Finding Her Way Home

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 Popbottle 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.”