Finding Her Way Home (5 page)

“All the more reason to think he stomped or kicked this little dog. The injuries are not consistent with merely being stepped on.”

“Can you save him?”

“Gotta try.” His intelligent eyes studied the unmoving animal. “We'll have a better idea after the X-rays and a thorough exam. You up for this?”

Cheyenne gave one short nod. She'd handled plenty worse.

Over the next few minutes, the vet instructed her in restraining and positioning the limp little animal while he ran an X-ray machine. All the while, her mind whirled with the ramifications of the couple in the waiting room. A woman shouldn't put up with a man like that.

“Wear this.” Trace tossed her an apron that weighed a ton.

“What's in this thing? Bricks?” She draped the gray apron around her neck.

“Close. Lead. Keeps you from being exposed to radiation.” He disappeared behind a short wall. The hum and thump of the machine filled the room. Trace reappeared to reposition the animal again. “A couple more.”

Cheyenne kept her hands where he instructed while he finished the procedure.

“All done. Hang the apron inside here and then stay with Chauncey while I process these.”

He disappeared again and Cheyenne stared down at the sedated dog. He was a mess. Blood coated his golden brown coat. Cheyenne was pretty sure the white protrusion on his leg was a bone.

She shivered and tried to think of something else.

Noises came from behind her. Thumps and thuds. Buzzes and bells. And then the vet was back again, standing next to her. His focus was on the patient, but Cheyenne edged away from him and the peculiar sizzle of nerve endings he caused. She didn't know whether she liked or hated the feeling, but liking it wasn't an option.

“Other than the mangled leg, I don't see anything life-threatening.”

She flicked him a glance. “Seriously?”

“I'll need to keep him overnight to rule out internal injuries, but he doesn't seem to be as bad as I first thought. I wasn't kidding when I said sometimes the worst-looking injuries end up not being so bad after all.”

“That's true. I've seen people I didn't think would survive but they did.”

He swiveled toward her, expression curious. “You have?”

Cheyenne mentally kicked herself. She hadn't intended to discuss her former life with anyone in Redemption. Let the past lie buried. If it would.

Avoiding the doctor's intensely blue eyes, she fiddled with the crinkly paper beneath the Yorkie. “I just meant—you know, on the road and stuff.”

Dr. Bowman didn't respond, but she could feel him looking at her, curious. At least she thought she could. Lately, her emotions didn't always line up with reality. She knew this but she couldn't always control it.

Lack of control made her mad. Life in general made her mad. The feelings thrashing and banging around inside every time Trace Bowman came close made her mad.

But then, she'd been mad for the past year. Had she really expected things to improve just because a town was called Redemption?

 

Trace shook droplets of water from his hands and reached for a paper towel. The surgery on the Yorkie's leg had taken longer than he'd hoped, so Jeri had sent waiting patients home until tomorrow. A half dozen of the sickest had chosen to wait, but the injured dog was resting peacefully, still sedated, in a soft enclosure.

The pet owners had left, although the man had been blunt about not running up a huge vet bill. “Put him to sleep. I'll get her another.”

Trace usually liked everyone. He couldn't say that about this guy. “That won't be necessary. We can work something out.”

“I'll hold you to that, Doc.” And with that warning he had ushered his wife from the clinic.

Some people.

With a weary sigh, he shot a look at his new assistant. She was an enigma. Not very friendly, either, but he'd known that when he hired her.

Even though the capable Jilly had returned, once the surgery was set up and ready he'd called Cheyenne in to help, too. Some perverse part of him must admire a tough woman with a chip on her shoulder.

Troubled. He could see it in the tense set of her shoulders and jaw. He could hear it in her terse answers. And he could read it in her soulful glares and the way she overprotected her three feet of personal space.

The question was why? And what exactly did the Lord expect him to do about Cheyenne Rhodes?

“Pretty good assistant for a first timer.” In a light tone, Trace tossed the compliment casually over his shoulder but didn't move in her direction. He'd already discovered that if he got too close, her defenses went up and she'd back away. “You didn't faint or gag or run away.”

“I don't faint.” She stated the fact as though slightly insulted. He noticed she didn't mention the other two.

“You'd be surprised how many grown men turn pale when I start drilling into bone.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “You did the hard part. All I did was play gofer.”

He turned slowly, leaning his hips on the sink behind him as he dried his hands. “Appropriate job in an animal hospital, don't you think? A gopher.”

Her full lower lip curved. “Have you ever treated a gopher?”

Trace felt a rush of energy through his very tired body. Any
hint that he was getting through that iron wall of hers cheered him immensely.

“This is a community of tulips and smooth, green lawns. Saving a gopher could get me tarred, feathered and run out of town.”

For a nanosecond her dark, dark eyes twinkled and he held out the hope that she'd come back with a snappy retort. She turned her back instead. Stainless steel surgical tools clattered against a metal basin as she dunked them into antiseptic cleaning liquid. “What do I do with these after they're washed?”

Fighting down a frisson of disappointment, Trace studied his new employee's stiff shoulders. Did friendly conversation always make her nervous?

Lord, I'm trying, so give me a little direction here, okay?

“Toss them in that box for a trip to the autoclave.” He ripped a couple more paper towels from the dispenser and sprayed antiseptic cleaner on the metal table. “I can't stop thinking about that couple.”

The comment forced her to look back over one tense shoulder. “Me, too.”

“Think we should contact the police?”

“Won't do any good.”

“How do you know that?”

She hesitated for one brief second before turning back to the sink. “I just know.”

Spoken like a woman with secrets.

He threw the paper towels in the trash can and studied his assistant. For the first day of work, she'd done all right. But her work ethic wasn't what concerned him. The way he felt with her in the room did.

She was puzzling and bristly. Yet despite those negatives, he wanted to know her better.

Her hair pooled like black ink against the blue lab jacket he'd loaned her. There was something about Cheyenne Rhodes that made him want to go on looking at her. He felt a little stupid
about that. The woman was pretty, sure, but so was Margo, and though they'd dated off and on for a year, he'd never wanted to stand and stare at Margo Starks. Cheyenne's beauty wasn't the thing that intrigued him, really. Rather, he was fascinated by the way she narrowed her eyes in speculation, the way she held herself aloof and the subtle sense he had that she was hurting every single minute.

Something was sorely wrong in Cheyenne's world, and he was a doctor, a man called and trained to ease suffering. He wouldn't rest until her wounds, whatever they might be, were healed.

C
heyenne was feeling better about her new job. Maybe this would work out all right after all. The vet was easygoing and didn't lose patience even when she couldn't find something. The other women were cordial, even though the clinic buzzed with patients, phone calls and animal sounds until they seldom had a spare moment. Cheyenne figured this was a good thing. Being busy kept her mind off everything else. Everything, that is, except the handsome vet. All he had to do was walk into the room and a buzz of energy shimmied along her nerve endings.

After feeling dead inside for so long, the reawakening stung like frozen fingers warmed too quickly. Wisdom warned to tread carefully.

Last night, when she'd arrived at the motel, her thoughts were torn between the too-attractive vet and the Yorkie owner. She was convinced Emma was a battered wife. This morning the husband had picked up the dog, paid the bill and left without a thank-you.

Cheyenne couldn't help wondering where Emma was. But she'd dealt with plenty of abuse victims and as long as they lied for their abusers, there was nothing anyone could do.

The knowledge burned inside her. She hated feeling impotent.

Over the spray of water, Cheyenne caught the sound of a
humming baritone. At the moment, Dr. Bowman was at the sink, scrubbing up after the suture of a lacerated ferret. The vet was a happy guy. Either that or he put on a good act.

“Doc? You in here?”

The voice was male, but the words were thick and carefully formed as though the speaker had a speech impediment.

Curious, Cheyenne dumped the washed instruments into a box marked Redemption River Animal Clinic, threw a wad of empty plastic packaging into the trash and turned toward the opened door. A young man, probably in his late teens, with the rounded body and moon face of Down's syndrome shuffled into the room.

When he spotted Cheyenne, he stopped. Face a mix of confusion, curiosity and friendliness, he blinked rapidly. “Hello. I don't know you.”

The air stirred and her skin prickled with awareness, a sure sign the singing vet had moved into her radar range. Annoyed to be so vulnerable, she took a step to one side.

“Toby,” Trace said. “Come in and meet our new helper, Cheyenne.”

Expression sweet and friendly, the teen stuck out his hand. “Hi.”

Cheyenne took the spongy fingers in hers and shook. “Hello, Toby. I'm glad to know you.”

“Toby is my right-hand man,” Trace went on. “He keeps the kennels and cages in tip-top shape, feeds and waters and exercises. Couldn't run the place without him.”

Toby responded with a huge grin. “Dr. Bowman likes me. I'm a good worker.”

“I didn't see you on my first day. Were you here?”

“Wednesdays I'm not here. I got appointments. Doc cleans up for me. But the rest of the time, Toby does it.” He patted his chest with the flat of one hand.

Though wearing a man's body, Toby was childlike and likeable and touched a soft spot in her heart. “I noticed how clean the kennels are.”

“Yeah. Doc showed me how to make them really, really clean. Only put one little bitty cup of bleach in the bucket. Right, Doc?”

“Right, and no one does a better job than you.”

“Not even you?”

“Not even me.” Trace clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Did you need something, or just come inside to say hello?”

Toby slapped one hand against his thigh. “Oh. I almost forgot. I saw the bus. The bus is coming.”

Trace glanced at the round clock hanging on the wall. “Go ahead. Zoey knows you're meeting the bus. She'll be waiting for you.”

“You want me to bring her over here now. Right?”

“That's right. Grandma's not at the house today. Bring Zoey to the clinic. She can help you with the puppies.”

“Okay.” The boy's narrow eyes swerved to Cheyenne. “Are you Doc's new girlfriend?”

Cheyenne balked at the awkward question, but Trace took it in stride. “No romance in the clinic, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Now I do.” Toby shrugged, his wide flaccid shoulders arching high above his ears. “But she sure is pretty, ain't she?”

“Isn't she?” Trace asked.

Toby's head bobbled. “Yeah. She sure is. Even prettier than Miss Margo.”

Trace laughed.

Allowing a small smile as the endearing boy shuffled out the back door, Cheyenne couldn't help wondering:

Who was Miss Margo?

 

Less than ten minutes and one vaccination later, Toby returned, leading an exquisite little girl by the hand.

Around eight years old, the child was fine-boned and delicate. Cheyenne assumed this was Zoey, Trace's daughter, though they shared little resemblance. Where Trace had an outdoor tan and sun-bleached brown hair that he wore short and spiky, the little girl was
as naturally dark as Cheyenne. Her black hair was long and pulled straight back from an intelligent café au lait forehead with a stretchy headband. Where her father's eyes were the pure blue of a June sky, Zoey's were cobalt blue and rimmed in raven lashes.

“Here she is, Doc Bowman,” Toby said. “Safe and sound.”

“I knew I could depend on you, Toby.”

A proud smile lit the boy's moon face as he shuffled out of the room toward the kennels.

Dr. Bowman, who had barely slowed down all day, dropped what he was doing and went to the child. “How's my Zoey girl?”

Zoey lifted her arms. Trace pulled her up for a growling bear hug. Arms circling her father's neck, the little girl kissed him on the cheek with a loud smacking sound. “How's my daddy boy?”

“Beat like a drum.”

Zoey pounded both palms against his shoulders in tom-tom fashion. “Like a snare drum.”

This must have been a regular routine between the father and daughter because a silly exchange went on for a few more seconds. Then Trace lowered Zoey to his side and glanced toward Cheyenne.

“I want you to meet someone.”

The child's face titled up toward her dad. “More puppies to go with Frog and Toad?”

“Not animals. A real live person. But she's the one who brought us Frog and Toad.”

Zoey remained politely interested, though any child would prefer puppies to people. “Who is it?”

Trace placed his hands on Zoey's shoulders and turned her toward Cheyenne.

“Zoey, this is Cheyenne, my new assistant. Cheyenne, meet my daughter. She's seven.”

“Almost eight,” the little girl corrected.

“Hello, Zoey, who is almost eight.” Cheyenne smiled down. The child's gaze never connected with Cheyenne's, but her smile was wide and pleasant.

“She sounds nice, Daddy, like a grown-up but not old like Miss Ida June. Is she pretty, too?”

“Very pretty, Zoey. Her hair is black like yours.”

“Like Mommy's was?”

Trace cleared his throat. “Yes, like Mommy's, too.”

“Are her eyes blue like ours?”

Trace shot Cheyenne a pleading look as if to ask indulgence for this open discussion of her appearance. “No. They're brown.”

With a wistful sigh, Zoey said, “I wish I knew what brown looked like.”

Helpless sadness shrouded Trace's expression.

Then the seed that had been growing inside Cheyenne's thoughts sprouted with a sudden and painful certainty.

The exquisite little Zoey was blind.

 

Trace held his breath, waiting for Cheyenne's reaction. Most people were kind, but Zoey had suffered through more than one condescending soul who assumed she was either deaf or stupid in addition to being visually impaired. She wasn't. Her hearing was exceptional and she was smart, insightful and absolutely gifted with animals. If she could see, she would make a great vet.

At the last thought, his stomach tightened.
If
she could see.

Cheyenne Rhodes's expression never altered. She went down on one jean-clad knee in front of Zoey, and placed a light-fingered touch on each of Zoey's forearms.

“Well, Zoey,” she said, “brown is like chocolate pudding.”

Zoey's interested was piqued. So was his.

“It is?”

“Do you like chocolate pudding?”

“Yes! My grandma makes the best, best pudding ever.”

Cheyenne's smile was in her voice. “Then you'd like the color brown. Brown is smooth and rich and warm to the eyes in the same way chocolate pudding is to your tongue.”

A light went on behind his daughter's sightless eyes. With
wonder and excitement and hands extended, she spun toward Trace. “Dad, I know what brown is.”

“I guess you do.” He gripped her small fingers as he raised grateful eyes to his new employee and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Cheyenne hitched one shoulder in dismissal, but Trace held her gaze with his, longing to express his gratitude. Where Zoey was concerned he took no effort lightly. In thirty seconds, his new employee had done something he'd never known how to do. She'd given Zoey her first glimpse of color.

Behind the pretty face and aloof demeanor, Cheyenne Rhodes was more than a wounded bird for Redemption's healing waters. She was a very interesting woman.

Wouldn't the town matchmakers go wild if they heard him say that?

 

Three days later, Trace was finishing up another hectic twelve-hour day. What he hoped was the last of his patients had just left and Zoey had arrived, full of excitement about the elementary school's spring concert. While restocking supplies, Cheyenne was patiently listening to his daughter rattle on and on about learning to play “If You're Happy and You Know It” on the recorder.

“And some of the other kids who don't play recorder will stomp their feet like this.” Zoey marched out a three-beat rhythm. “It's gonna be awesome. Will you come?”

Cheyenne was quiet for a moment and the muscles in Trace's neck tightened. “Sure. I'd like to hear you play.”

Trace let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. He didn't care one way or the other if Cheyenne attended Zoey's concert, but he didn't want his daughter disappointed.

“Someday I'm going to play piano and flute and violin and everything. I might even be on TV and be famous.”

Cheyenne's soft laugh turned him around. He caught her eye and smiled. “My daughter the virtuoso.”

Her eyebrows flicked. “You never know.”

He still hadn't cracked the secret code of Cheyenne Rhodes, but he had figured out a few things about her. Though she presented a tough facade, she had a kind heart. She was gentle with the animals, and if not particularly warm to their owners, at least polite. She treated Toby and Zoey as if they were worthwhile people with something to add to the world. Not everyone did. And with Cheyenne, the kindness didn't seem to be an effort. She was real.

She was also a quick study and didn't back away from anything he asked her to do in the clinic. She might flinch, but she didn't back down.

He knew she'd taken an apartment at Kitty's motel, but other than work, she hadn't been seen around town. G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones made certain he knew that much. They seemed compelled to remind him that his civic and Christian duty included introducing her to Redemption.

He knew them well enough to recognize their less than subtle efforts to test the romantic waters. They did so with every single woman in town. Why should Cheyenne escape their machinations?

They conveniently ignored the fact that he and Margo were considered an item. Not that he was particularly happy about the erroneous assumption, but he simply hadn't had the time or the emotional energy to put a stop to a dead-end relationship.

With a rueful twist of his mouth, he shook his head. He wasn't too proud of himself. Margo deserved better.

“Dr. Bowman.” Jeri stuck her head around the edge of the wall. Her colorful beads and bright, cheery face brought a smile. “Pastor Parker's on the phone. One of his daughter's ewes is having trouble.”

“There goes my quiet night in front of the tube.”

Jeri snorted. She knew as well as he did that a quiet spring evening was an anomaly for a country vet.

Pastor Parker's daughter was a good hand with her sheep. If
Kylie was calling, the ewe was in more trouble than the young teen could handle.

“Tell them I'm on my way.”

“Will do, and Margo called earlier. Said to call her back.”

Trace grimaced. This was the second call today that he'd forgotten to return and he dreaded looking at his cell messages. He rarely answered his cell phone during business hours and never when he was in surgery. Margo would not be happy.

“Thanks. I'll call her on the way.” To Cheyenne and Zoey, he said, “Looks like we're having a baby lamb tonight. Want to go with me?”

Zoey leaped into the air, hands clapping. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Cheyenne didn't answer, so Trace tried again, this time focusing on her. “I may need your help.”

An overstatement, but Popbottle Jones's exhortation still rang in his mind; plus Trace had this unfathomable need to spend some one-on-one with his new employee. Maybe the Lord was prompting him. After all, the sheep belonged to the preacher. Shouldn't he take any opportunity to introduce newcomers to the pastor?

Still, Cheyenne hesitated, looking around as if an excuse was hard to find but she needed one.

“Overtime pay,” he coaxed. “Maybe even a burger.”

Zoey reached out, her graceful hands searching the air until she found Cheyenne's arm. “The baby lambs are so soft. Have you ever held a lamb?”

“No, I can't say that I have.”

“Wouldn't you like to? They're really, really cute, and they won't bite. If you get scared, I'll be right there with you. Lambs like me.”

Cheyenne's face softened. “I don't doubt that one bit.”

“So you'll go with us? I'm a good assistant but you have eyes.”

Cheyenne's tough facade melted. Zoey had a special way with all kinds of living creatures, including one standoffish female.