Trace was feeling pretty good as he polished off the remnants of a super-deluxe Angus burger with a basket of curly fries and listened to Cheyenne and Zoey jokingly bicker over the merits of mustard versus ketchup.
This was the third time in two weeks he’d been called out while Cheyenne was on duty and he’d brought her along. This was also the third time he’d insisted on buying burgers afterward.
Cheyenne was becoming an able assistant and he needed her on these calls. At least that’s what he told himself. And she didn’t seem to mind tagging along. Behind the tough-girl facade, Cheyenne’s emotions were not easy to read.
She and Zoey got on well, too. In fact, Cheyenne was more relaxed with Zoey than she was with him.
Why that mattered to him, he wasn’t sure just yet. The Lord was up to something where Cheyenne was concerned, but he hadn’t figured out what he was supposed to do about it. When Michelle Parker had mentioned church, Cheyenne had thrown up a roadblock faster than he could give a rabies injection.
But then, sometimes ministry was more than church. In fact, most of the time Trace was more comfortable sharing his faith in nonreligious situations. In his opinion, the day-to-day living, with God in the lead, drew people to Christ, not church attendance. Religion had caused him plenty of trouble in the past. God, on the other hand, was faithful. But he’d struggled a long time to figure that out and had blamed God for every problem.
Maybe Cheyenne was in the same boat.
He pointed a limp curl of potato at her. “Have you had a chance to see much of the town since you’ve been here?”
She lifted one eyebrow and said dryly, “I keep hours with you, remember?”
He grinned. “Guilty as charged.”
“Which means I’m on a first-name basis with a lot of animals and a handful of owners who think you are the world’s greatest vet.”
“The owners are easier to persuade than their pets.”
Cheyenne chuckled and Trace’s stomach lifted in happy response. Why did something as simple as a throaty laugh give him such pleasure?
“So, no, to answer your question. My explorations of Redemption have been limited by my workaholic boss.”
“Then I know just what the doctor will order. A genuine, five-star, escorted and narrated tour of the city’s hot spots.”
“Redemption has hot spots?” she asked doubtfully, one eyebrow arched in wry humor.
“Probably somewhere,” he said, feeling good to know he’d put the sparkle into those dark brown eyes. He was starting to understand her sense of humor. Behind the aloof attitude that kept her walled off from other people, Cheyenne wielded a dry wit and a razor-sharp mind. “But Zoey keeps a tight rein on her old dad. No hot spots for Dr. Daddy.”
“Oh, Daddy, you’re funny,” Zoey said, swirling a fry round and round in ketchup. “Daddy’s good with the tour, Cheyenne. You’ll like it.”
“The tour? Are you moonlighting, Doc? Vet by day, official Redemption tour guide by night?”
He liked when she teased him. “Official tour guides would be G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones. They know every alley, every creek, every house and the people in them.”
She pointed a straw at him. “And what’s in their trash cans, too?”
“Especially the trash cans.” He returned the point, slashing across the end of her straw with a fencing motion. She battled him for a few thrusts until his straw bent.
“Oops. Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
She shrugged, but the sparkle in her eyes gave him hope. Somewhere behind that defensive facade was a really fun woman. He was sure of it.
“So what’s the decision? Want the tour? Might as well accept. I’m relentless.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Tonight will be a quiet night. I feel it in my bones.”
“Last time Daddy said that, he took me to Grandma’s at ten and stayed gone all night.”
Trace reached over and tweaked Zoey’s nose. “Tattletale. Whose side are you on anyway?”
“Yours. And Cheyenne’s.” The delicate face swiveled in Cheyenne’s direction, though her eyes never made contact. “Say yes. It’s easier. Daddy’s not good with the word no.”
Cheyenne, soda straw to her lips, set the cup down abruptly and sputtered with laughter.
Trace, grinning, waited until she regained her composure to say, “She’s right, you know. I don’t take rejection well. And you are my employee.”
“Is that blackmail?”
“Pure and simple. So what will it be, the fifty-cent tour or the dollar one?”
Cheyenne reached into her jeans pocket, pulled out a wadded bill and slapped it on the table. “I’m feeling reckless. Let’s go for the whole buck.”
Spring brought more hours of sunlight, but the weather was cool and Cheyenne was glad for her jacket. The tour, as Trace and Zoey called their excursion, included a drive to the river bridge she’d admired her first day in town. She’d been meaning to come back and explore once she was settled, but hadn’t the time or inclination. Seeing the pretty old bridge with Trace and Zoey appealed more than it should.
Zoey Bowman was adorable, a gifted child whose lack of vision did nothing to dampen her joie de vivre. Cheyenne had wondered for days what happened to her eyesight. She’d also wondered about Zoey’s mother, but some things were too personal to ask. If Trace still grieved for his wife, she didn’t want to pry and stir up painful memories. Besides, she didn’t want anyone prying into her life. Why should she pry into theirs?
But she did wonder.
“This is a place everyone should see,” Trace was saying. “Without the river and this bridge for crossing, there would never have been a town called Redemption.”
He pulled the truck off the road and parked beneath a stand of willows at the end of the bridge where stone met earth.
“It looks old. Pretty, but old.”
“The bridge is old. Well, half the structure is. The other lane is an imitation built in modern times to match, but this side is still the original stone constructed for wagons and horses.”
The cop in her had to ask, “Is it safe?”
Trace shrugged as if he never worried about safety. Life must have treated him well in that respect. He was lucky.
“The county does the upkeep, but since the bridge is on the list of historical structures, I don’t know how they do it. But every part of the road, including the bridge, has to pass inspection or be closed. I’m certain it’s as safe as any.”
“Can we get out and look around?”
Zoey was already unbuckling her seat belt.
Trace reached for his. “I’d be a poor tour guide if I kept you trapped in a truck.”
An unexpected shiver wiggled up the back of her neck. Trapped in a vehicle. Not a good thought. A dark image rose behind her eyelids.
“If you look through those trees,” Trace was saying, “you can see where Redemption River curves toward town.”
Cheyenne shook off the tremor of anxiety and firmly blocked the images kaleidoscoping inside her head. The flashbacks hadn’t come in a long time. She wasn’t about to let them start again.
Unclicking her seat belt, she hopped outside, gripping the hard metal of the door.
The breeze was soft on her skin, whispering affirmations of life and safety. She was okay. Everything was fine. Tree leaves rustled. A car motored past. An insect droned nearby.
Normal sounds in the here and now.
“Cheyenne?”
She opened her eyes to find Trace standing two feet away, peering at her with concern.
“Want to walk down to the bank?”
Cheyenne took a deep, cleansing breath and let the air out slowly, somehow finding a weak smile. The man must think she was nuts to stand here on the side of the road with her eyes closed, gripping a truck door for dear life.
“Is someone fishing down there?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded thready and strange.
After watching her for one final, frowning moment—enough to let her know he’d noticed something was amiss—Trace shaded his eyes and looked through the lace of green leaves and grass toward the riverbank.
“Looks like G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones. Want to go down and say hello?”
Zoey tugged on her father’s hand. “Yes, Daddy. Let’s go. Come on, Cheyenne. Come on!”
Zoey’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Cheyenne couldn’t resist the special little girl. Never once had she heard the child complain about her handicap. The world could take a lesson from this seven-going-on-eight-year-old.
“I paid a dollar for this tour,” she said, forcing cheer into the words. “Might as well get my money’s worth.”
They headed down a sharp, grassy incline, skidding a little as they went. When she began to slide, Cheyenne reached for a tree limb, but Trace caught her elbow first. His grip, strong from work with large animals, held her steady.
She seldom let anyone touch her intentionally, but she didn’t pull away. Instead of feeling threatened, she was comforted by his strength.
She must be hallucinating.
“The river is always stinky down here,” Zoey said, nose wrinkled as she sniffed in a noisy rush of air. “But I like it.”
“This from a child raised in a veterinary clinic.” Humor crinkled the skin around Trace’s eyes.
“Oh, Daddy, puppies smell good. The clinic doesn’t stink.”
This time, Trace laughed. “That’s why God sent you to be my daughter.”
“And it’s a good thing, too, huh, Daddy?”
“A very good thing. Couldn’t live through the day without my Zoey. You’re my best girl.”
Zoey tilted her head in a knowing gesture. “Margo thinks she’s your best girl.”
Trace flicked a glance at Cheyenne, but his expression was unreadable. Quietly, he said, “Margo’s only a friend. You and I have talked about that before.”
His reply sent a burst of energy zipping along Cheyenne’s nerve endings. She tried to tamp back the rush of emotion, but, good or bad, there it was. She was glad Trace Bowman wasn’t married or involved.
Biting hard on her bottom lip, she pretended to focus on the trail ahead, but her mind was on Trace Bowman, on the soft denial, on the way his powerful fingers steadied her elbow, on the kindness he’d shown her since their first meeting.
That was it. Kindness. Like a dog that had been kicked and starved for attention, she was responding to this man’s innate kindness. That was what this rush of feeling was all about. Kindness. Nothing more.
There was nothing else left for a woman like her.
“I can walk the rest of the way without help,” she said, abruptly pulling her arm from his grasp.
Trace shot her a look of surprise but didn’t argue when she held back, letting him go ahead.
Zoey held tight to her daddy’s other arm, feeling her way with her sneakered feet. Trace moved patiently, giving her time, though Cheyenne thought the little girl was amazingly confident.
When they reached the bottom of the incline, Trace glanced back at her. “Okay?”
“Fine.” She skidded the last few feet and made her way toward the shoreline. Something in Trace’s questioning glance made her regret her edginess. Why did she have to be so jumpy? The man was kindness personified. Not a threat. Except maybe to her heart. She might be crazy, but she wasn’t stupid enough to fall in love again.
“The water is red,” she said, more for something to say than because she cared.
Trace touched her elbow but as if recalling her rejection a few moments ago, let his hand fall to his side. Cheyenne experienced a quiver of both relief and disappointment.
“Different from the clear streams of Colorado, I guess,” his warm baritone said. “A lot of Oklahoma dirt is red, so our rivers tend to be reddish. When old Jonas Case settled here, the river was the main reason. I don’t think he cared one bit if the water was red and muddy. Water was life.”
“I’ve never given history much thought, but toting water from a river every day for laundry or dishes or drinking—for everything—must have been difficult.”
Cheyenne’s thoughts were anywhere but on history and a muddy river named Redemption. Trace was an animal doctor, a nurturer, a healer. Touching was as natural for him as breathing. She shouldn’t read anything into a simple touch on the elbow.
An emotional wreck, that was what she was. Being with normal people who didn’t know about her was a stark reminder of just how different she was now. If Trace knew, he wouldn’t touch her. Like Paul, he’d try to be kind but he’d soon pull away, using lame excuses. He had a meeting. He had to work out. His mother had called.
In the end, when the excuses were gone, so was he.
“Jonas and his friends dug a well at the town’s center,” Trace said.
What was he talking about? Oh, right, water, the river, the first settlers.
“A central well made life a little easier. But old Jonas believed in baptizin’, as he called it. So he’d haul new converts out here every Sunday in his wagon, whether they wanted to come or not, and dunk them until they shouted hallelujah.”
“And what did he do if they didn’t shout hallelujah?”
“Drowned them.”
Cheyenne laughed in spite of herself. “No, he didn’t.”
Trace’s eyes twinkled. “The Old West was a wild time and from all reports, old Jonas had been a wild man. You never know.” Sobering, he pointed downstream. “Some folks claimed the water washed all their problems down the river and right out into the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Do you believe that stuff?”
“Do I believe the water washed away their trouble? No. Nothing special in the water. But I believe God can repair whatever’s broken inside a person. I’m living proof.”
She blinked at the easy admission. “Seriously? You seem so—” she shrugged “—I don’t know. Together, I guess.”
He gave a derisive snort. “God’s still working on me. But when I first came to Redemption I was a mess with a capital M. Old Jonas Case would have drowned me in this river for sure.”
The hardworking, kindhearted Trace Bowman, a mess? Like her? No way.
She wanted to hear more, but by now they were nearing the ragtag pair of old men who stood on the bank, fishing lines dangling in the gurgling waters. Before Cheyenne could pry into Trace’s private life, one of the men called out.
“Ahoy, there! Is that the doc and little Zoey?”
Trace lifted a hand in greeting. “It is.”
“Who’s that with you? Cheyenne Rhodes?”
Trace and Cheyenne exchanged glances.
“How did he know?”
Trace widened his eyes as if to say he had no clue. “Yes, sir, this is her. We’re taking the tour.”
“Well, come on over and say howdy. Me and Popbottle was just talking about our new lady in town. Wasn’t we, Popbottle?”
“Indeed. Had we not seen you, we would have inquired tomorrow at the clinic about her well-being.”
Why would two old bums care about her?
The bank was damp and her boots sank slightly into the mud as she approached the odd pair. Gingerly, she lifted her boot for a look.
Trace noticed and said, “Beats what I slog through every day.”
She made a face. He grinned.
Trace Bowman had the best grin, one of those eye-squinting, dimple-deepening, full-faced grins that could charm anyone into anything. Like Paul Ramos.
She dropped her boot to the ground and sighed.
Don’t go getting distracted, Cheyenne. Men are men.
Behind the fisherman, two rewoven lawn chairs were perched a few feet from the water. An old metal box, the hinges wired together, hung open like a wide mouth pouring out fishing lures, red and white floats, shiny gold hooks.
“Catching anything?” Trace asked.
“Not a bite all afternoon.” Popbottle Jones sounded as chipper as if he’d caught a truckful.
“Why are you still at it?”
“Fishing and prayer go together like bologna and cheese.” G. I. Jack made the statement as though it made sense.
Cheyenne studied the older fellow with interest. Wearing his usual bedraggled army cap and jacket, he hadn’t shaved in a while and hair sprouted from his face as well as from the sides of the cap and the tops of his ears. Today, a slice of pizza protruded from his shirt pocket. Pepperoni.
“What my compatriot means is that a man can solve many problems with a fishing rod in hand, the sun warming his back and the Lord Almighty on his shoulder.” Popbottle Jones placed a light hand on Zoey’s hair. Cheyenne expected his nails to be dirty. They weren’t. “Zoey, my girl, keep an eye on my line, will you please?”
Zoey giggled and took the offered fishing rod in her small hands, unoffended by the impossible request. “Popbottle says I can see with my heart.”
“We all can. You’re just better at it.” The interesting old man squatted beside the metal box and rummaged around, coming out with a black rubber worm. “Ah, this should do the trick. No bass can resist a black worm. So tell me, Cheyenne Rhodes, how do you like our fair city?”
Hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, Cheyenne answered, “I like it. It’s quiet and peaceful.”
Focused on threading the plastic worm onto a hook, he said, “A telling remark, I’m sure you realize. One who seeks peace must understand what it means to be without peace.”
“Everyone needs peace and quiet,” she said, a little too defensively. What was the deal with these people? Had she stumbled upon a town full of wannabe psychiatrists? Or just a bunch of religious nuts?
No, that wasn’t fair. People in Redemption had gone out of their way to be kind and helpful. Just because she had a chip on her shoulder and a knot in her gut wasn’t their fault.
“Have you been to the well yet?” the old man asked casually, still at work on the fishing lure.
“The well?” she asked, lifting a brow toward Trace. “The town well?”
The three men exchanged looks that Cheyenne didn’t comprehend.
“Go on, Doc,” G. I. Jack prodded. “Take her to see the well.”
A weird feeling came over her.
What was the big deal about a well?