Finding Her Way Home

How did they know where she was staying?

“Well, let’s see.” Miriam took the order pad, ripped off a page, turned the sheet over and began to write. When she finished, she handed the short list to Cheyenne. “A lot of places have shut down in the past few months or cut back. The economy, you know. But these are worth a shot.”

“I appreciate your help.” As Cheyenne started to fold the list, Miriam reached for the paper again.

“Wait. I thought of one more place. G.I. said you like dogs.”

Cheyenne had a feeling she knew what Miriam was writing. Sure enough, when she took the paper, there he was again—Trace Bowman.

By noon, she’d gone through the list of potential employers and found nothing but a town filled with mostly friendly folks and an assortment of entertaining characters. Worse, she kept hearing about the bad economy and Trace Bowman.

“Is there some kind of conspiracy in this town to find the vet an assistant?” she muttered as she slid behind the wheel of her car and slammed the door, discouraged.

Just as she cranked the engine, her cell phone jingled.

Cheyenne’s eyebrows lifted. Brent again? She punched Talk. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Right. Two calls in one day means something. What’s up?”

“No hurry, but if you’re settling in Weirdo-ville for a while, I’ll forward your mail. You’ve got some bills here.”

“Lovely. More bills. I thought I had everything paid. What are they?”

She heard the swish of paper as he shifted through the envelopes and rattled off a few minor debts. “Anything major?”

“Law offices of Windom and Green…”

Cheyenne groaned. She’d already paid them an enormous amount. “How much is that one?”

“I’ll have to open it.”

“Go ahead.”

She heard the rip and then the hiss of indrawn breath.

“Wow.” He named a sum that made her gasp as well. Her remaining severance pay from the police department wouldn’t cover the amount. The price of proving oneself guilty of nothing except being a madman’s victim was exorbitant.

After giving Brent the address of the motel and assuring him she had everything under control, she flipped the cell phone shut and leaned her head on the steering wheel. On the floorboard lay Miriam Martinelli’s job list. With a sigh of resignation, she picked up the paper. All but one suggestion was crossed off.

Dr. Trace Bowman.

“Dr. Bowman, Barry is on the phone. His raccoon has diarrhea.” Jeri Burdine, the middle-aged assistant who answered the phones and maintained the clinic accounts, peered around the doorway of Exam Room One. Bright beads rattled at the ends of tidy black cornrows.

Trace barely looked up from examining a dog with a high fever.

“Tell Barry the treatment’s the same as usual. Give him a teaspoon of Kaopectate every four hours as needed. No food, but a lot of liquids, especially Gatorade. Bring him in if he’s not better tomorrow.” Ten-year-old Barry was a kid after his own heart. He rescued critters, the latest being a baby raccoon whose mother had been hit by a car.

The coffee-brown face flashed a grin. “Will do.”

A cacophony of yapping dogs had Trace raising his voice to be heard. “And tell Toby to check that sheltie pup in the kennel again. I have a bad feeling.”

“Got it.” Jeri’s wide hips sashayed away with her usual cheerful efficiency. Some days he wished for a dozen Jeris. Days like today.

One hand around a slim muzzle, Trace slid a needle into the dachshund on the table. The clinic was busier today than yesterday. Every member of his staff was moving as quickly as possible but the line in the waiting room grew longer. His thoughts flashed to Cheyenne Rhodes, the woman he’d tried to hire last night. Too bad she’d turned him down. He would have hired three of her, bad attitude and all.

Gently, he opened the dog’s mouth and shone a flashlight inside for the owner to see. “She has a bad tooth that needs to come out but not until the infection resolves. This shot will get her started but you’ll need to give her some pills at home.”

“So that’s why she won’t eat.”

“Would you?”

The teen shuddered. “No way. Poor baby.”

Once Trace was finished, the teen gathered the dog into her arms and left. As he walked her down the hallway to the reception desk, Cheyenne Rhodes came striding through the entrance. As had happened last night, his heart jump-started. The bristly woman had a strange effect on his cardiac muscle.

“Afternoon,” he said, suddenly not as busy as he thought he was. “Here to see the puppies?”

“Not really.” She tossed her hair back in a self-conscious gesture. “I mean, I’d like to, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“No?” Trace felt a bewildering zing of energy. “All right, then. Come on back. We’ll talk while you say hello to the pups. They’ll like that.”

He led the way down the hall, past a room in which his bubbly red-haired assistant, Jilly Fairmont, was grooming a poodle, and made a left turn toward the kennel area. “I hope you don’t mind the smell of bleach. We disinfect the pens and floors a couple of times a day.”

“Smells clean to me.”

Her acceptance pleased him. Some women, specifically Margo, curled her nose and avoided the kennel as much as possible. He should have understood, but her reaction had always hurt his feelings.

“Here they are. Frog and Toad. My daughter named them after her favorite book characters.” He squatted before the wire kennel and clicked up the latch. Zoey named all the animals, no matter how brief their stay. “Hey, little dudes. Look who came to see you.”

His shoes scraped the concrete as he pivoted toward Cheyenne. She crouched down as well, bringing her lean, jean-clad form close to his. He was a Christian but he was also a man, and it was difficult not to notice how pretty she looked in snug jeans and fitted top.

Handing her one of the pups, he kept the other, and watched as Cheyenne raised the animal to her cheek and closed her eyes. The pup rewarded her kindness with a few licks.

Jilly poked her head into the kennel. Rust-colored freckles stood out against pale white skin. “Doctor, we’re ready in the surgery suite when you are.”

“Be right there.” He glanced at his visitor. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. You can stay with the puppies as long as you like.”

She rose with him, still cradling the small dog. “Before you go—about that job you offered last night…”

He stopped in his tracks, surprised but hoping. “Are you asking if the offer still stands?”

She bit down on her lip before saying a reluctant “Yes.”

Trace studied the darkly pretty woman before him. She didn’t want to take the job, but she was going to. He probably should resent her attitude, but he was just glad she’d come back. He suspected that Cheyenne needed the job for more reasons than a paycheck. Maybe the Lord had sent her. Maybe she needed the warm, accepting love of cats and dogs.

And he could use the help. Maybe he also wanted to know her better. For ministry purposes of course. And if he was a little too happy about the prospect of getting to know Cheyenne Rhodes, so be it.