Finding Her Way Home (9 page)

“I'm not into metaphysical hocus-pocus.”

“God isn't hocus-pocus, Cheyenne. He's real and He really cares. Who's to say He can't use a small town and the people in it to help hurting people?”

“I wish forgetting was as easy as that.”

Forgetting? What terrible thing had happened that she didn't want to remember?

“I never said it was easy, but God is here and He cares. I know that for a fact. If I gave you a devotional, would you read it?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe.”

Though disappointed that she hadn't opened up, he felt they'd made progress somehow.

The door from the garage into the house opened. Buttery yellow light from the kitchen flowed out in a rectangle. Trace was always amused that his daughter turned on the lights.

“Are you out there, Daddy?”

“Coming, pumpkin.”

The little head disappeared and the door closed, shutting off the light again.

“Maybe she's scared in there by herself.”

“Zoey? No. She's waiting for dear old Dad's popcorn.”

“Ah, the chili-cheese specialty. We'd better get moving.”

Though she'd told him nothing concrete, Trace was feeling pretty good as he pocketed the keys and went around to open the door for Cheyenne. For once, she let him.

An inward smile filled his chest. More progress.

Without giving the action any thought, he reached for her hand to help her down from the tall chassis. Again, she let him. And the smile in his chest expanded.

She hopped to the concrete and he stepped back. “Let me turn on the overhead light,” he said. “This garage is full of junk. You could break your neck in here in the dark.”

He pressed the remote and heard the rumble of the garage door closing and then left Cheyenne standing in the glow of the dome light as he trotted to the wall switch.

He heard a sharp intake of breath.

“I have to get out of here.”

The odd statement stopped him in his tracks.

“Let me out.” She sounded scared, her voice strangled in the back of her throat.

He slapped the light switch and spun around. “Cheyenne?”

Her dark skin had paled and she was breathing hard and fast. He started toward her.

“Don't.” She held out her hand in stop-sign fashion and he saw she was shaking. “Don't.”

She was looking toward him, but she wasn't looking
at
him. It was as though she saw someone else.

Hair rose on the back of his neck. What was going on?

Eyes wide and glazed, she backed away, toward the closed garage door.

As he would with a frightened animal, Trace kept his voice soft and soothing, but moved slowly toward her. “Cheyenne? What's wrong? Talk to me.”

By now, she was trembling like a wet kitten, her chest rising and falling as if she'd made ten laps around the clinic. With a strangled cry, she whirled away and pounded at the closed garage door.

“I have to get out. Let me out. Let me out now!”

In three steps he reached her and did what came naturally. He turned her around and into his arms. She stiffened, struggling against him, but he held on, softly murmuring her name.

“What's wrong, Chey? What scared you? You're okay. I'm here. You're okay. Do you hear me? You're okay.” As she trembled against him, he kept on talking, hoping to break through the terror he felt emanating from her body. On pure gut instinct, he said, “You're safe, Cheyenne. No one will hurt you ever again. I promise. Never again.”

The trembling continued but she stopped resisting and went
limp against him. He didn't know what else to do so he went on holding her and whispering reassurances and promises to keep her safe. All the while, his mind chanted a prayer for guidance.

Something really bad had happened. And something about this garage had triggered a memory so dreadful she'd gone to pieces before his eyes.

God, help me. Help her.

“You're safe, baby. You're okay.” He didn't know what else to say, so he kept on talking and praying, stroking her hair and her back as he would have Zoey's.

After a couple of minutes, she sucked in a shaky breath and pulled away. Instantly, he missed her, missed the way she'd curved into him as if made to fit there, missed the scent of her hair.

Averting her gaze, she crossed her arms protectively.

Still shaking, she licked her lips and whispered, “You must think I'm crazy.”

He studied her stance, defensive but vulnerable. “No, but I think something's wrong. Talk to me, Cheyenne. I want to help.”

She turned to the side, her profile tragic. “I don't like garages. Will you open the door, please? I have to get out of here.”

He pressed the remote. The old door trembled and groaned as it rose. As soon as the door cleared, she stepped out into the darkness. “I should go.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

She stared into the darkness. “I can't.”

His gut clenched in disappointment. “Can't or won't?”

“Something happened a long time ago and I get claustrophobic.”

“Claustrophobic?” Her terror had been far more than claustrophobia.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if the temperature was freezing. “Yes. That's all. No big deal.”

He didn't believe her. “Okay.”

A beat passed while one lone tree frog croaked out a sad love song.

She started to walk away.

“Hey.” She shouldn't leave this way, shaken and upset. “What about that popcorn?”

She turned back, indecision on her face. “I should go.”

“Because of a little claustrophobia? Come on. Be a sport.” Even though her car was still parked at the clinic only a short walk from his house, he'd worry about her all night if she left now.

“I can't. I'm sorry.” With an expression that touched him to the marrow, she stalked away into the darkness.

Trace stood there, stunned and bewildered, until her car started and the lights swung out onto Mercy Street and disappeared.

Raising his head to the sky, he whispered, “Okay, Lord, what just happened? And what do you expect me to do about it?”

C
heyenne sat up most of the night thinking about the incident. She hadn't a flashback in months, but her therapist in Colorado Springs had warned her they could return without warning and continue for years.

But why now? And why in front of Trace, a man she actually respected and liked? A lot. He probably thought she was some kind of psycho.

Twice she opened her cell phone to call him but chickened out. Once she'd almost called her brother, but he wouldn't want to hear about it. Her flashbacks frightened him. Well, they scared her, too. Finally, she'd walked over to Kitty's pretty little cottage, but the lights were out. With a heart as heavy as a freight train, she'd gone back to her apartment and read the Bible Kitty kept in every room.

She'd wanted the words to help the way Trace and Kitty claimed they would. They hadn't, but interestingly enough, she'd fallen asleep while reading. If that was all the Bible was good for, she'd take it. A few hours of peaceful sleep was a rare gift.

By the time she walked into the clinic the next morning, carrying two dozen doughnuts from the Sugar Shack, she was prepared to be fired. She'd say her goodbyes, check out of the motel and drive south until she ran out of gas.

A sick feeling gripped her belly. She didn't want to leave Redemption.

As she turned down the clinic hallway, Trace stepped out of an exam room, drying his hands on a paper towel. He spotted her and stopped dead still.

Her heart lurched. Here was another reason she didn't want to leave.

“Good morning,” Trace said, his voice gravelly as though he hadn't slept well either.

“About last night—” she started.

He raised a palm. “Are you all right?”

The question melted her. He should be annoyed at her bizarre behavior and instead he expressed concern. How did she protect her battered heart against a man like that?

“Other than feeling stupid and embarrassed, I'm okay.”

Tired blue eyes scoured her face. “Did I do something? Was it my fault?”

“No! Trace, no.” The bakery bags whispered like dry leaves as she took another step forward. She was sorely tempted to touch him in reassurance, a temptation that both stunned and pleased her. “The problem is me. I'm—” She'd wondered all night what excuse would be enough. “I really am claustrophobic about closed garages. I freaked out.” An understatement. “You couldn't have known.”

The reply sounded reasonable. She hoped he'd buy it. He didn't. A man as intelligent and tuned in to people and animals as Trace would look deeper.

“What happened in Colorado, Cheyenne? What are you hiding from?”

Before she could formulate a half-truth reply, Toby ambled in the side door that led out to the kennels. The serious undercurrents were lost on him. With his usual happy demeanor, he said hello, then shuffled on past and into the storeroom for cleaning supplies. As soon as Toby was out of sight, Trace took Cheyenne's arm and tugged her into the exam room he'd just come out of.

“I'm your friend. I want to help.”

“I know. Your understanding means a lot to me.”

“But you don't want to talk about Colorado.”

The poor man had no idea what he was asking. If she told him the truth, he'd get that look, the one she'd seen too many times, the look that spoke sympathy and horror and, ultimately, withdrawal. No one wanted to be around her after they knew.

“I had some bad experiences, okay?” One really, really bad experience.

“Does this have anything to do with a guy?”

Cheyenne could feel the color draining from her skin. A man's evil leer flashed through her head.

“A boyfriend, I mean? Is there some guy waiting back in the Rockies who I should be worrying about?”

Worrying about? What did he mean by that?

“No, no guy. Not anymore.”

“But there was?”

“I was engaged. He's marrying someone else.” The admission came without the usual stab of hurt and betrayal.

Sympathetic understanding flared in Trace's eyes. “So that's the problem. He broke your heart and you ran away.”

That was only part of the issue, but if knowing about Paul satisfied Trace's curiosity, Cheyenne didn't care what he believed. “I'm over him.”

Maybe she really was. Maybe she'd never loved Paul in the first place. She'd certainly never really known him.

Trace propped a hip on the exam table and crossed his arms. “I'm glad.”

“So I'm not fired?”

“Do you want to be?”

“No.” She held up the white bakery bags. “I brought doughnuts as peace offerings.”

“Maple?”

“And chocolate. With sprinkles.”

That full-out, dimple-activating grin wreathed his face. “I made coffee an hour ago. It's probably sludge by now. Want some?”

She grinned back, relieved beyond words. If he thought she was crazy, he wasn't letting her know.

“Sludge is good after a sleepless night.”

“You, too, huh?” He led the way to the cluttered room they all used for the rare moments of relaxation. A sink, a small table, a few metal cabinets, a refrigerator and a low counter were crammed with odds and ends. He went to the coffeepot and poured two cups.

“Straight up?” he asked.

“Hot and strong and blacker than midnight.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

The phrase was used all the time, so she tried not to read anything into the words, but a thin glow of pleasure went down with the first scalding sip of sludge. Before she realized what she was saying, she asked, “Could I get a rain check on that chili-cheese popcorn?”

Trace, his cup halfway to his lips, paused. “Seriously?”

She owed him. That was all. And she needed to prove to them both that she could go to his house without freaking out.

The house she could deal with. The garage was another matter.

“No woman can resist a bachelor's secret recipe for popcorn.” She tried to keep the words light but they were partly true. At least, the part about not being able to resist a certain bachelor.

“Then you're on, tough girl.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “Tonight.”

“Tough girl?” Her lips curved above the cup.

He looked abashed. “That's the way I think of you. That chip on your shoulder. Your attitude. Tough girl.”

“I wasn't so tough last night.”

“Last night is forgotten. Today is the best day ever.” Trace quoted the plaque hanging over the reception desk.

“No use wasting it.”

He was definitely a Pollyanna. An irresistible quality, though Cheyenne figured she
was
crazy for spending any more time with him than her job required, but she had come to Redemption to start fresh. Might as well start tonight.

 

“Well, here we are, home sweet home.” Trace pushed the front door open and let Cheyenne enter before him. The sleeve of her jacket brushed his arm, making her too aware of him again.

He had a powerful effect on her, and she was certainly old enough to recognize the signs. Attraction.

With Trace at her side, she entered the foyer that opened into the living room, a cozy space with a white fireplace and rust-colored furniture. A console piano gleamed with polish near a pair of sheer-draped windows.

“Your house is pretty,” she said.

“My mom gets credit for that,” he said.

As they approached the interior, Zoey, seated cross-legged at a low table, titled her head. “Who's with you, Daddy? Cheyenne?”

“How did you know?”

Zoey shrugged. “I can just tell.”

“She has radar,” Trace said, with a grin. “We figure she picks up sound and spatial clues—probably scent, too—but I'm still baffled when she does it.”

A computer, earphones and an array of books and other school items were strewn around the second-grader. Two familiar-looking black puppies played at her side.

“I see you talked your dad into bringing Frog and Toad home with you.” Cheyenne bent down to rub the silky fur.

“I'm the socializer. Playing with them makes them easier to adopt.”

“And you love your job.” Trace scrubbed his knuckles over the top of her head. “Admit it.”

Zoey tilted her face upward. “Yeah. I love puppies. And kitties. And lambs.”

“And any other living creature.”

“Yes.”

“Where's Grandma?” he asked, looking around as if he expected the woman to pop out of the woodwork.

“Right here, son.” A round-figured woman with neatly coiffed sun-kissed hair and Trace's blue eyes entered from the far end of the living room. She shot a curious but friendly glance at Cheyenne.

“I'm Zoey's grandmother, Janie Bowman.”

“I'm Cheyenne Rhodes. It's a pleasure to meet you. What is that amazing smell?”

“Mexican casserole.” Janie patted her hip bones. “Loaded with fat and calories but you can afford it. I hope you're staying for dinner.”

Trace looped an arm around his mother's shoulders. “That's the plan. Thanks, Mom.”

She patted his cheek, an action Cheyenne found amusing. Trace was such a man, but to his mother he was still a boy.

“Gotta run, darlin'. The casserole is ready in the oven whenever you want to eat. Dad and I have dance class tonight.”

“Knock 'em dead.”

Janie Bowman kissed Zoey on the cheek and breezed out the door with a backward wave.

“She seems really nice.”

“Mom's the best. I couldn't have survived without her help. She and Dad—” He stopped and shook his head. “They're awesome. When I bought the animal clinic, they sold their place near Tulsa and moved here, too. According to them, they wanted to retire to a quiet, friendly little town where Dad could garden and Mom could be more involved in the community.”

“Do they do those things?”

“Oh, sure, but Zoey and I are the real reasons they came.”

“You're lucky.”

“Blessed. What about you?” he asked, crossing muscled forearms over his chest. “You have family somewhere?”

“Mom died when I was seventeen, but my dad and brother, Brent, still live in Colorado.”

“Miss them?”

“A lot.”

The unspoken question was on his face. Why wasn't she with them? But Trace was kind enough not to push.

Instead he turned his attention to his daughter. “So, how is the homework coming, Zoey girl?”

“Okay. I have to do this math paper, but I don't get it.”

“What's not to get?” He went down on his haunches beside her, their shoulders touching, and ran his fingers over the page. There was no print, only raised bumps.

“You read Braille?” Cheyenne came to stand behind them, tempted to rest a hand on his shoulder. She didn't, of course.

“Have to. We both started learning when Zoey was about three, but Punkin-head here learned faster than I did. Her fingers fly. Mine still have to think about what I'm reading.”

“Oh, Daddy, fingers can't think.” Zoey lifted her face. “He always says silly things like that.”

Cheyenne responded with a smile and then remembered that Zoey wouldn't know. The little girl was so well adapted that she often forgot.

“Three years old? I'm impressed. Do you attend regular school? I don't know how that works.”

“Regular school,” Trace said. “She has a classroom aid, but the goal is for her to be self-functioning with modifications by next year.”

“Isn't that expecting a lot?”

“The world is sighted. She has to learn to live in it.”

“She seems incredibly well adjusted to me already.”

“Ah, she's all right.” Trace pulled Zoey against him and kissed her forehead, pride in his touch and face. “For a punkin-head.”

The little girl glowed with pleasure. “You're okay, too, for a silly monkey.”

“So what's the problem with math?”

The telephone jangled. Zoey bolted up and grabbed the receiver.

“Dr. Bowman's residence,” she said. Then her shoulders slouched. Apparently, the caller was not who she'd hoped. She held out the receiver. “For you, Daddy.”

Trace took the phone and began to talk. Cheyenne immediately surmised that the caller was a patient. When he hung up, Trace confirmed her suspicions.

“I have to run out to Greg Teague's place and look at a cow. Want to ride along?”

“Daddy,” Zoey said. “Please no. I have homework to finish and teacher said I should practice my keyboard. I don't want to go.”

“You have to, Zoey. Grandma has plans tonight.”

Without argument, Zoey started to gather her things. She'd been through this hundreds of times.

“I can stay here with Zoey,” Cheyenne offered, feeling bad for the little girl. “You go on and take care of your patient.”

Zoey clasped her hands in front of her and hopped up and down. “Will you really, Cheyenne? I'd love that. Say yes, Daddy. Please! Cheyenne can stay with me.”

Trace swung his gaze to Cheyenne. “You serious?”

“Sure. We'll have fun. We'll play with the puppies and talk girl talk and maybe even play some games. Helping with math is out, though. I'm not as smart as Zoey. I can't read Braille.”

“Zoey can handle the homework until I get back.” Trace was already donning his jacket. “Go ahead and eat, too. There's no way of knowing how long I'll be gone.” He paused at the door. “Are you sure about this, Cheyenne?”

Was he worried that she'd freak out again? “Go, Trace. Zoey and I will be fine. I promise.”

“You have my cell number. Call if you need me.”

He trusted her with his child. The pleasure surging through Cheyenne was all out of proportion to the event.

Even after she'd gone psycho in his garage, Trace still accepted and trusted her.

 

Trace heard the rich, happy notes of piano music the moment he shut off the truck engine. He hopped out of the cab and popped the locks, then stood in the darkened garage listening.