Finding Her Way Home

As the newcomer pulled away from the curb, Popbottle Jones rubbed his chin and watched her, knowingly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

G. I. Jack adjusted the bill of his cap, his focus also on the disappearing blue car. “Yep.”

“Miss Cheyenne Rhodes is in trouble.”

“Or runnin’.”

“That’s trouble, G.I.”

“Yep. I’ve known soldiers like that. Walking wounded.” He picked up a gunnysack of scavenged goods and hoisted the day’s finds over one shoulder.

“My thoughts exactly.” Popbottle Jones gave a wise nod and reached for his own sack. “Which means she’s come to exactly the right place.”

Chapter Two

Trace Bowman had never once regretted his decision to become a country veterinarian, but days like today stretched him to his limits. After a midnight house call to a local ranch, the clinic had been hopping with patients all day. Springtime brought puppies and calves and lambing ewes plus all manner of accidents, and as the only vet in town, he saw them all.

“Give her one of these morning and evening and bring her back to get the stitches out in about a week.” He stroked the still drowsy cat who’d had an unfortunate run-in with the radiator fan of her owner’s car. She was lucky to have come out with only a gash on her side.

“Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to keep you here so late. You look done in.”

With a grin, he scraped a weary hand down his face and heard the scratch of unshaved beard. No doubt, he looked worse than his patients. After the midnight emergency at Herman Wagner’s farm, he’d arrived at the clinic in time for the first surgery but not in time for morning ablutions. He’d done little more than scrub up and toss on a lab coat. He probably smelled worse than his patients, too. Without his mom to look after Zoey during those all-nighters, Trace didn’t know what he would do.

“No problem, Mrs. James. That’s what I’m here for. Call me if Precious needs anything else.” His staff had left an hour ago, but that was typical. With his house located next to the clinic, he was frequently the one who left last and locked up.

After Mrs. James’s departure, he made the rounds through the clinic, pausing to grin up at the lopsided sign hanging over the reception desk. Today is the Best Day Ever. He made a point to read the message morning and night as a reminder that each day was whatever he made of it. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. No matter how weary he was or how hectic the workload, he was a blessed man.

“Thanks, Lord,” he murmured and continued his rounds.

Six dogs and three cats were spending the night, but none were critical enough to need his attention again until morning. Out in the dog-run four animals awaited adoption. He was normally successful in finding homes for the strays, mostly because he offered six months of free vet service. The way he looked at it, whatever worked. Euthanasia was not his favorite procedure.

Margo called him a sucker, but his seven-year-old daughter thought he was the biggest hero in America for taking in strays. He’d accept Zoey’s opinion any day of the week, though Margo was a good woman. He liked her. They went to the same church and shared common interests, both being active in Redemption’s civic groups. The trouble with Margo was that she’d started dropping hints lately about moving the relationship to another level, but Trace was not ready to go there. He wanted to be but he wasn’t. Not yet anyway.

From the time Zoey’s mother died, he’d prayed for the Lord to send the right woman into his life. His little girl needed a mother even more than he needed a wife. But so far, his heart refused to cooperate.

As he stuck his hands beneath the faucets and gave them one last warm, soapy scrub before heading home, he heard the front door scrape open. The noise was loud in the quiet, empty clinic, made louder by echoing concrete floors and a door that needed adjustment. A late patient, no doubt. With a sigh and a growling belly, he grabbed a paper towel and headed toward the front of the building.

A woman stood in the waiting room. Trace stopped dead in his tracks and stared, the bottom falling out of his stomach.

Hovering uncertainly in the dim, shadowy light was a young woman in faded jeans, T-shirt and fitted leather jacket. With flowing black hair and a fit, trim build, she looked enough like his late wife to make him dizzy.

He pressed a finger and thumb to eyes gritty from fatigue. On the second blink, the similarities faded. He was tired. That was all. The woman before him had the same build and coloring, but where Pamela’s face was soft and ever smiling, this woman had a solemn-eyed toughness about her.

He tossed the towels at a trash can. “Can I help you?”

Her chin went up, her shoulders square as though she was ready to fight. Her gaze darted around the shadowy clinic before coming back to challenge him. His curiosity was piqued. Why did this pretty stranger need to be defensive? Had he done something he didn’t know about?

“Are you the vet?” The question was almost an accusation. “Dr. Bowman?”

“That’s me.” Trace intentionally relaxed and offered a smile to put the tightly wound woman at ease. “You must be new to Redemption. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

She thrust the box at him. “I found these stray pups on the side of the road.”

Trace lifted an eyebrow. So much for small talk. He accepted the carton and placed it on the reception counter. Blame it on his state of exhaustion, but her attitude was not giving him much desire to cooperate.

“What do you want me to do with them?”

Some of the attitude went out of her. She floundered. “Well, I—Two old bums in town sent me. They said—I thought—”

Trace’s sense of humor returned. “Popbottle Jones and G. I. Jack? They’re not bums. Characters, yes. Bums, no.”

“But they were Dumpster-diving.”

His mouth curved. She wasn’t the first to misjudge the two old dudes. “Don’t say that to them. They call their vocation recycling, taking care of the environment, going green.”

Her full bottom lip twitched and Trace felt an unexpected jolt of satisfaction. She’d be a knockout if she eased up and smiled more.

“Where I come from, Dumpster-diving is illegal.”

Trace gave her his best smile, wanting inexplicably to warm up this frosty lady. “And where exactly do you come from?”

Any hint of friendless faded so fast Trace thought he’d imagined it. “What about the puppies? Can you take them?”

Trace reached into the box and withdrew a fat, wiggling body, trying to decide exactly why this woman intrigued him. It was pretty obvious she didn’t like either men or vets or both. Or maybe she didn’t like anyone at all. A little nudge on the inside told him to play nice. Like G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones, there could be more to his visitor than met the eye.

“Why don’t you keep them?”

As if annoyed even more by the question, the woman fisted her hands on her hips. “As you noticed, I’m new in town. I have nowhere to take them even if I were inclined to do so.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Not in the least.”

“You don’t like animals?”

“Everyone likes puppies.”

Well, he felt better knowing that. “Where are you planning to stay?”

She took a step back as if the question was too personal. “I don’t know yet. Will the puppies be all right here?”

He could see her genuine concern and again, he felt better. Trace prided himself on his ability to read people and he suspected Miss Hard-as-nails had a marshmallow interior she didn’t want anyone to see. And that intrigued him more. What had happened to this pretty lady to make her so defensive?

“There’s only one motel in town. Widow Wainright’s place. Nothing fancy but clean and quiet and not too pricey. Tell her I sent you. Kitty will fix you up.”

Dark eyes narrowed as if analyzing his motive. “Where would I find this place? If I was interested.”

Oh, she was interested all right. Interested but cautious. The question was, why?