“You’ve got that look.”
G. I. Jack thumped a thick white mug on the table, talking loud enough that the mayor, the banker and three of Trace’s patients turned from their hearty Sugar Shack breakfasts to gaze curiously at the vet.
Trace, himself nursing a cup of strong, black coffee and the beginnings of a headache, squinted at the old codger. “You mean the look that says I treated three coon hounds for copperhead bites before sunrise?”
His head felt like a hot air balloon, and he wondered if bug-eyed-from-exhaustion was the look G. I. Jack referred to.
“Ha. Not even close. You look that way every day.”
Miriam appeared, topped off their coffee with a smile and moved on, alternately grousing at and teasing customers as she worked. That was Miriam, a mix of gruff and cranky, sweet and kind.
The Shack was packed as usual on a weekday morning. Smells guaranteed to cause Pavlov-type behaviors floated around the cramped bakery and friendly chatter competed with the clatter of cups and plates. A couple of fellas sat at the counter, perusing the morning paper, probably talking politics and baseball. Last he’d heard the Redemption Rouges had only lost one game.
Not that he’d seen one. Trace rarely had time to do more than grab a box of doughnuts. The early morning call, while robbing him of sleep, allowed a longer stop at the Sugar Shack for friendship and plenty of Miriam’s rich-roast coffee.
He took a long, noisy sip.
“You and Cheyenne enjoy the movie last night?”
Oh. This was about Cheyenne. After the night on the bridge, their relationship had shifted. Though neither voiced the change, he no longer had to use after-hours calls as an excuse to be with her. He asked. She accepted.
She’d even begun attending Kitty’s Bible study, a move that caused a veritable symphony in his spirit.
“She understands the well now,” he said simply, partly to share the good news and partly to deflect the question.
Popbottle Jones, who had been deep in conversation at another table, returned, carrying a brown paper sack filled with 8-track tapes. Trace didn’t even know the things existed anymore. Knowing Popbottle Jones and G. I. Jack, they’d concoct some use for the outdated recordings and probably make money in the deal.
“She stopped by the house one day.” Popbottle turned to G. I. Jack. “Saturday evening, wasn’t it?”
“Seems to be my recollection, though my memory ain’t what she once was.”
The fact that Cheyenne had visited the two old gentlemen came as a surprise to Trace. She hadn’t said a word.
“I believe she’s on the mend, Doc.” The dignified old man, dressed in his ever-present suit of castoffs—this one of olive worsted—nodded sagely. “Did she mention how her Saturday afternoon library circle has grown by yet another woman?”
Trace was impressed with the library circle, as Cheyenne called the weekly meeting of abused women. Though Emma remained in the home with Ray, she was studying for her GED at the library, a class Cheyenne had arranged. Maybe someday she’d stand on her own two feet. Cheyenne was ecstatic with her progress. He was ecstatic with Cheyenne, though he was afraid to let that bit of news out on the wind just yet.
He still worried about her and the other woman, given the husband’s predilection for rage. So far, nothing volatile had occurred. He hoped the peace lasted.
“She has. I understand I have you to thank for the latest addition.”
“Favor Lee’s been down the road of domestic violence and come out on the other side, stronger and better. We figured her experience would give the other women encouragement that they, too, can be happy and safe again.”
Cheyenne’s little group now consisted of five, including herself. And she was badgering the Chamber and the Town Council and anyone else who would listen to investigate the feasibility of opening a shelter in Redemption.
He had a sudden memory of her eyes, darker than Miriam’s espresso, as she spoke of her plans. She wanted to make a difference. Trace had no doubt she would.
“She’s amazing,” he said.
Popbottle Jones arched one bushy white eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you knew Favor Lee that well.”
Heat crept up Trace’s neck and burned in his ears. The two old dudes burst out laughing.
“I told you so,” G. I. Jack guffawed. “You got the look.”
Might as well ask. He set his coffee cup carefully onto the saucer. “Exactly what kind of look, G.I.?”
The old man slipped a biscuit into his pocket and, with a grin bigger than a melon slice, said, “Love, boy. You got the look of a man in love.”
She was healed. Set free. Alive again.
“Like this, Cheyenne?” Zoey’s small fingers trilled the treble clef notes while Cheyenne added a simplified bass rhythm.
“You got it, doll face.”
For three weeks now, Cheyenne had not had a nightmare or a flashback. Not since the night she’d prayed and really believed that God loved her enough to give her a restful sleep—with the lights out.
God loved her. She could hardly take it in. Trace and Kitty claimed He loved everyone no matter what.
Of course, they didn’t know the worst about her. But God knew.
Since that night, she’d slept, she’d worked, she’d gotten involved in Redemption’s city politics in an attempt to help battered women, an act that had scared her silly at first. What if the cops ran a background check? But why would they? And if they did, so what? She’d done nothing illegal. Ethically as well as legally, the cops could not discuss her private life.
The only fly in her hopeful ointment was Trace Bowman and this incredibly precious little girl, Zoey.
She’d been less than truthful on that front, but like the moth drawn to the flame, she went right on spending time with him. At first, the piano lessons had been an excuse to stay longer, have dinner, watch TV, take a walk. But now neither of them bothered with excuses.
Sunday he’d invited her to church…and she’d gone. That alone gave her a new excuse. Trace was a missionary masquerading as a veterinarian. She was his latest project for God. Her brother said she was asking for trouble. Kitty claimed God was trying to bless her. And her interesting new friends, G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones, did nothing but extol Trace’s virtues—which was completely unnecessary. She already knew the man was a cross between Pollyanna, some holy saint and the best-looking movie star in Hollywood.
Abruptly, Zoey stopped playing, leaving the birthday song dangling in the air. “Am I, Cheyenne?”
Cheyenne rested her left hand on the keyboard. “Are you what?”
“A doll face? What does my face look like?”
The child had a way of getting right to the heart of matters and touching Cheyenne to the core. Love splashed in the center of Cheyenne’s being and sent concentric waves of joy flowing through her.
“You’re very beautiful, Zoey. I’m sure your friends have told you.”
“Yes, but I want to know what you think.”
“Now you know,” she said softly as she traced a finger around Zoey’s hairline, outlining her cheek and jaw and forehead. “You have an oval face, a special shape associated with beauty. Your mouth curves upward so you look happy all the time.”
“That’s because I am happy.”
“And your nose is perfect. Not too long, not too short.”
“What about my eyes? Are they weird?”
Cheyenne swallowed. “No.”
“Jeremy Pilson said they were. He said I look creepy because my eyes don’t go anywhere.”
The cruel bluntness of children. Cheyenne ached for the little girl. “Your eyes are blue like your daddy’s. A beautiful dark blue surrounded by very black eyelashes. They beam with an inner light so powerful, women around the world envy eyes such as yours.”
She ended the description with a tap on the nose and a quick hug. Zoey clung to her for a second longer before sitting back.
“What do you look like, Cheyenne? Daddy says you’re really, really pretty. He gets a funny sound in his voice when he talks about you. Can I touch your face and see with my fingers?”
Daddy said that? He gets a funny sound in his voice. What did that mean?
“Sure.” She remained still while Zoey explored, wiggling her nose once because the light skim of fingers tickled.
Zoey laughed. “You’re ticklish.”
“Feels like spiders crawling on my face.”
This delighted the little girl. She tickled some more and Cheyenne responded with exaggerated facial gyrations beneath the curious fingers that brought more giggles. Soon, an all-out tickle fest ensued.
When the giggles ended, Zoey threw her arms around Cheyenne and clung like Saran Wrap. “I love you, Cheyenne.”
What else could she say but the truth? “I love you, too, doll face.”
Twice a week Trace entered his living room to this same sight. And yet his heart never adjusted. The foolish muscle skittered, stumbled, regrouped and pounded like bongos.
Zoey and Cheyenne seated at the piano, long black hair flowing down both their backs, took his breath away. Once, he’d compared Cheyenne to Pamela. No more. Now his stomach lifted along with his spirits to know Cheyenne would be waiting when he arrived, nurturing his daughter as her mother would have. Pamela would not only approve; she would be grateful. As he was.
He paused in the doorway to observe as he often did, letting the sight fill him to the brim.
“Color is like music,” Cheyenne was saying.
“How?” Zoey’s pretty face tilted toward her teacher. “Like brown is chocolate pudding?”
“Sort of. Take green for instance. Green is cool, relaxing and calming. Green is the smell of a fresh mowed lawn and the sound of water flowing over the rocks in spring. Listen. This is green.” Cheyenne’s fingers moved over the ivories in a graceful, flowing motion as she played a soothing tune that did indeed remind him of green pastures and calming waters.
He closed his eyes, letting the music sweep over him, along with G. I. Jack’s words. The old gent was right. He loved Cheyenne Rhodes. If he hadn’t loved her before, he loved her now. She was the other half of him that had been missing for eight years.
Thank You, God, for another chance to love. Don’t let me mess this up.
When the gentle sweep of music finished, Zoey’s face lit up, enraptured. “Wait until I tell Daddy.”
Trace’s breath clogged in his throat. He cleared away the thick emotion. “I leave you two alone for an hour and look what happens.”
Both females swiveled toward him. Zoey slid off the piano bench, one arm extended, and came in his direction. “Daddy! I know green.”
He swooped her up. “I heard. Pretty impressive.”
His gaze sought out Cheyenne. She was smiling gently, her love for Zoey as obvious as God’s love for them all. She loved his child. Did she love him, too? Everything inside him said she did.
As Zoey skipped away to call her best friend with the glorious news about musical color, Trace decided then and there. He loved Cheyenne Rhodes. He wanted her in his life. And there was no time like the present.
The expression on Trace’s face brought a tremor to Cheyenne as he came toward her, hands outstretched. As if connected by an invisible cord, she rose from the piano bench and twined her fingers with his.
“You’re amazing,” he said as he pulled her close and kissed the hair above her ear. She shivered with the pure beauty of being in Trace’s arms again. Not since the night on the river bridge had he held or kissed her, other than holding her hand on walks.
“How was the patient?” she murmured.
“Fine. Forget the patient.” His tone was gruff and manly, a combination that sent a surprising thrill down her spine. “I want to talk about us.”
“Us?” She heard the squeak in her voice.
With exquisite care, Trace threaded his fingers along her jawline and into her hair, cupping her chin with the heels of his hands. Eye to eye and heart to heart, his lips grazed hers, his breath warm and minty.
“I love you, Cheyenne.”
“Oh, Trace.”
A quizzical curve lifted the corner of his mouth. “That’s all? Just, oh, Trace?”
Running her fingertips along his jaw, she smiled into eyes dark with emotion. Every fiber of her being yearned toward this good, good man. Did she dare take a chance?
A sudden realization slammed into her like the recoil of a .44 mag, only without the giant bloody mess. She loved Trace Bowman. Really, really loved him. Not the adolescent, self-seeking emotion she’d felt for Paul. The kind of love that not only wanted to laugh at his jokes and work beside him in the clinic, but the kind that wanted to understand his dark places, soothe his hurts and make his life better. She wanted to make his life perfect and good and beautiful.
Please, God, let this be right.
“You’re the finest man I’ve ever known. And—” she drew on every last ounce of courage “—I love you, too.”
The relief and joy in his expression melted her.
“I want you in my life. With me and Zoey. Forever. How does that sound to you?”
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
“Good.”
The word was muffled by the sweetness of his lips. She quivered like Jell-O, yearning to be everything he needed, to bring him happiness the way he’d done for her.
The old doubts surfaced, threatening and reminding. He didn’t know everything. Would he still love her then?
But she was healed. The past was behind her. She was no longer a basket case ready to go off the deep end at any moment.
Some things were better left unsaid.
Weren’t they?
“I want to show you something,” he said, gently breaking their embrace.
Bemused, happy, she responded, “What is it?”
“A surprise.” He tugged her hand. “Come on.”
“What about dinner?”
His dimples flashed. “Dinner? Woman, I’ve waited for you for eight years. Dinner can wait a while.”
Laughing, breathless and more lighthearted than she could remember being in a long time, Cheyenne let him lead the way. Whatever the surprise, she would love it because she loved him.
He led her past the living room, through the kitchen and into the utility room that opened into the garage.
No big deal. She’d been inside his garage a couple of times.
In broad daylight. With the big door open to the outside.
“My great-grandpa gave this to my great-grandma as a betrothal gift,” Trace was saying. He opened the door leading into the garage. Her muscles tensed. The breathlessness became exaggerated.
Trace stepped down inside, but Cheyenne hesitated on the threshold, staring into the dark confines. One glimpse toward the end told her the door was closed.
She’d managed to avoid a closed garage since that hideous night when she’d had a flashback in front of Trace.
Oblivious to her distress Trace opened a storage room. “After her dad agreed to let them marry, Great-Grandpa cranked this victrola and serenaded his bride-to-be.”
He pulled away some kind of cover to reveal an antique record player, but Cheyenne couldn’t focus.
Tightness squeezed at her throat. She swallowed hard.
She could always ask him to press the garage-door opener first.
But he would ask questions.
Besides, there was no need to open the door. She was over all that. This was Trace’s garage and she was with Trace, the man she loved.
The man she loved.
“I love you,” she whispered, putting one foot on the first of two steps down into the garage.
“I even have the old record they danced to.” He turned, holding out his arms. “Will you celebrate with me the way my grand—Hey, you’re shaking!”
Cheyenne paused, trying not to let her anxiety show. Trace studied her, and his bewilderment slowly turned to comprehension. His arms fell to his sides. “Wait, I’ll open the door.”
But it was too late; she’d stepped into the darkened space and though the light overhead flickered on, Trace began to fade. In seconds, she no longer saw the man she loved.
She saw Dwight Hector.
“No.” She stumbled back, one hand flung up in defense. “Back off. I have a gun.”
The clawing in her brain accelerated. Thrust back in time, she relived the smell and terror and pain.
She fought the feeling, telling herself to snap out of it. This was a flashback. The attack was not really happening. Dwight Hector was dead.
Some part of her understood. Another part refused to listen.
Arms, far too strong to defeat, wrapped around her.
“Cheyenne.” He shook her. “Cheyenne.”
She fought and kicked but could not escape. Whimpering now, helpless and hopeless, she collapsed on the cold cement floor and let him do the unthinkable.
“Cheyenne, sweetheart, you’re okay. I’m sorry. I forgot about the claustrophobia. I’m so sorry. Please, you’re scaring me to death. Come back to me.”
Fighting the dreadful undertow of terror, Cheyenne leaned toward the frightened voice. Trace?
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
“Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.” A gentle hand raised her chin.
She didn’t want to see a dead man’s face. But the voice didn’t belong to Hector. This was Trace.
“Trace?”
Struggling harder, determined to regain control, she forced her eyelids up.
The concern and fear in Trace’s expression shattered her.
She was huddled on the floor of the garage, knees drawn up tight to her chin. Trace held her from the side, shaking more than a little. If her heart hadn’t already been broken, that would have done it.
“I thought I was healed,” she whispered, throat ragged and raw.
But she wasn’t healed. She would never be. Whatever peace she’d found in this town and in Kitty’s book had only been a temporary reprieve.
“You are. You will be. We’ll get through this. Whatever the problem is, we’ll get through it together.”
With her heart splintering into a million pieces, she pulled away from his wonderful embrace, straightened her trembling legs and stood.
“No.” She shook her head.
He stepped toward her but she backed away. “No. I’m sorry. This won’t work.”
“What are you saying? What won’t work?”
She shook her head again. “Us. We won’t work, Trace. I need to go.”
“No way you’re leaving like this.” He gripped her shoulders.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice rose. She jerked away.
His expression stricken, his hands fell to his sides.
She clamped her eyes shut against the pain in his face. He didn’t deserve to go through this. He didn’t deserve a damaged woman with more baggage than the airport.
“Talk to me, Cheyenne. Trust me. With God’s help, we can work through this.”
The hurt sliding over his handsome features threatened to bring her to her knees. Of all the stupid things she’d done in the past year, getting involved with the town vet ranked at the top.
“There’s nothing to work out. I don’t—” She drew in a breath of musty, garage-scented air. “I don’t want to work things out.”
The lie tore through her heart like a flaming arrow.
“What are you talking about? You love me.”
How could she deny such a beautiful thing?
“Love isn’t enough.” And with deep sorrow, she knew the words were true. She loved Trace and Zoey too much to saddle them with her.
The only way she could make life better for the two that held her heart was to leave them alone. As badly as she wanted, she couldn’t be the woman they needed.
The hardest thing she’d ever had to do happened in that moment. Harder than hearing her life and mistakes played out in the media, harder than testifying in court. Harder even than enduring a brutal rape.
She walked out of Trace’s garage—and his life—and didn’t look back.