow.” He named a sum that made her gasp as well. Her remaining severance pay from the police department wouldn't cover the amount. The price of proving oneself guilty of nothing except being a madman's victim was exorbitant.

After giving Brent the address of the motel and assuring him she had everything under control, she flipped the cell phone shut and leaned her head on the steering wheel. On the floorboard lay Miriam Martinelli's job list. With a sigh of resignation, she picked up the paper. All but one suggestion was crossed off.

Dr. Trace Bowman.

 

“Dr. Bowman, Barry is on the phone. His raccoon has diarrhea.” Jeri Burdine, the middle-aged assistant who answered the phones and maintained the clinic accounts, peered around the doorway of Exam Room One. Bright beads rattled at the ends of tidy black cornrows.

Trace barely looked up from examining a dog with a high fever.

“Tell Barry the treatment's the same as usual. Give him a teaspoon of Kaopectate every four hours as needed. No food, but a lot of liquids, especially Gatorade. Bring him in if he's not better tomorrow.” Ten-year-old Barry was a kid after his own heart. He rescued critters, the latest being a baby raccoon whose mother had been hit by a car.

The coffee-brown face flashed a grin. “Will do.”

A cacophony of yapping dogs had Trace raising his voice to
be heard. “And tell Toby to check that sheltie pup in the kennel again. I have a bad feeling.”

“Got it.” Jeri's wide hips sashayed away with her usual cheerful efficiency. Some days he wished for a dozen Jeris. Days like today.

One hand around a slim muzzle, Trace slid a needle into the dachshund on the table. The clinic was busier today than yesterday. Every member of his staff was moving as quickly as possible but the line in the waiting room grew longer. His thoughts flashed to Cheyenne Rhodes, the woman he'd tried to hire last night. Too bad she'd turned him down. He would have hired three of her, bad attitude and all.