Finding Her Way Home (4 page)

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.

W
ithin minutes, Cheyenne had shucked her leather jacket to follow Dr. Bowman around the clinic, observing and learning.

“No time for formal training,” Trace said. “If you see something that needs doing, ask someone or just do it.”

He handed her a five-by-seven index card, listing info for Bennie, a fat beagle with skin allergies. “We make notes on these. Rabies inoculation updates, worming, anything pertinent that will go into the permanent chart later. I'll tell you as we work.”

She hadn't expected to start immediately and she certainly hadn't expected to assist the man himself. But she took the card and read the entries already on it.

“He's been a patient since he was a pup,” she murmured, half to herself. “You must be a good doctor to inspire such loyalty.”

“Not necessarily.” Trace flashed a sparkly grin. “I'm the only vet for fifty miles. It's me or nothing.”

Good-looking and self-effacing, too. Why couldn't he be more of a jerk so she could dislike him for a reason other than his Y chromosome?

“Are you?”

“What?” With one hand resting on the dog's back and the other rubbing the animal's long ears, he glanced up. “A good vet?”

She nodded, looking away from a gorgeous pair of light blue eyes. Yesterday, she'd been in such a state she'd barely noticed. Now she did, just as she noticed the slight indention in his left cheek and the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes and mouth. She also noticed that his left hand was ringless. Hadn't he mentioned a daughter? She'd feel a lot more comfortable if he was married with a dozen kids. Although a wife was no real indicator of what a man was or wasn't capable of.

“I do what I can.”

“Don't let his modesty fool you. He's the best,” offered the beagle's owner, a thirtysomething woman in a blue nurse's smock and sensible white shoes.

“I could return the compliment.” To Cheyenne he said, “You probably haven't met Annie Markham. Annie, this is Cheyenne Rhodes. She's new in town.”

The women exchanged pleasantries before Trace went on, “Annie is a home health care nurse. The older folks of Redemption have nominated her for sainthood.”

Annie laughed. “Oh, right. Tell that to Ted Sikes. He threatened to shoot me off the porch if I drew another vial of blood.”

Despite the fatigue around her green eyes, Annie Markham was an attractive woman. Honey-blond bangs and hair pulled back in a ponytail framed a face with clear, translucent skin. As far as Cheyenne could tell, she wore no makeup and yet her eyes were rimmed with dark lashes. With a strange twinge, she wondered if Trace was interested in Annie Markham.

“Ted threatens everyone,” Trace said, eyes twinkling. “I heard he told the mailman not to deliver another piece of junk mail or he was toast.”

“That sounds like Ted, the silly old goose.”

Trace looked at Cheyenne and pointed toward the corner. “Hand me the big white bottle on the second shelf.”

Bottles and boxes, glass-fronted cabinets and interesting tools
lined the walls and cluttered the countertops. Cheyenne went to the cabinet he indicated.

“This?” she asked, rattling pills as she lifted a bottle toward him.

“That's the one.” He took the medication and counted out thirty tablets, then scribbled something on a small blue packet before sliding the pills inside.

“Is this Ted guy dangerous?” Cheyenne asked, her cop instinct kicking in.

Trace pried open the beagle's mouth, popped a pill inside and then gently rubbed the animal's throat. “Old Ted likes to bluster, but I don't think he'd hurt anyone, do you, Annie?”

“Ted? No. You should see him when I have the kids with me. Gives them candy, lets them have races on his treadmill and gather eggs from the chicken coup. They scare the chickens half to death, but Ted just cackles like the hens.”

So Annie was married with children. Not that Cheyenne cared one way or the other.

“Speaking of the kids. How are they doing?” Trace asked.

“Looking forward to summer break.”

“Zoey, too.”

“Summer's great for kids. Not so great for single moms.”

“Or dads,” Trace said.

Okay, so they were both single. And attractive. Big whoop. She wasn't here to admire the vet. She was here to work.

“They'll be relieved to know their beloved Bennie will be all right,” Annie was saying.

At the mention of his name, the beagle looked up with sad eyes and moaned. All three adults laughed.

“Bennie needs to lose a few pounds and stay out of the tall grass and weeds. These allergy capsules, one each day, should suppress the worst of the skin rash. You know the drill. Other than that, Bennie is as good as new.” Dr. Bowman handed Annie the small blue package. “Tell the kids to come over this summer and swim with Zoey.”

“They'd love that. Thanks, Doc.”

Trace set Bennie on the floor and snapped a thin cloth leash into the ring on his collar. He handed the end to Annie. “Are you still looking after Miss Lydia?”

“Every day.”

“How's she doing?”

Annie paused, a sad look crossing her face. “You know Lydia. If you ask her, she'll smile that sweet smile, tell you she's dandy and then ask about you. By the time the conversation is over,
I
feel better but I haven't helped her much.”

“How bad is she?”

“Her heart gets weaker all the time. And lately, she's really slowed down. Winter was hard on her. She hasn't spent one day this spring in her flowers.” Annie started toward the door. “You know how beautiful her flowers always are.”

Trace politely reached around and opened the exam-room door. “I'm sorry to hear that. Tell her she's in my prayers.”

“I will.”

Cheyenne listened in as Trace and Annie Markham stood in the hallway and chatted a while longer about the Lydia woman with the pretty flowers and great attitude. She felt like an outsider, which she was, but she appreciated the way both Trace and the nurse glanced her way, including her in the conversation, even though she had nothing to add.

After a bit, with Bennie moping along beside her, Annie said her goodbyes and left.

“She seems nice,” Cheyenne said as she and the vet walked down the narrow hallway to the reception area.

“Annie? Yeah. She's had a rough few years but she's stayed strong.”

Cheyenne didn't know whether to ask for details or remain quiet. She chose the latter.

“Dr. Bowman?”

Trace turned toward the voice. Jilly, his other assistant, stood
in the door leading to the kennels. “Do you have a minute to help me with this horse?”

“Be right there.” He handed Cheyenne Bennie's manila folder. “Would you give this to Jeri at the desk?”

“Sure.” She took the chart to the reception area.

A middle-aged woman with dozens of neat, tiny braids covering her head and forty extra pounds, mostly on her hips, manned the desk. From what Cheyenne had observed in the short time she'd been there, Jeri Burdine was as grossly overworked as her boss. She booked appointments, escorted patients, answered the phone and collected payments, stocked shelves and generally ran the business end of the clinic.

“If you'll show me what you want done, I'll help,” she told Jeri. “I don't think the doctor needs me right now.”

Jeri pushed at a pair of rectangular reading glasses. “Girl, you don't have to ask twice. We have billing to do. Get your cute self back here and I'll show you. There's nothing to it but good record keeping.”

With an inward grin at the woman's friendly chatter, Cheyenne said, “I can handle that.”

A cop kept good records or paid the price in court.

In minutes she was sliding bills into envelopes and slapping on computer-generated mailing labels. Some of the bills were seriously overdue. “Does he charge a late fee?”

“A what?” Jeri looked at her curiously. “Dr. Bowman? You gotta be kidding.”

Well, no, she wouldn't kid about a thing like that. This was a business, not a charity. But she kept her opinion to herself.

She was piling a stack of envelopes into an outgoing mail container when the outside door burst open. Instinctively, Cheyenne jerked toward the sound, hand going to her nonexistent revolver. A woman's frantic voice raised the hair on her arms.

“My puppy is hurt bad. Can you help?” The voice quivered as she held out the limp body of a very small Yorkshire terrier.

Cheyenne dropped the pile of envelopes and moved into action. “What happened?”

The young woman cast a furtive glance behind her. “Uh, he—uh, my husband stepped on him by accident. He didn't mean to. Chauncy got underfoot and he's so little. Ray would never hurt him on purpose.”

Some instinct warned Cheyenne that the woman was being less than truthful. She protested just a little too much. About that time, a hulking man came through the door. His focus went immediately toward the shaking woman.

“Emma.” The tone, instead of tender and concerned, was harsh.

The woman jumped, her eyes widened in fear. “They're getting the doctor now, Ray.”

Her look pleaded with Cheyenne to agree.

Something was not right here. Every cop instinct inside her was screaming.

Jeri took one look at the injured animal and said to Cheyenne, “Take them on back to the exam room. I'll get Dr. Bowman.”

As a cop Cheyenne had worked accidents, murders, shootings and just about every violent crime known to man. She'd seen unspeakable injuries up close and personal. Open wounds didn't shake her. But the dog was basically a ball of bloody fur. Even the smell was deathly.

The woman named Emma was trembling like an earthquake. “Is he going to die?”

Probably. But Cheyenne didn't say that.

“Quit bawling, Emma,” the man said. “If he dies I'll get you another one.”

Yeah, as if that was going to help. Cheyenne wanted to clobber the insensitive clod.

Instead she asked, “Is your dog a regular patient of Dr. Bowman's?”

“No.” Tears raced down Emma's face and dripped on the dog. She was crying but doing her best not to make a sound. The effort
worried Cheyenne. This was a traumatic event. Why should her husband be angry if she cried?

“No problem. What's his name?”

“Chauncey Ray. He's named after my husband.”

“I bought him as a special gift for her birthday. Didn't I, Emma?”

Cheyenne managed a smile. She'd never had time for an animal and couldn't comprehend the attachment pet owners felt for their furry friends. But she understood heartache.

The man placed a hand on Emma's shoulder. She tensed.

Cheyenne narrowed her eyes in thought. There was a smugness about this Ray character that set her nerves on edge. She couldn't put her finger on the problem, but her cop gut labeled him a jerk.

They met Dr. Bowman in the hallway. “What's the emergency?”

Emma's waterworks restarted. She shook all over, far more than the situation warranted. Her husband gave her an annoyed look and said, “The dumb dog got underfoot.” He lifted a heavy boot, almost grinning as if he was proud. “I got a pretty big foot. I told her to keep him out of the way.”

Trace gave the man a cool glance. “Put him on the table, and let me have a look.”

The woman did as she was told, small hands trembling as she gently laid the tiny dog on the paper-covered table.

Cheyenne saw then what she'd missed in the hallway. Bruises on the inside of Emma's upper arms. Fingerprint bruises. She looked closer. The faint outline of a handprint marred the woman's cheek. Earlier, Cheyenne had dismissed the red cheek as the result of crying. Now she had a different thought.

Her hackles rose. This oversize clod was hitting his wife. And she wouldn't be a bit surprised if he'd hurt the dog intentionally.

“Is he going to die?” Emma asked again, standing back from the exam table. Her husband put an arm around her, but she did not look comforted.

“Let's get some pain medication into him first and then we
can do some X-rays to see what kind of damage we're dealing with.” Dr. Bowman offered Emma an encouraging glance, before turning his full attention on the dog. “Think positive. Injuries are not always as bad they initially appear.”

Cheyenne, cynic that she was, figured he said that to everyone. She'd already pegged him for a male Pollyanna.

He reached behind her for a bottle and syringe. Cheyenne dipped a shoulder, uncomfortable when his forearm brushed against her.

“You'll have to assist,” he said, plunging a needle into a rubber stopper. “Jilly's busy with that mare's feet.”

Cheyenne's stomach lurched. Assist with what? She was accustomed to investigating the aftermath. Accidents never happened when a police officer was watching.

An unpleasant emptiness spread through her. She wasn't a police officer anymore. What she had or had not done before did not apply in this scenario. She was a veterinary assistant now. She clamped down on her back molars.

Deal with it, Rhodes.

Keeping her expression bland, she muttered, “Sure. Whatever.”

“Ma'am, would you and your husband prefer to wait in the waiting area?”

Emma's lips quivered. “Whatever you think is best.”

Her husband gripped her arm. “You heard what he said. Come on.”

With one jerky nod, Emma pivoted and left the room with her husband.

Expression grim, Trace glanced toward the door. “What's wrong with that picture?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Do you think he hurt this dog on purpose?”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

“He abuses her.”

Trace glanced up, surprised. “How do you know that?”

“Observance. She has bruises on her arms and a handprint on her cheek. They'd been fighting when this happened.”