Finding Her Way Home. Linda Goodnight

be surprised how many grown men turn pale when I start drilling into bone.”

      She shrugged one shoulder. “You did the hard part. All I did was play gofer.”

      He turned slowly, leaning his hips on the sink behind him as he dried his hands. “Appropriate job in an animal hospital, don’t you think? A gopher.”

      Her full lower lip curved. “Have you ever treated a gopher?”

      Trace felt a rush of energy through his very tired body. Any hint that he was getting through that iron wall of hers cheered him immensely.

      “This is a community of tulips and smooth, green lawns. Saving a gopher could get me tarred, feathered and run out of town.”

      For a nanosecond her dark, dark eyes twinkled and he held out the hope that she’d come back with a snappy retort. She turned her back instead. Stainless steel surgical tools clattered against a metal basin as she dunked them into antiseptic cleaning liquid. “What do I do with these after they’re washed?”

      Fighting down a frisson of disappointment, Trace studied his new employee’s stiff shoulders. Did friendly conversation always make her nervous?

      Lord, I’m trying, so give me a little direction here, okay?

      “Toss them in that box for a trip to the autoclave.” He ripped a couple more paper towels from the dispenser and sprayed antiseptic cleaner on the metal table. “I can’t stop thinking about that couple.”

      The comment forced her to look back over one tense shoulder. “Me, too.”

      “Think we should contact the police?”

      “Won’t do any good.”

      “How do you know that?”

      She hesitated for one brief second before turning back to the sink. “I just know.”

      Spoken like a woman with secrets.

      He threw the paper towels in the trash can and studied his assistant. For the first day of work, she’d done all right. But her work ethic wasn’t what concerned him. The way he felt with her in the room did.

      She was puzzling and bristly. Yet despite those negatives, he wanted to know her better.

      Her hair pooled like black ink against the blue lab jacket he’d loaned her. There was something about Cheyenne Rhodes that made him want to go on looking at her. He felt a little stupid about that. The woman was pretty, sure, but so was Margo, and though they’d dated off and on for a year, he’d never wanted to stand and stare at Margo Starks. Cheyenne’s beauty wasn’t the thing that intrigued him, really. Rather, he was fascinated by the way she narrowed her eyes in speculation, the way she held herself aloof and the subtle sense he had that she was hurting every single minute.

      Something was sorely wrong in Cheyenne’s world, and he was a doctor, a man called and trained to ease suffering. He wouldn’t rest until her wounds, whatever they might be, were healed.

      Chapter Five

      Cheyenne was feeling better about her new job. Maybe this would work out all right after all. The vet was easygoing and didn’t lose patience even when she couldn’t find something. The other women were cordial, even though the clinic buzzed with patients, phone calls and animal sounds until they seldom had a spare moment. Cheyenne figured this was a good thing. Being busy kept her mind off everything else. Everything, that is, except the handsome vet. All he had to do was walk into the room and a buzz of energy shimmied along her nerve endings.

      After feeling dead inside for so long, the reawakening stung like frozen fingers warmed too quickly. Wisdom warned to tread carefully.

      Last night, when she’d arrived at the motel, her thoughts were torn between the too-attractive vet and the Yorkie owner. She was convinced Emma was a battered wife. This morning the husband had picked up the dog, paid the bill and left without a thank-you.

      Cheyenne couldn’t help wondering where Emma was. But she’d dealt with plenty of abuse victims and as long as they lied for their abusers, there was nothing anyone could do.

      The knowledge burned inside her. She hated feeling impotent.

      Over the spray of water, Cheyenne caught the sound of a humming baritone. At the moment, Dr. Bowman was at the sink, scrubbing up after the suture of a lacerated ferret. The vet was a happy guy. Either that or he put on a good act.

      “Doc? You in here?”

      The voice was male, but the words were thick and carefully formed as though the speaker had a speech impediment.

      Curious, Cheyenne dumped the washed instruments into a box marked Redemption River Animal Clinic, threw a wad of empty plastic packaging into the trash and turned toward the opened door. A young man, probably in his late teens, with the rounded body and moon face of Down’s syndrome shuffled into the room.

      When he spotted Cheyenne, he stopped. Face a mix of confusion, curiosity and friendliness, he blinked rapidly. “Hello. I don’t know you.”

      The air stirred and her skin prickled with awareness, a sure sign the singing vet had moved into her radar range. Annoyed to be so vulnerable, she took a step to one side.

      “Toby,” Trace said. “Come in and meet our new helper, Cheyenne.”

      Expression sweet and friendly, the teen stuck out his hand. “Hi.”

      Cheyenne took the spongy fingers in hers and shook. “Hello, Toby. I’m glad to know you.”

      “Toby is my right-hand man,” Trace went on. “He keeps the kennels and cages in tip-top shape, feeds and waters and exercises. Couldn’t run the place without him.”

      Toby responded with a huge grin. “Dr. Bowman likes me. I’m a good worker.”

      “I didn’t see you on my first day. Were you here?”

      “Wednesdays I’m not here. I got appointments. Doc cleans up for me. But the rest of the time, Toby does it.” He patted his chest with the flat of one hand.

      Though wearing a man’s body, Toby was childlike and likeable and touched a soft spot in her heart. “I noticed how clean the kennels are.”

      “Yeah. Doc showed me how to make them really, really clean. Only put one little bitty cup of bleach in the bucket. Right, Doc?”

      “Right, and no one does a better job than you.”

      “Not even you?”

      “Not even me.” Trace clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Did you need something, or just come inside to say hello?”