she was interested all right. Interested but cautious. The question was, why?
“Over on Charity Lane about five or six blocks off Main.”
An incredulous expression crossed her face. “Charity Lane? Mercy Street. Hope Avenue. Redemption. What is this place? The twilight zone?”
Absently stroking the soft puppy, Trace laughed. “Nothing quite as exciting as that. According to town history, Redemption was founded during the Land Run of 1889 by a gunslinger turned preacher. He started Redemption for souls like him—people who wanted to change their ways and start fresh. The street names are his way of reminding us that everything we need is found in God’s redeeming love.”
His visitor stared at him with a troubled look and Trace thought for a minute he’d said too much. Margo claimed he sounded like a preacher at times and maybe he did. But as he studied the woman standing in his waiting room, he suspected something else. She’d reacted to the town names oddly because they were exactly why she was here. Like so many of the souls who arrived in Redemption, the tough cookie before him was in need.
“I’ll take care of the puppies,” he said softly.
Her stance relaxed the slightest bit. “Thanks.”
“You can come visit them anytime.”
“Oh, no, I—” She shrugged. “Maybe I will. Do you think you can find homes for them? I wouldn’t want them to be—you know.”
Hard shell on the outside, soft as puppy fur on the inside. “Puppies are pretty easy to re-home.”
“Good.” She gave a curt nod and turned as if to leave.
“Wait.” He didn’t know why but he wasn’t ready for her to go.
She glanced over one shoulder before slowly pivoting, expression guarded.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
She hesitated a second before saying, “Cheyenne Rhodes.”
He offered his hand. “Well, Cheyenne Rhodes, welcome to Redemption. I hope you’ll like our little town.”
The guarded expression lingered as she slipped her hand into his. “I hope so, too.”
Trace tried not to react to her skin against his, but her feminine hand was far softer than her expression and far more slender than his work-roughened one. “If I can help you with anything else—”
She pulled her hand away, cynicism firmly back in place. “Only if you know where I can find a job.”
So Tough Girl was sticking around. Nice. “What kind of work do you do?”
Again, her hesitation piqued his curiosity.
“Anything for now.”
“I can always use another hand here in the clinic.” Which was true, though why he’d want to hire an unfriendly helper with a chip on her shoulder was more than he wanted to think about.
She shook her head. Loose black hair swished against the shiny maroon leather of her jacket. “I don’t think so.”
Was it the job that didn’t suit her—or him? “Just a thought. I frequently hire temporaries to help out the full-time staffers. The clinic keeps us all busy.”
“How many?”
“Employees?” At her nod, he said, “Three, right now. So what do you say? Pay’s lousy, working conditions stink—literally—but the staff is friendly, the boss is a great guy, and you can play with the pups anytime.”
She surprised him with a soft laugh. “Bribery.”
He arched an eyebrow, teasing. “I’m a desperate man.”
She tilted her head and studied him, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “Somehow I doubt that. You don’t look the desperate type.”
But he had been once, a truth that made it easy to recognize a fellow desperado.
He pointed a puppy at her. “Be here at nine in the morning and I’ll put you to work. You can bring the doughnuts.”
Dark eyebrows surged upward. “Doughnuts?”
“From the Sugar Shack.”
“Let me guess,” she said wryly. “It’s located on Grace Boulevard.”
Trace chuckled. The lady had a sense of humor. “No. Plain old Main Street at Town Square, next to the post office.”
She thought about the offer so long Trace knew she was going to refuse. What he didn’t expect was how disappointed he was when she did.
The drive to the motel on Charity Lane was short and easy and filled with thoughts of Trace Bowman, the friendly veterinarian.
“I should have taken that job,” she muttered.
When she’d first walked into the empty, darkened building, being alone with a strange man had made her skin crawl. But even though he had been as scruffy looking as the two Dumpster-divers, the amiable vet had a way about him. When he’d teased her about doughnuts she’d almost said yes.
But she hadn’t. He’d been too friendly, too accommodating, and her suspicion meter had gone off the charts. Nobody did something for nothing.
Though he wasn’t overly large, he was taller than her by a head and far more muscular. Lean and fit with tanned arms strong enough to handle a large animal practice, he’d be a hard man to take down.
Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Beneath the unshaven face and mussed brown hair, he was undoubtedly attractive and not much older than herself, though most days she felt a hundred instead of thirty.
Attractive. Young. There was the problem. She found the kindhearted vet a bit too attractive, the exact kind of man she was inclined to fall for. The last thing she needed in her life was another man like Paul Ramos who would disappear the moment he learned about her late-night encounter with Dwight Hector.
Besides, he probably had women bringing in stray cats and dead birds and pet guppies as an excuse to see him. She didn’t need that either.
She killed the car in front of a short row of maybe ten tidy cottages. The motel was old, likely built in the 50s or 60s, but well kept and pretty in a retro kind of way. The widow obviously liked plants because each unit came with a white window box of red geraniums, a short-clipped patch of grass in front and tidy shrubs growing close to the white siding. From the back of the establishment, huge oaks bent shady arms above each roof, letting in only dappled slices of sunshine. The effect was provincial, warm, peaceful. Cheyenne almost believed she would like it here.
Beneath a waving American flag, a sign outside said Redemption Motel and Gifts, Vacancy. Bible Study at 8.
Envisioning a gentle, white-haired widow who offered prayer and Proverbs with her tea, Cheyenne found her way to the unit marked Office and went inside. A bell above the door gave a merry jingle.
As she scanned the room in search of the proprietor, Cheyenne breathed in the smell of rose potpourri and cataloged the premises. The Widow Wainright was not only a Christian; she was a patriot who made extra money selling inspiration and Americana. The place was decorated in red, white and blue with American flags sprouting from potted plants, eagle-topped fountain pens crowded into coffee mugs and a display case filled with various other souvenirs and gift items. The walls were plastered with military photos and Uncle Sam posters. One of them pointed straight at her. Uncle Sam Wants You!
“Hello, hello. Sorry to keep you waiting.” A tall, willowy blonde carrying a basket of snowy white towels swept into the office with an air of cheerfulness. Cheyenne did a double take. This young, beautiful woman could not be the Widow Wainright.
Pale hair pulled into a loose topknot with unfettered strands framing a delicate, heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes, she made Cheyenne think of a fairy-tale princess.