Finding Her Way Home (14 page)

“Ray would find me and go crazy. He might hurt us both.”

A quiver of fear pushed up inside Cheyenne's head, but she refused to consider the danger. Inside, she was still a police officer and she still had the Glock she'd promised never to use again.

She might have to break that promise. “If I find a place for you to stay, will you go there?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure what to do.”

“You could start with a restraining order.”

“I know how those work. I've watched TV. Men walk right past them and kill their wives.”

Sadly, Emma was correct. A woman was most at risk of being murdered when she left her abuser. The harder she tried to keep him at bay, the angrier he would become. At least at first. Cheyenne had worked several such cases and was sickened by the memory of murders and murder-suicides. “You said Ray takes care of the money. But do you have access to the bank account or any money at all?”

“Yeah. For groceries and stuff.”

“Can you start saving anything back? Even a little here and there?”

“I can try.”

“If you can't, we'll deal with it. There are resources available. We just have to find them. I'm new to Redemption, but I know people who might help.”

“You won't tell them my name, will you?”

“No, but I will muster every available resource. I already have ideas, but I need time to talk to people. Can you come back?”

Emma gnawed her lip. “I never know for sure. Well, except on Saturday when he plays poker.”

“That's perfect. But don't come here. He knows about this place now. I'll meet you somewhere.”

“The library?”

“Brilliant idea.”

The small bit of praise brought a gleam of determination to Emma's face.

“I won't lie to you, Emma. Breaking away won't be easy. But if you're willing to try, I'll help you every step of the way.”

“Why are you doing this? You don't even know me.”

“Let's just say I've been in your shoes, in a manner of speaking. I know how it feels to be controlled and abused.”

Those few hours had been unspeakably horrific. How did women survive years of abuse?

“Meet me at the library next Saturday afternoon. I'll get there early and reserve a study room. In the meantime, I'll explore your options. Safe houses, shelters, job training, whatever we can find around Redemption.”

“You'd do all that for me?”

“People help each other here. At least, that's what someone told me when I first moved to Redemption.” And she was starting to believe it.

If she could meet with Emma often enough, she would find a way to help her escape the abusive relationship. If nothing else, she could listen and advise. Her intervention training would come in handy.

“Will you come?”

Emma nodded. “If I can.”

With a mild sense of accomplishment, Cheyenne said, “Good. That's a start. In the meantime, if anything happens, call me.” She scribbled her phone number on a piece of paper. “There's a domestic violence hotline in the phone directory. They offer help, too.”

Emma clutched the paper in her fingers as a drowning person clutches a lifeline. “I'm scared. What if Ray finds out?”

If the volatile Ray discovered her plan, she'd be a statistic, but Cheyenne didn't say that. “Emma, you've been playacting that everything is fine for a long time. You can pretend a little longer.”

Determination straightened Emma's bent posture. “I'll try. I have to.”

The frightened woman opened the door and started out. Halfway to her car she stopped and turned. “Cheyenne?”

“Yes?”

“I saw the sign on the motel.” At Cheyenne's questioning frown, she clarified. “The Bible study. Will you ask them to—you know, pray for me?”

Pray
. The single word dropped into Cheyenne's stomach with the weight of a bowling ball.

“Sure.” What else could she say?

T
race stood on the bank of Redemption River listening to Cheyenne worry out loud about the battered Emma Madden. Her instincts at that first meeting in the clinic had been correct. Ray Madden not only abused his dog; he beat his wife.

Now Emma had come to Cheyenne for help. The fact that Cheyenne had already endured a face-to-face encounter with the man didn't sit too well with Trace. But what could he do? Emma was desperate, and Cheyenne was not a woman to turn her back.

“How's she doing?”

“Apparently Ray has been in a good mood. Now she thinks they can work things out.”

“In other words, he hasn't beaten her this week?”

“Right,” she said grimly.

Trace clenched his teeth in suppressed fury. If there was one thing he despised, it was a man who used his superior size and strength to harm instead of protect. Now that his suspicions about Ray Madden had been confirmed he wanted to find the jerk and have a little man-to-man visit. “Do you think she'll return?”

“She said she would. I found a great book on domestic abuse that I want her to read, but I'm worried her husband will find out.”

“I hope you'll exercise caution. If this guy discovers what's going on, he could cause big trouble.”

“I know, but Emma's alone and scared. I'm going to do everything within my power to help.”

The pure grit in her tone gave him pause. Cheyenne was the kind of woman who would throw herself in front of a speeding car to save someone. She might not know that about herself, but he did.

“You promised you'd be careful. I don't want you hurt.” His voice sounded gruff.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Tough girl on duty.” He hooked an arm around her neck and tugged playfully. “No two-hundred-fifty-pound man would dare stand up to you.”

She twisted her head around, bringing her face tantalizingly close to his. His belly jitterbugged in response.

She might have her mind on Emma, but he had
his
mind on her. He'd been yearning to kiss her for a while, though common sense had said to take things slow. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her away.

But that didn't stop him from thinking.

Now, here they were, just the two of them on the river bridge watching the sunset over the water. Fingers of orange and purple shot up into the sky like fireworks and promised a spectacular show. With Zoey attending a birthday party at the Pizza Palace, the time alone was a rare gift.

He bumped his forehead against Cheyenne's.

“Under that tough-girl facade,” he teased, “beats the heart of a cupcake.”

“Well, this cupcake wishes she could do more than sit at the library and talk. Emma's jerk of a husband is a ticking time bomb. I want her out of there.”

“Gotta be her choice.”

Cheyenne moaned. “I know.”

His admiration ratcheted higher with each new layer of
Cheyenne he encountered. Her dark beauty had attracted him, but the woman beneath the armor brought a song back into his heart that had gone silent the day he'd buried Pamela.

He'd tried to find the melody in his work, his friends, even his relationship with the Lord, but not until Tough Girl strode into his clinic and shoved puppies in his face did he fully understand what had been missing.

“You know what?”

She tilted her face toward him. “What?”

He moved closer, glad when she didn't back away, and looped his arms lightly around her, letting his clasped hands ride easily at her lower back. He waited, holding his breath, expecting the defensive wall to shoot up between them. When he met no resistance, his heart banged against his rib cage with such force he was sure she could feel the thunder. “I think you're an amazing woman.”

She swallowed. The hard edge of wariness softened. The change was slight, but Trace was so in tune with Cheyenne's expressions, he recognized the difference.

He canted toward her, hoping, wondering, and yet careful.

“You're pretty amazing yourself,” she murmured.

That was all the encouragement Trace needed. With a smile rising up in his chest, he kissed her.

 

The shock of Trace's warm mouth touching hers went through Cheyenne in waves. She expected to be repulsed. Instead, she melted against him like chocolate in the sunshine. Her hands moved up to caress the back of his neck and draw him closer. She'd been in Trace's arms before, but this was different.

She gave herself up to the emotion, putting her all into the kiss. Trace made a soft sound in the back of his throat and loosened his hold, bringing his hands up to cup her face.

Never had Cheyenne been kissed with such beauty. His touch spoke of tenderness mixed with yearning and just enough passion
to remind her that, beneath the rape victim, she was still very much a woman.

The seed of joy withered.

Rape victim.
The words reverberated inside her skull, bouncing off the bones. Ugly images intruded.

Those few seconds in Trace's arms had drowned out the ugliness. But now the truth of who she was returned, a cruel reminder that Trace Bowman deserved more than she could ever be.

She allowed herself the luxury of a few more lovely seconds in Trace's arms. Time to capture the moment, to memorize the texture of his skin, the way his eyelashes lay against his cheekbone, the way he made her feel whole again. She'd need this memory.

Slowly, reluctantly, Cheyenne pulled away. Emptiness rushed in like a chill. She crossed her arms over the ache and turned to face the muddy river.

Her heart banged against her throat with enough force to make her cry. She wouldn't, though. No more tears.

She pressed a hand to her larynx to hold back the threatening sobs.

The soft crush of damp grass brought Trace to her side. She didn't look at him.

“Did I do something wrong?” His voice was quiet, serious, concerned. And, yes, a little hurt.

The tears tried again, pushing hard.

She hated this. Trace deserved better than a broken woman's rejection. “No. Nothing. Don't think that. You could never—”

With one finger, he touched her cheek. She closed her eyes against the tenderness.

“What, then?” he murmured.

“The problem isn't you. It's me.”

He traced the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. She could feel his eyes boring into her, trying to understand what she could mean. “I care about you, Cheyenne.”

That's exactly what she was afraid of. He wouldn't care if he knew.

Tell him
, a voice screamed. Tell him and watch the light die in those gorgeous blue eyes. Watch the quick withdrawal as he searches for a way out of a relationship he never should have begun. Tell him and get the agony over with.

She opened her mouth, and to her horror the tears won, gathering at the corners of her eyes to mock her.

She angled her body away so he couldn't see. His hand fell away from her cheek, but she could feel him there, watching her, hurting a little, bewildered.

Crouching, she plucked a tiny purple wildflower and pressed the delicate bloom to her nose. Her hands trembled, betraying her.

Trace stood behind, but she could feel his probing gaze like a heat at her back.

Out on the muddy red river, a broken tree branch headed downstream, caught in the strong current of spring rains. She remembered the story of converts who claimed the river washed their sins out to sea.

God, if it were only true, I'd jump in right now
.

“Chey?”

The shortened version of her name spoke of familiarity and connection. He thought he knew her. Poor man.

“I know something's wrong. I've known since the moment you walked into my clinic with a box of puppies and a bad attitude. You can trust me.”

She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. “I wish I could believe that.”

“You can.”

He hadn't a clue.

She might as well tell him. Tell him and end their…friendship right here and now.

She tossed the flower away. The tiny blossom fell into the
mud, ruined. The muck of life had a way of ruining people, too. She didn't want her muck to soil Trace and Zoey.

Dusting her fingertips, she stood, though she couldn't look at Trace. “I was a police officer before I moved here. A detective in special investigations.”

Trace remained quiet. She could feel him listening, trying to make sense of the revelation. “I don't want you to hate me.”

“Won't ever happen.” When she didn't continue, he probed. “Tell me what you're afraid of, Cheyenne. I know something has hurt you and trust doesn't come easy. I know you sleep with the lights on.”

“Kitty is a tattletale.”

No, that wasn't true. Kitty had become a good friend, a woman to trust, a woman who prayed for her every day. Kitty had told Trace out of concern.

“And I saw you fall apart that night in my garage.”

Her jaw tightened. He
would
have to bring that up.

“I also know you are an incredibly caring woman. Whatever happened was not your fault.”

“You have no idea what you're saying, Trace. None.”

“Then tell me. Trust me. I'm not going anywhere.”

Oh, yes, he would. “I want to. I hate what this has done to me.”

“Whatever happened can't be that terrible, can it?”

She watched the broken branch, now thirty yards downstream, for another second, then sucked in a breath of muddy river air and turned to meet his concerned gaze. “I killed a man.”

 

Shock hit Trace like a Taser. Electrical impulses shot through his arms, down his spine and tingled his legs.

So this was the issue that had driven Cheyenne from her home and family.

As though equally stunned by her admission, the sun dropped below the horizon. The hazy gray of twilight surrounded them.
They'd missed the last few glorious moments of sunset, but romance had faded from Trace's mind.

Help me, Lord. Give me the right words to say. Don't let me fail.

Cheyenne was already beating herself to a pulp over this. If he overreacted or said the wrong thing, she might retreat behind the wall and never come out again.

“Want to explain that a little further?”

She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. Her tough-girl pose was back in place. He recognized the posture. She was hurting, throwing up the defense to keep from feeling.

“He was a slimeball.” Her nostrils flared. Trace spotted the flame of anger, leashed but lurking. “I shot him in the line of duty.”

“Then why are you tormented? Don't cops know they may be called upon to use deadly force?”

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

“The D.A. filed charges against me for the use of excessive force.”

“Was it? Excessive, I mean?”

“The jury didn't think so.”

“There you are, then.”

“You don't understand, Trace. I killed a man. And I didn't call 9–1-1 until he drew his last breath. Until I was certain he was dead.”

Even in the growing darkness, Trace saw the moisture in her eyes. He also saw the anger. Part of him wanted to ask about the criminal. What did the man do? Why had she shot him and then hesitated to call 9–1-1? Though, he was certain there was more to this story, some instinct held him back from asking.

“Hey.” He could no more keep his hands off her than he could drain this river with a teacup. “Come here.”

Shaking her head, she crossed her arms. He was having none of it. She needed to be held. And he needed to hold her.

“I don't know what happened or why, but I'm not going away.
And neither is God. He's not mad at you, Chey. He's here for you. And so am I. You don't have to be afraid anymore.”

As if she'd longed to hear those exact words, her arms fell to her sides, all defenses crumbling. She looked wounded and bewildered and as fragile as dandelion puff.

“Come on, tough girl.”

And as if totally defeated, she walked into his arms and laid her head against his chest.

 

Cheyenne rested her ear against the wild thud of Trace's heart. For all his outward calm, his inner motor raced and gave him away. The truth had shocked him.

Well, half the truth. She'd meant to tell the whole story, purge her soul and set him free, but in the end she'd lost her nerve. Trace's compassion was a formidable opponent. How did a woman fight against a man who refused to see her faults?

Night encroached. The willow trees cast dark, finger shadows across the water. Frogs, brave now in the protective dusk, set up their rhythmic croak. Her branch was gone, swept away to sea, though her sins remained here on the shore with a man who couldn't begin to comprehend true darkness of the soul.

Trace stroked her hair, letting his hand ride lightly at her neckline.

“Guilt is a mean companion,” she murmured, letting him believe that remorse was the only emotion gnawing raw places inside her.

“A companion that causes night terrors and claustrophobia?”

She wasn't claustrophobic. And the fear of darkness had nothing to do with the plague of guilt, though responsibility for the event was an issue she had yet to resolve. Her world was no longer safe, either on the inside or the outside. Dwight Hector, dead or alive, had seen to that.

“When Pamela died,” Trace said softly, “I felt guilty, although I couldn't have done anything to save her. Still, guilt and depression had a field day.”

His situation was about as far from hers as a person could get,
but he'd suffered grief and loss. He understood that much. “What did you do?” she asked.

He huffed. “Felt sorry for myself like a big baby.”

In spite of the rampaging emotions and the tremble in her bones, a small laugh escaped. “No, you didn't.”

“Did, too. But my parents are strong prayer warriors. Between them and a great big God who loves me more than I love Zoey—which is a lot—I came around.”