Finding Her Way Home (6 page)

“How can I refuse?”

“Then it's decided,” Trace said, a sudden rush of happy endorphins flushing through his system. “Let me tell the others to close the clinic, and we'll be off.”

Zoey clapped her hands again, a soft pitter-pattering like butterfly wings. She reached for Cheyenne. “You've made me the happiest girl in the whole wide world.”

Cheyenne raised amused eyes to his and laughed. “Exaggeration will get you anywhere.”

Zoey's charm machine was turned on today. Maybe she, like he, felt trouble bubbling beneath the surface of Cheyenne Rhodes and wanted to help. Or maybe she simply liked the woman. Cheyenne had paid more attention to his daughter in the past few days than Margo ever had, that was for sure.

The thought caught him up short. Margo was good to Zoey. She babysat any time he asked, though he tried never to take advantage. Why was he suddenly down on her?

He glanced at his new assistant.

The change couldn't have anything to do with Cheyenne. Could it?

 

Trace drove a big six-wheel pickup with double doors and a camper shell on back to cover a myriad of tools. Dried mud splattered the fender wells and halfway up the doors labeled with the clinic's name and phone number. As if Trace needed to advertise.

Cheyenne liked the truck on sight. The dually had strength and character—like its owner.

Troubled by thoughts that seemed determined to focus on Trace, she motioned to Zoey and then caught herself. Zoey's amazing ability to maneuver about the clinic and its grounds without help caused Cheyenne to forget the little girl was blind. Tonight, she'd followed her father out the back door with a long white cane, through the kennels where she'd stopped to scratch a few eager heads and now stood patiently beside the truck.

“Front or back?” Cheyenne gazed down at the placid, beautiful child, a hitch beneath her ribs.

“In the back please. My stuff is back there.”

Cheyenne opened the rear passenger door, wanting to help but not knowing exactly what she should do. Zoey's slender fingers found the metal sides. She gingerly lifted one sneaker-clad foot and hoisted herself expertly into the backseat.

As Cheyenne slammed the door, she spotted Zoey's “stuff.” Some toys, a CD player, some books. The last made her curious. How did Zoey read books? Did she know Braille already?

Trace came around behind her. “All set?”

“Ready.”

He reached for the passenger door, a simple gesture of good manners, but she clambered inside and yanked the door shut. What was the matter with her that she couldn't accept a simple, courteous gesture from anyone?

No, not anyone. An attractive man.

After a second, in which Trace looked bewildered and a little embarrassed, he jogged around the front of the truck and climbed inside.

“Sorry about the mess. I never have time to clean,” he said, indicating gloves, papers, syringes and a collection of opened and unopened medication boxes. “Move any junk out of your way.”

She'd seen police cars that looked the same way. “Work on wheels is never tidy. Don't worry about it.”

Some women were finicky. She wasn't one of them.

He cranked the engine and put the truck into gear, all the while stabbing one finger at his cell phone. “Excuse me while I return this call. I'll only need a minute.”

They pulled out onto Mercy Street. She never failed to notice that street sign.

“Driving and talking is dangerous,” she muttered. It should also be illegal.

Trace flashed a grin and started to say something when apparently his call was answered.

“Margo? Trace. What's up?”

Cheyenne turned her head to stare out the side window and pretend she couldn't hear the personal conversation.

By the vet's terse, conciliatory replies, he was in hot water with the woman named Margo.

Her interest was piqued, but she strained not to listen, focusing on the quaint little town instead with its rows of tidy Victorian homes, pretty yards and flower-lined sidewalks. Bright yellow daffodils were in full flower as were scarlet tulips and purple redbuds. Fat robins hopped on green lawns.

Renewal was everywhere. She hoped some of it landed on her.

“Look, Margo.” Trace's normally calm voice had gone tight with annoyance. “I said I was sorry. You know what I do for a living. Especially this time of year. Right. Okay. That's probably a good idea.”

With that, the flip phone snapped shut and bounced onto the dash. Whoa. Dr. Pollyanna had lost his smile.

Cheyenne tried to look anywhere but at Trace. This was none of her business. She shouldn't have overheard a personal conversation, but she couldn't help feeling defensive for him.

She slid a glance in his direction. Knuckles white against the steering wheel, Trace stared straight ahead at the curving road, face set in a tight expression.

An uncomfortable silence extended until Zoey leaned over the backseat. “Is Margo mad at you, Daddy?”

Trace blew out a gusty sigh. “My fault. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Zoey patted her father's shoulder. “She shouldn't be mad. You didn't do anything. 'Sides, I'm glad she didn't come with us.”

“I thought you liked Margo.”

The child hitched a shoulder. “She's nice and she makes good
peanut butter cookies. But I don't like for her to make you upset. I like Cheyenne better.”

Trace rolled an embarrassed glance toward Cheyenne. “Sorry about that. Margo is a friend of mine.”

Zoey poked her head over the seat. “Girlfriend,” she corrected.

Trace tapped her forehead with one backward reaching finger. “Only a friend. A friend who doesn't like to be ignored.”

“Margo likes Daddy for more than a friend. She told me. I don't think Daddy wants to marry her, though. I hope not.”

Trace groaned. He patted the top of her head. “Okay, pumpkin, enough information.”

The man's workload was grueling. Any woman who had a thing for the good-looking vet would have to deal with that or stay upset all the time.

“You've been pretty busy.”

“Spring is the busiest.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, an action she'd seen him do plenty of times, usually following a particularly exhausting procedure. The vet was tired, and having some woman on his case didn't help.

“Why spring?”

“Babies. Sheep, cows, horses. Animals give birth in spring and birthing brings plenty of other problems along with it.” He flipped on the turn indicator. “Pastor Parker lives down this road about a mile. His daughter raises show sheep.”

“Does your work ever slow down?”

“A country vet stays as busy as he wants to year-round, especially the ones like me who see farm animals as well as pets.”

“Being the only vet, you don't have much choice, do you?”

“Oh, sure, I have a choice, but how do I say no? The loss of one farm animal is significant to my clients. And if all farms stopped producing animals, what are the rest of us going to eat?”

“Veggies?” she asked with a smile.

He widened his blue, blue eyes in mock horror. “Woman,
watch your mouth. This is cattle country. The only vegetarians are the animals themselves!”

Cheyenne laughed and marveled at the sound. When was the last time she'd laughed with such ease? Maybe Redemption was having a positive effect on her. Or maybe the reason was the handsome veterinarian.

She turned the idea over in her head, then left it there. A few days in his company and she was laughing again. That much at least was good. As long as she didn't get any romantic notions in her crazy head, she'd be fine.

“Thanks,” she said.

Trace's look was quizzical. “For?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Everything.”

The front wheel of the truck jounced into a pothole, tossing Cheyenne sideways, close enough to brush elbows with her boss. She braced a hand on the dash and pushed back.

Trace made a left-hand turn, casting her an amused look. “Spoken like a true female. No wonder we men have this stupid expression on our faces all the time.”

She wouldn't consider anything about him stupid, especially that face. Trace Bowman just might be one of the good guys. A couple of years ago, he would have been her type. Now she didn't have a type. Couldn't ever have one again.

As if she'd swallowed a brick, heaviness settled in her stomach. She'd come to Redemption for peace and escape, not for a man. Best to remember that.

“Is this the preacher's house?”

A two-story brick home sat at the end of a short driveway.

“This is it.” He pulled into a grassy parking area next to a beat-up truck and a bronze SUV. A battered church bus was parked up ahead next to a garagelike structure.

They slammed out of the truck. Trace took Zoey's hand and the three of them started toward the house. Halfway there, a shout from behind turned them around.

“We're out here, Doc.” A sturdy blonde woman in brown coveralls and work boots waved from a barn door.

The trio crossed the wide space between house and barn. Thick clover sprouted in dark patches among the grass and put off a sweet, fresh scent. The barn was fairly new, painted red, but built in the older triangular style with a hay loft above.

Inside, the smell was springtime, dust and hay.

A preteen girl with a blond ponytail, clearly the offspring of the woman, waved them into a stall. Her young face was tense with worry.

“She's been in labor too long, Doc. I felt for the lamb and it seems in the right position but Betsy can't deliver.”

“Let me see what we have.”

After a quick introduction to Kylie, the young sheep owner, and her mother, Michelle Parker, Cheyenne moved to the corner of the stall to watch, wondering why Trace had bothered to bring her along. She was useless here. Even Zoey was more useful. The little girl positioned herself on the mound of straw in front of the ewe, gently stroking the mother sheep's forehead while she murmured something unintelligible.

After a thorough hand wash, Trace examined the ewe, talking quietly to both owners and sheep.

“That's a big lamb for a young mother,” he said softly.

“Can we save them?” The preteen Kylie was matter-of-fact, as Cheyenne supposed a farm girl had to be about livestock, but her eyes were glassy with leashed tears. “I've raised Betsy from a lamb. She took grand champion at the fair this year.”

From his position on his knees leaning over the ewe, Trace winked at the young girl. “Let's turn this fat lady over on her back and see what we can do to help. Kylie, you and Zoey keep her calm and quiet while I do the hard stuff. Okay?”

Kylie nodded, ponytail bobbing as she helped the vet reposition the ewe. Their ministrations were met with a plaintive
baaa
, but in minutes, Dr. Bowman had somehow done what neither the
ewe nor her owners could accomplish. A wet lamb slipped into his hands. He gave the infant a quick swing by its front feet and placed the slick body on the hay in front of the mother. When the lamb began to wiggle, they breathed a collective sigh.

“It's a girl,” Kylie said. “Betsy's little troublemaker.”

“Typical female,” Trace teased, hands on his hips as he grinned around at the gathered group of females.

“Be careful, Doc, you're surrounded.”

Hands raised in surrender, he laughed, teeth flashing white against tanned skin and a five-o'clock scruff. Trace Bowman was at home in his own skin. And he had an ease with people that Cheyenne could respect. She'd had that once. Getting it back wouldn't be easy.

“Before I get in too much trouble, I'd better finish my job and get out of here,” he said.

Following a further exam of both ewe and lamb, instinct took over and the lamb began to nurse.

A warm, peaceful feeling spread through Cheyenne's body. She was glad she'd come along. There was something beautiful and confirming in seeing a living creature born. And if there was one thing she needed, it was to find the wonder of living again instead of the ugliness.

“Let's go inside and have some pie and coffee before you go,” Michelle Parker said to Trace.

“I'm staying out here with Betsy, Mom,” the girl named Kylie said.

“Me, too, Daddy.” Zoey remained beside the ewe. “Can I stay with Kylie?”

Trace lifted an eyebrow toward the preteen, who nodded. “She can come when I do. I'll look out for her.”

“All right, then.” To Mrs. Parker he said, “Coffee sounds good.”

He tossed equipment back into a bag. Cheyenne stooped to help and was rewarded with a grin. Her heart flip-flopped.

“We'll pass on the pie,” Trace was saying. “No dinner yet.”

“I can fix you a sandwich,” the pastor's wife said as they all fell into step and headed toward the house.

“Thanks, but I promised Cheyenne and Zoey one of Big Bob's Angus burgers and curly fries.”

Cheyenne blinked. He had?

Behind Michelle's back, he winked at Cheyenne, and even though she quickly averted her gaze, a glimmer of sunshine settled inside her chest. She'd already been feeling mellow and now she was actually relaxed enough to enjoy herself. What a concept.

As they entered the kitchen through the back door, the pastor's wife turned her attention to Cheyenne. “You must be new in town. I don't think I've seen you around.”

“Brand-new, as of about a week ago.”

“And Trace already has you making after-hours calls.” The woman made a teasing
tsk-tsk
in Trace's direction. “Slave driver.”

He scraped a chair away from a gleaming oak table and sat down, comfortable as though he came here often. “I told her when I hired her that I'm a desperate man.”

True, but she hadn't believed him. Now, after working with him inside and outside the clinic, she understood.

Taking a chair opposite him, she allowed a casual look around. The Parkers' kitchen was a combination of country warmth and modern convenience. She could imagine happy meals in this room. She'd grown up in a home like this, where family mattered and hours around the kitchen table had resolved the problems and struggles of her teenage years.