Critical Praise for Hannah Alexander

“If you’re one of the millions of people who either watch ER on television, or read any of the Mitford books by Jan Karon, let me introduce you to your new favorite author: Hannah Alexander.”

—Terri Blackstock, author of the Cape Refuge series

“The Hannah Alexander writing team is masterful at creating places so real you’ll be looking for them on the map; characters so endearing you’ll think of them as friends, and struggles so compelling and genuine that you’ll identify with each one. Most importantly, the truth of God’s intimate involvement in lives shines through on every page they write.”

—Deborah Raney, author of After the Rains

“Hannah Alexander stands as one of the most talented storytellers in Christian fiction today. With a proven record of irresistible characters and stories that warm the heart, Hannah Alexander’s titles are always on my ‘must-read’ list.”

—Carol Cox, author of Yellow Roses

“Hannah Alexander creates the kind of characters you think about for days. I’ve almost been tempted to pray for them!”

—Debra White Smith, author of The Key

“Amidst the fascinating intricacies of an E.R. setting, the author weaves the lives of characters as they struggle with down-to-earth issues. Underlying it all is a rich sense of God’s faithfulness.”

—Sally John, author of Just To See You Smile

“Hannah Alexander takes her readers for a pulse-quickening ride while breathing life and intrigue into the mysterious world of medicine.”

—Kristin Billerbeck, author of As American as Apple Pie

“Hannah Alexander’s stories are never predictable but keep me on the edge of my seat rooting for her characters. I eagerly watch for her newest offerings and am never disappointed!”

—Collen Coble, author of Wyoming

“I always look forward to the next Hannah Alexander novel. Her books always have great characters and page-turning suspense. Keep it up, Hannah!”

—Lyn Cote, author of Autumn’s Shadow

Critical Praise for Hannah Alexander’s Previous Novels

Sacred Trust:

“Alexander is great at drawing the reader into her storyline and keeping them hooked until the resolution of the plot.”

—Christian Retailing

Solemn Oath:

“…Solemn Oath absolutely hit the ball out of the park. Hannah Alexander is going to have a hard time writing fast enough to keep up with reader demand.”

—Debi Stack, author of Martha to the Max!

Silent Pledge:

“Silent Pledge is a rare find.”

—Harry Lee Kraus, M.D., author of Serenity

“I found a gaggle of caring, interesting people who stole my heart with their struggles and made me cheer with their triumphs. Bravo!”

—Lisa Samson, author of Women’s Intuition

Second Opinion:

“Watch out—the newest Hannah Alexander book is another suspense-filled story that will captivate you from page one! Second Opinion has all the goodies I’ve come to expect from this outstanding author: a fast pace, vibrant characters, plot twists, engaging dialogue, realism, intelligence, humor, romance, and surprise endings. There’s no second guessing with Second Opinion. It’s an irresistible page-turner that will leave you begging for the next masterpiece by Hannah Alexander.”

—Debi Stack, author of Martha to the Max!

Necessary Measures:

“Necessary Measures is true-to-life ER action that envelops and engages. Hannah Alexander paints a broad and detailed picture of a small town emergency room and the relationships of those who serve there. Great family dynamics and realistic professional tension.”

—Kristen Heitzmann, author of A Rush of Wings

“Necessary Measures left me with chills. Hannah Alexander possesses an incredible storytelling gift that makes it impossible to read just a little. Necessary Measures becomes your constant companion until you’re finished, and even then, it leaves its mark.”

—Kristin Billerbeck, author of As American as Apple Pie

Hideaway

a novel

Hannah Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the Great Physician—

For my Father’s will is that everyone

who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have

eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day.

—John 6:40

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Long ago we realized that any success in our efforts to write a readable novel was dependent on the goodwill of many people. Many thanks to Joan Marlow Golan, our editor, whose enthusiasm for this work has been a great encouragement. We also thank our agent, Karen Solem, whose wisdom and sweet spirit have guided us.

Thanks to Lorene Cook (Cheryl’s mom) who continues to put feet to her prayers for us.

Thanks to Ray and Vera Overall (Mel’s mom and dad), who never cease to encourage.

Thanks to our writing families online, ChiLibris and WritingChambers, who touch us from across the country and around the world.

Thanks to Jennifer Whitt, who was willing to allow us to pick her brain for her expertise with dreadlocks.

Thanks to C. J. McCormick, DVM, who lent us access to his vast knowledge of the peculiarities of animals.

Thanks to James Scott Bell, author and friend, who gave us his legal expertise.

Thanks to Jon Suit, former mayor Monett, who was able and willing to tell us far more than we will ever understand about small-town politics.

Thanks to Barbara Warren of Blue Mountain Editorial Service, for the nice slash and repair job, and for the input on gardening.

Thanks to Brenda and Doug Minton, for having a heart for the children most in need—and for having a garden that refuses to grow beneath the walnut trees.

Thanks to Jackie Bolton, who understands the psyche of a teenager—because her own heart is still young.

Thanks to Jack and Marty Frost, who never let up on us to do our best, and who quickly forgive us when we fail, time and time and time again.

Thanks to Jim and Louise Brillhart and Ardis Bareis for allowing us to take your names in vain.

We wish to give credit where it is due, but any mistakes or discrepancies are purely our own.

We earned them, we intend to keep them.

Chapter One

The scream of an ambulance bounced through the mauve-and-burgundy corridors of the Missouri Regional Hospital on the west side of Columbia. An elderly man moaned. A baby’s cry stung the air through the center of the eight-room emergency department.

Dr. Cheyenne Allison slipped into the untidy doctor’s call room, closed the door and locked it.

If only she could collapse onto the bed and stay there for a week. Or the whole month of March.

Ordinarily, she could breeze through a twelve hour shift and still have enough energy for a nighttime jog along the Katy Trail. But today, at 2:00 p.m. she already felt as if she’d been on duty for twenty-four hours without a break. In spite of her flu shot, in spite of the antiviral she had begun soon after experiencing the first symptoms, she felt like the framed green-and-purple blob on the wall that some idiot had mistaken for art when this department had been remodeled.

She had a full-blown case of influenza.

Cheyenne sank onto the chair and pressed the left side of her face against the smooth coolness of the desk. If only she could stay here until shift change at seven.

The telephone buzzed above her head. Without opening her eyes, she reached up and punched the speaker button. “Yes.”

“Dr. Allison? How you doing, hon?” It was Ardis Dunaway, the most seasoned nurse in the hospital and a good friend.

“You don’t want to know,” Cheyenne said. “Did you get those orders on bed one?”

“I got ’em. You need to see the baby in five. Fussy, with a fever of 103.7 in triage.”

Cheyenne resisted the urge to request a physician replacement. “I’ll be there. Is the cefotaxime hanging on Mr. Robb yet?”

“Got it, and the shoulder X-ray on the girl in five.”

“Did I hear an ambulance a minute ago?”

“That’s right, it sped right on past us to University Hospital.”

Good. Why couldn’t they do that with the rest of their patients today? Divert them all to the big boys. It amazed Cheyenne that this place stayed so busy, with two trauma centers only moments away. Apparently, the homey atmosphere here drew them in.

“I’m coming, Ardis.”

Ninety seconds later, wearing a fresh mask to protect her patients from any stray germs, Cheyenne checked out a fussy infant with a red ear. As she used a bulb insufflator to blow air onto the eardrum, the baby’s cries blended with the wail of another siren. Must be a busy day for University and Boone County.

As Cheyenne reassured the mother and comforted the child, the wail outside grew louder.

It stopped. Too close.

When the siren died the baby fell silent, and his mother relaxed noticeably.

Moments later, Ardis stepped to the exam room door. Gone was the motherly grin of the seasoned nurse. “Dr. Allison, we need you in room three.”

“Coming.” Cheyenne patted the mother’s shoulder, jotted a quick order for the nurse and followed Ardis down the hallway. “What’s up?”

“Ambulance brought us a chest pain patient. Twenty-eight years old.”

“Suspected drug abuse?” For someone so young, that was the norm.

“The attendant says it looks more like a panic attack, and I was told she’s been calling for you by name.”

“For me? What’s her name? Did she say why—”

“She won’t give the attendants any information,” Ardis said. “Nobody told her you were here, she just asked for you. I thought you’d want to see her quickly.”

Cheyenne entered the exam room behind the nurse. An ambulance attendant hovered next to the patient with his chart, checking blood pressure as another nurse transferred EKG leads from the ambulance monitor to the hospital’s equipment.

The patient’s trembling hands covered her face. Silky black hair, as dark and glossy as Cheyenne’s, fanned across the pillow.

Cheyenne stepped to the side of the bed and touched the woman’s shoulder gently. “Hello, I’m Dr.—”

The hands fell away.

Cheyenne caught her breath. “Susan?”

Tears dripped down sharply chiseled, honey-tanned cheeks. Cheyenne’s baby sister reached for her.

“Oh, Chey, I’m so scared. My chest hurts. What’s happening?”

Dane Gideon stepped down from the broad front porch of the ranch house, studying the line of dust clouding the atmosphere above the quarter-mile drive that led from the highway. The early March sunlight dazzled nearby Table Rock Lake with shafts of jeweled colors that built a prism around the small village of Hideaway along the opposite shore.

The sound of tires crunching gravel rippled the peaceful silence as the car pulled into the parking area. Dane saw the dark outline of the passenger. The kid had dreadlocks, skin the color of untouched espresso, eyes narrowed with obvious apprehension—the typical mask of disillusionment in a face too young to bear it.

Clint, the social worker who sometimes seemed to haunt this place, parked beneath the bare oak tree and nodded to Dane with a grim smile. He spoke to the passenger. The teenager shook his head and looked away.

Dane read resentment in every movement.

Clint got out of the car, leaving the door open. “We’ve got another reluctant one for you,” he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry back to the car. “Can’t seem to convince him this place’ll be like summer camp.”

Dane grinned. “Or boot camp.”

Clint took Dane’s hand in a firm shake. “Thanks for accepting Gavin. Knew you’d be perfect for him. Good kid.”

The “good kid” flinched, shot a glare at Clint, crossed his arms over his chest.

“His room’s ready,” Dane said. “He’s bunking with Willy.” Clint had escorted Willy here four months ago, under similar conditions.

Richard Cook came striding around the side of the large, two-story house. Apron in place, hair combed back in a wispy gray cap, the older man—who answered only to the surname that also described his job at the ranch—walked across the barely green lawn and nodded to Dane. Willy came rambling up from the barn, obviously curious about his new roommate and—just as obviously—trying not to show it.

Dane grinned at the skinny fourteen-year-old who had taken so well to ranch life. Maybe he would help Gavin settle in.

While the social worker turned to greet Cook and Willy, Dane stepped to the car, slid behind the steering wheel and closed the door.

Gavin breathed with studiously quiet drags, as if the activity caused him pain.

“I’m Dane Gideon.”

Only a short break in breathing rhythm indicated the teenager had heard.

Knowing Clint, Dane surmised that the fifteen-year-old had been filled in on all aspects of his new home, from the duties he would have on this thriving ranch, to the size of the house, to the school he would be attending. No doubt he’d also been given thumbnail sketches of the other “inmates” at the ranch.

With a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the town, Dane allowed himself a moment of doubt. Was he taking on too much this time?

“You going to tell me your name?” he asked the teenager.

The kid’s lips parted, his throat muscles worked, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and turned to Dane with a garish smile. “Howdy, partner,” came the mocking cadence of his surprisingly baritone voice. “You can call me Blaze. It’s who I am, it’s what I do according to my mama—and mamas never lie, do they?” Bitterness dripped from his words.

“Depends. Did you set the fire?”

The smile sifted from his face like wisps of sand blown from the surface of a rock. “Think I’m stupid? If I say I didn’t, you’ll call me a liar. If I say I did, I’d be lying.”

“Then why don’t we talk about that later? Right now, let’s unload your things and show you around. Your roommate left school early so he could meet you as soon as you arrived. Since this is Friday, you’ll have the weekend to settle in and learn your chores before we enroll you in school.”

The kid’s scowl deepened. “Not going to no school.”

“You don’t have a choice, and neither do I, Gavin.”

“Blaze! My name’s Blaze. It’s what my—”

“You were acquitted.”

“You want to tell me what I’m doing here, then?”

“You wouldn’t be at this ranch if you’d been found guilty of a crime.”

“But I’m not home with my mama, am I?”

It was Dane’s turn to be silent. That was one of the most difficult things he had to deal with here—boys who felt unloved, unwanted.

“You got that straight,” Gavin said. “My mama’s judge and jury on this case. Long as I’m here, my name’s Blaze.”

Cheyenne pressed several facial tissues into her sister’s left hand. “I know it’s scary, Susan, but try to relax so we can get a good reading on your heart. You’re going to be fine. I picked up on the murmur right away—I think it’s your mitral valve problem, but I want to make sure.”

Susan nodded, blinking back tears.

When Cheyenne was in eleventh grade and Susan still in elementary school, Cheyenne had discovered her baby sister’s mitral valve prolapse with her new Christmas present from her parents—a stethoscope. From that time on, Cheyenne had taken Susan’s condition on as a personal responsibility. It was what had motivated her through those first horrendous two years of med school.

She still took that responsibility seriously.

Susan’s hand trembled as she mopped her face with the tissues. “It’s never hurt like this before, Chey.”

“Why don’t you tell me what led up to it? Heavy exercise? Did something happen that upset you?”

Susan hesitated, then nodded, glancing at the others in the room. “I guess you could say that,” she murmured.

Cheyenne respected her sister’s unspoken plea for privacy. She glanced at Ardis, who stood in her usual spot, checking the monitor while the tech from Respiratory handled the EKG machine.

The tech handed the printout to Cheyenne, then disconnected the leads from Susan’s chest. “Want me to leave the machine in here, Dr. Allison?”

“Yes, we’ll do another test after the heart rate slows down and we get rid of the muscle-tremor artifact.” Cheyenne gave her sister a reassuring grin. “It looks good, but we need to find out what’s causing this.”

“I’ve never felt like this before, Chey. I’m sorry to be such a big baby, but it scared me.”

“You’re no baby. Are you sure the pain doesn’t radiate to your jaw or your arm? Nothing in your back?”

“My hands feel tingly.”

“Both of them?”

Susan flexed her fingers. “Yes.”

“That could be from hyperventilation.”

“Is this what they call a panic attack?”

“It could be.” Panic attack would have been Cheyenne’s diagnosis if this were anyone else. But Susan was not one to panic. So what had sent her heart into overdrive?

Susan inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, but they flicked open again when the outgoing EKG tech greeted the incoming radiology tech, who pushed a portable X-ray machine in front of him.

“Susan, we’re going to get a picture of your chest,” Cheyenne explained. “Just relax. You know I’ll take care of you.” She leaned over the bed and held her sister’s gaze.

Susan took another deep breath and lay back, the midnight strands of her shaggy-cut hair splaying across the pillow. She looked up at Cheyenne, dark eyes filled with trust.

Cheyenne squeezed her arm. “You want me to have the secretary call Kirk?”

“No!” Susan’s head raised from the pillow once more. “Please, I don’t want him to know about this.”

“It’s all right,” Cheyenne said. “I won’t call.” She stepped out of the room long enough for the tech to get the X ray of Susan’s heart—just in case. “It’s going to be okay,” she called reassuringly from the doorway.

What was the problem between Susan and her husband?

Chapter Two

Dane stood beside Clint at the far edge of the yard and watched Willy and Gavin walk toward the barn—Willy’s typically talking hands graced the air to emphasize whatever verbal point he was trying to make with Gavin.

What a contrast—the scrawny fourteen-year-old with closely cropped brown hair and glasses was nearly a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Gavin. Where Gavin had muscles, Willy had skin. Where Gavin had dreadlocks, Willy had—practically—skin.

“The dreadlocks will take some adjustment,” Dane said.

Clint chuckled. “For Blaze or for you?”

“For Hideaway. And I refuse to call him Blaze. It’s derogatory.”

“You’ve been living out here in the sticks too long, Dane. You need to get to the city more often.”

“No, thanks.”

“Still hiding out?”

“I’m not hiding from anything.” Dane used his “back off” voice as he nodded toward Gavin. “He’s already got two problems fitting in.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“He’s a ‘ranch kid,’ and he’s got dark skin.”

“Hold it.” Clint made a show of covering his ears. “It isn’t politically correct for me to hear this.”

“You don’t like the term ranch kid?”

“You know what—”

“Deal with it. That’s the way it is here. When I came to Hideaway, I moved back twenty years in time—in some ways, more like fifty. Many of the natives have been here for two or three generations. They hate change. Many of them are still leery of me because I’m divorced with no children of my own. And it’s no coincidence that everyone within a ten-mile radius of Hideaway looks askance at Jason because he has a deeper tan than most of the natives.”

“Then move somewhere else. Take the kids with you. You can afford that.”

Dane shook his head. “I belong here.”

Clint snorted. “I suppose God told you that.”

Dane ignored his friend’s cynical tone. “We all have our place in life. I’ve found mine.” He watched with growing interest as Willy introduced Gavin Farmer to Gordy, the most cantankerous cow of the herd, through the barn lot fence. Gordy was short for Gordina—the name of a bossy woman he had admired in his church.

“A perfect place,” Clint murmured. “Taming wild teenagers to become model citizens? Putting up with Austin Barlow every time he wants to make you a target for one of his special vendettas?”

“I hate to admit this, but I’m enjoying the challenge of those vendettas. Austin isn’t invincible.” Dane gestured toward Gordy. The cow stood close to the fence, allowing Gavin to scratch her ear. “Would you look at that? I’ve never seen her do that before.”

“The kid has a way with animals. He worked with his father in his veterinarian practice.”

“I knew from the report his father was a vet, but it didn’t give much information about the mother,” Dane said. “Any insights there?”

“All I know is the parents were long estranged, and that she had her own demanding job. Wouldn’t even leave it long enough to collect her son when his father was killed in the wreck last year. Social services stepped in, suggested foster care, placed him and he ran away. His mother finally, reluctantly, agreed to take him, but three weeks after he moved in with her, their house burned down.”

“None of that’s in the report.”

“We don’t always put everything in those reports, because we don’t always have all the information we need.”

“So what does the kid’s mother do?”

“She’s a manager for a fast-food chain down in Arkansas. She does pretty well, seems efficient at her job, but when it came to Gavin, she couldn’t cope.”

“So she claimed Gavin deliberately set fire to their house?” Dane exclaimed. “Does she have any reason to believe that?”

“Only an episode when he accidentally set the living room on fire when he was a child.”

“Nothing since then?”

“Not on record.”

Dane gave him a quick look. “That isn’t reassuring.”

“He’s an innocent kid caught in a mess, Dane.”

“You’re sure? I’ve got other kids to think about, and the town is always watching—”

“Give him some time and see what you think,” Clint said. “Anyway, his mom isn’t able to keep him. I feel he needs a mother, though. Frankly, you weren’t my first choice for him—you don’t even have a woman on the ranch, unless you count Gordy.”

“She’s a good mama. Her calves always grow well.”

“Think you can work one of your miracles, Dane?”

“I don’t work miracles.”

“You seem to know Somebody who does.”

Cheyenne wrote discharge orders for two patients, washed her hands and replaced her mask. When she entered Susan’s exam room again, no other medical personnel were there.

Cheyenne closed the door behind her and went to her sister’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

Susan nodded. “Better. It doesn’t hurt as much. By the way, what’s with the mask?”

“Flu.” Cheyenne slumped onto the stool beside the bed. “I don’t want to risk passing it on to a patient.” She tapped the mask with her fingers. “This is just a precaution. I don’t feel too bad.” Liar. You feel wretched. “Your lab reports all look good, but let’s get a repeat EKG before I discharge you. Now that your heart rate is slower and you aren’t shaking so badly, we’ll get a better reading.”

Susan nodded.

“Speaking of shaking,” Cheyenne said, “what could have set this off? I’ve never known you to have a panic attack before.”

“So you think that is what happened?”

A question instead of an answer. “I don’t know for sure, but that could have been what disturbed your mitral valve. I’ve already scheduled an outpatient echo for you for next Monday.”

“Oh, Sis, do we have to do that? I don’t really want Kirk to know about—”

“We have to make sure that valve isn’t going to cause any major problems.” Cheyenne touched Susan’s left hand. “I’m not taking any chances with you. If you’re worried about Kirk knowing, I’ll have the hospital send me the bill.” But why shouldn’t Susan’s husband know?

“No, don’t do that. It’s…it isn’t that bad.”

Cheyenne leaned forward. If it wasn’t that bad, why was Susan suddenly avoiding eye contact? “I know you don’t like to take medication, but I’ve ordered something to calm you down.”

“A tranquilizer?”

“Yes. You won’t have to worry about any more needles, since you already have the IV. It won’t fix the problem, but it might help make everything more bearable until we can find the real culprit.” But of course the real culprit was Kirk Warden—Cheyenne had known that for some time.

Susan swallowed, then nodded. “Could you give me something…to take with me?”

“I’ll write you a script.” Cheyenne hesitated. “You’ll need a ride home. I’d let you take my car, but you can’t drive under the influence of this medication. If you can’t call Kirk—”

“I’ll get a taxi. Can I work? I have an appointment with a client whose house I’m decorating this afternoon. She’s a neighbor who lives just three houses west of us, so I won’t have to drive there.”

“Sure, you can work…if your client doesn’t mind a little drug-induced creativity.” Cheyenne got up, battling a wave of nausea. “Since you’re getting a taxi, I’ll dispense some tablets for you here so you won’t have to stop at a pharmacy.”

“Thanks.” Still no eye contact.

Cheyenne leaned closer. “Honey, what’s going on with you?”

Susan dabbed at her face with a tissue. “It’s no big deal, Sis, okay?”

“Wrong answer. I’m your doctor right now, not your sister. You don’t have panic attacks for ‘no big deal.’ What happened with Kirk today?” Please talk to me, Susan. The sound of another ambulance siren barely reached them from the highway.

“We had a little disagreement over the telephone,” Susan glanced toward the closed door. “Are you sure no one can hear us?”

“Positive.”

“I decided to file my taxes separately from his this year. When I told him, he went ballistic. I wouldn’t have done it, except I’ve been comparing notes with his secretary, and we don’t jibe. If he’s cheating on taxes, I don’t want any part of it.”

Cheyenne closed her eyes, glad the mask over the lower portion of her face would conceal some of her dismay.

“If he finds out she talked to me, he’ll fire her,” Susan said.

Anger intensified Cheyenne’s nausea. For her sister’s sake, she had put up with Kirk’s borderline antagonism since he and Susan had become engaged eight years ago. Cheyenne had sat through countless uncomfortably silent dinners, had timed her visits to the house when Kirk would be at work, had run interference when Mom and Dad flew up from Florida to visit. Occasionally, Susan spent the night with Cheyenne, when Kirk was out of town on business—he had his own computer networking firm.

“The stress with Kirk could be a trigger for your chest pain,” Cheyenne said.

“I’m not sure what I can do about it.”

Cheyenne decided not to mention the obvious solution. “What else is going on with you?”

Susan looked down at her hands, picking at her cuticles. “Kirk isn’t…always happy with me.”

“Happy in what way?”

“The problem is, he thinks I’ve become too independent with my business, and he’s decided to tighten the reins.”

Those weren’t reins, they were more like screws. “In what way?” Cheyenne asked gently.

Susan closed her eyes and raised a hand to her face—a shaking hand. “He’s taken all the money out of our joint account and placed them in a different bank, using his name alone.”

Cheyenne willed away her own outrage. Susan couldn’t handle that right now. “Do you think he’s planning to divorce you?”

“We don’t believe in divorce.”

We? Was Kirk cheating on his taxes but still pretending to be some upstanding, good “Christian” man? What a laugh.

“I just don’t know what to do next,” Susan said. “It’s so…so hard to realize that the man I married isn’t the man I’m married to. You know what I mean?”

Cheyenne nodded, though she didn’t really know. Her whole life had been caught up in her career, with only one serious relationship. That had ended in pain when the man she loved couldn’t endure her hours—or her success. “You could move in with me, Susan. You’ll never have to put up with that kind of treatment while I’m alive.”

“I’m the one who got myself into this mess,” Susan murmured. “I’ll stick it out.”

Cheyenne bit her tongue and remained silent. Blast the too holy standards of Susan’s religion. Didn’t anyone at their church see what a hypocrite Kirk was?

“If you need money to get you by—”

“Chey, I’m doing fine.” Susan touched Cheyenne’s arm. “Thanks. It seems like half the neighborhood has decided to redecorate, and they’re calling me to do it. I’ve opened a bank account in my name alone. I’ll be fine. Maybe Kirk’s just going through a bad time right now, and I…I need to be more understanding and…pray for him.”

Cheyenne clamped her teeth together. Susan could exercise her Christian principles and turn the other cheek all she wanted, but Cheyenne wasn’t—

There was a knock at the door, then Ardis opened it and came inside. “Got you some snooze juice, my dear. Just relax.” She injected the syringe into Susan’s IV port. “It’s a temporary fix, but you’ll start to feel better real quick.”

Susan nodded. “Thanks. Chey, everything’ll be fine.”

Cheyenne patted her sister’s hand. I’m not so sure.

Chapter Three

Dane Gideon stepped through the barn door and switched on the overhead light. The remaining Holstein heifer could be inoculated and released into the pasture.

No problem. He would have it done before the boys came home from school.

Not until he had the calf cornered in a stall did he recognize the little white bell on her otherwise black face. Too late, he heard the deep, rumbling moo of an angry mama cow behind him. Gordy.

He should have waited.

She lowered her head and came at him, her huge nostrils snorting so forcefully her breath swept dust and particles of straw into a tiny cloud at her feet.

Dane jumped up the side of a nearby stall, grabbed the ladder and climbed to the loft. He turned in time to see Starface skittering out of the barn ahead of her indignant mother.

“Should’ve sold that ornery animal years ago,” he muttered, slowly descending the ladder.

Gordy hurried after her baby, ears perked forward, her long, Holstein body all bulk and bones in the reflection of the afternoon sunlight.

Dane reached the barn floor in time to hear a loud whistle, followed by a “Yeehaw!” from outside.

He ran to the door to find Starface running back toward him, with Gordy in hot pursuit. He scrambled backward against a concrete stand, leaped atop it.

Another whistle pierced the gloom of the barn. Metal slapped wood—the slamming of the barn lot gate—then came another whistle.

Gordy waggled her head at Dane, big ears fluttering as she turned to investigate the sound.

“Cook? Is that you?” Dane called.

A familiar, broad-shouldered form came striding inside, dreadlocks bouncing, thumbs hooked over the belt loops of his jeans. “Don’t you want to vaccinate Starface before—”

“Gavin, get back!”

Gordy lowered her head and charged as Gavin scrambled sideways. Dane jumped down and ran after the cow.

“Gordy, over here!” He waved his arms over his head. “You old battleaxe, get away!”

Gavin leaped over the fence in one youthful motion.

Gordy swerved and rammed Dane with her shoulder. He hit the ground as she swerved away, kicking out with her foot to land a solid blow to his left thigh.

A loud grunt echoed in his head as he fell against the fence. The gate swung back and a hand grabbed his shirt, then jerked him, half dragging, half lifting him, out of the lot. As soon as he was clear, Gavin slammed the gate in the cow’s face.

Dane slumped against the outside of the fence while Gavin shoved the gate latch home.

“You okay?” Gavin asked, bending over him.

Dane gritted his teeth against the pain in his thigh. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sorry, I forgot Willy said Gordy had a mean streak.” Gavin gestured over his shoulder toward the cow and calf. “I know better.”

Dane caught sight of Gavin’s blood-streaked sleeve. “You’re bleeding.”

Gavin held his arm up and inspected a small cut at the base of his wrist. “I’ll get that taken care of. Guess that old cow hasn’t seen many black guys with locks like mine, huh?”

Dane rubbed his thigh. “I don’t think that had anything to do with it.”

“Do you want to vaccinate the calf while we’ve got her in the lot?”

“Thanks, Gavin, but I think we’ll let them go this time.”

“When’re you going to start calling me Blaze?”

“When it becomes your legal name. What are you doing out of school early?”

“Last hour’s PE, and I didn’t have dress-out clothes, so I told the teacher I’d be good and come straight here if he let me leave early. Why do you have such a fuss with a silly ol’ nickname? Everybody else calls me Blaze.”

“Good for them. We’ll find you some exercise clothes and shoes tonight.”

“Guess you know I’ll be sixteen in three weeks.”

“Yes. What do you want for your birthday?”

“To quit school.”

“Sorry, no way. Anything else?”

“It’ll be legal then. A guy doesn’t have to go after his sixteenth birthday.”

“He does if he plans to stay here at the ranch.”

Gavin blinked at Dane. “You mean I have to keep going to school just to stay here?”

“That’s the deal. Gavin, you’re still bleeding.” An inch-long cut should have stopped bleeding by now, unless it was deeper than it appeared. The end of Gavin’s sleeve was soaked red.

The teenager pressed his fingers over the wound. “Nobody told me about that rule when I agreed to come here.”

“You may find there are a lot of things around here nobody told you about.”

Gavin gave a disgusted grunt.

“Come on,” Dane said. “Let’s get you to the house and clean your—”

“Okay, fine, then there’s something else I want for my birthday.”

“I hope it’s Gordyburgers,” Dane muttered, still aching from the kick.

“Call me by my chosen name.”

Dane put a hand on Gavin’s shoulder and nudged him toward the house. “I don’t understand the logic of calling yourself Blaze when you aren’t an arsonist.”

“Something my daddy taught me.”

“I thought he was a veterinarian.”

Gavin gave Dane an impatient look.

“Sorry. What did your father teach you?”

“To take the sting out of the name. Beat ’em to the punch.”

“Did kids at school call you names?”

“That’s for me to know. Why’re you limping?”

“Gordy kicked me.”

“Better get some ice on it.”

“I plan to.”

“Come on, you can say it. ‘I plan to, Blaze.’”

“For three more weeks, your name is Gav or Gavin, take your pick.”

“Missouri Regional, this is 841, we are currently inbound for your facility….”

Cheyenne glanced at her watch, groaned, straightened at her desk, still fighting the nausea. “Go away,” she muttered. Twenty more minutes, and Brillhart would be here. Why hadn’t she asked Ardis to call him sooner?

“…Caucasian female, late twenties, class one trauma from an MVA. Patient’s car was struck in the driver’s side, had to be extricated. Patient is fully immobilized, responsive only to pain. We are attempting to establish IV at this time. BP sixty over forty by—”

“Coming here?” Ardis exclaimed. “Did you hear that? They’re bringing us a class one.”

Cheyenne reached for the ambulance radio and keyed the microphone. “Eight-forty-one this is medical control. Divert to University Hospital. We are not a designated trauma facility.”

“Missouri Regional this is 841, we copy but cannot comply. University and Boone are both on full trauma diversion at this time. ETA of five minutes.”

Cheyenne pressed the button again. “Eight-forty-one, this is medical control. We roger your last transmission. Please advise of any change in patient’s condition. This is medical control at Missouri Regional out.” She disconnected.

“Oh, my. What do we do now?” the secretary asked.

“Advise RT and X Ray we’ve got a hot one coming in fast.” Cheyenne turned in her chair. “Quickly, Deanna.”

“G-got it, Dr. Allison.” The secretary swallowed and jerked up the telephone.

Cheyenne nodded to Ardis. “Have Lab get four units of O-negative blood STAT. I want it in this department when the patient arrives. Then attempt to notify the surgeon on call for backup. Let him know what we have.”

Ardis went to work.

Cheyenne found the intubation kit in the trauma room and selected the appropriate size ET tubes. What a time to have the flu.

The radio came alive again. “Missouri Regional, this is 841. Be advised our patient is now in full arrest. I repeat, our patient is in full arrest. Following ACLS protocol. ETA less than two minutes.”

Cheyenne made eye contact with Ardis. They would do all they could, but the odds were against this patient surviving.

“Everyone get your protective gear on,” Cheyenne said.

“I hear the sirens now,” the secretary called.

“Make sure RT and X Ray are on their way down,” Cheyenne said. “Ardis, check on that blood.” The trauma room was ready. “Aprons, masks, gloves, everyone.”

Stepping to the window that overlooked the ambulance bay, Cheyenne caught sight of the red-orange-red-orange flash of lights as the van safety-sped into the lot. Tension thickened the air in the Emergency Department.

“We can do this,” she said. “Get ready.”

The RT tech came racing down the far end of the corridor pushing her supply cart.

Ardis hung up the telephone and swung toward Cheyenne. “They’re getting the blood ready, Dr. Allison.”

“Good. Come with me.” Cheyenne looked for the ER tech. “Rick, you too.” She led the way out to the bay, where the driver was yanking open the back doors of the ambulance.

The attendants pulled the intubated patient from the vehicle. Cheyenne’s first sight of the patient was the flash of red blood marring a half-naked body—the attendants had stripped her to check for all injuries.

“Rick, take over compressions,” Cheyenne ordered the tech. “What’s the rhythm?” she asked the attendant, standing back as they wheeled the stretcher toward the door.

“PEA,” the paramedic said.

Pulseless electrical activity. No surprise, judging by the apparent blood loss. The patient was unrecognizable.

“How much fluid have you given?” Cheyenne asked, following them through the door.

“We’ve only been able to give about a hundred cc’s,” the paramedic replied. “I could only get a twenty-two gauge IV started.”

Not big enough. “We need at least a twenty gauge.” She turned to Ardis. “I need you to establish a large-bore IV, have her ready for the blood when it arrives.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

They helped transfer the patient to the ER trauma bed while the respiratory tech took over bagging the patient, helping her breathe. Cheyenne moved to the patient’s left side to check for placement of the ET tube, leaving her right side accessible to Ardis.

No breath sounds over the abdomen. Good. That meant the patient had been intubated properly. Pressing the bell of the stethoscope over the patient’s bloody chest, she raised a hand for Rick to delay the next compression.

No heartbeat.

She nodded for him to continue.

As she removed the stethoscope from the patient’s rib cage, she saw a dark blotch on the skin. A large birthmark just below the left breast.

She looked at the face again, reached for the blood-matted hair.

Black. It was the length of…

She looked at the paramedic. “You said she was the driver?”

“Only person in the car. We pulled her from beneath the steering wheel.”

Cheyenne couldn’t catch her breath. “And the car? Did you notice what kind…?”

“Dark blue Sable sedan.”

The edges of Cheyenne’s vision went black and she felt herself slipping backward. It can’t be—I told her not to drive, she said she wouldn’t….

“Dr. Allison!” Ardis yelled.

“Oh, Susan. Oh, please God, no.” Cheyenne fought to regain her composure. “Where’s that blood!” she snapped.

“Right here,” Ardis said. “Hold on, Dr. Allison, I can’t get the large bore IV.”

“Have you heard from the surgeon?”

It couldn’t be Susan. She was only going to a neighbor’s house.

But her sister’s silhouette—the undamaged part—was obvious now.

“Our on-call surgeon is also on trauma call for University,” Deanna said. “We’re trying to reach someone else, but—”

“Ardis, get me a central line kit,” Cheyenne ordered. “She needs blood now. And get X Ray in here for a trauma series. Now!”

“Dr. Allison?” came a voice from the hallway. It was her replacement. Jim Brillhart. His tall, lean form filled the doorway. “How can I help?”

She looked up at him, felt the floor rock beneath her.

He rushed forward and caught her arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m getting ready to do a central line on this patient. I’ll take the jugular so I won’t interfere with CPR.”

“You want me to do it?”

“I’ll be fine.” She refocused on her procedure, felt the sweat coat her neck and chest and trickle down the sides of her face as she tried to keep her hands steady

A tech reported on the CBC and Cheyenne prepared for a transfusion as the respiratory tech came into the crowded room with a report on Susan’s blood gas that deepened Cheyenne’s frown.

“That could be venous,” she said. They missed the artery and got a vein. “Take it again.”

“Dr. Allison, I really don’t think it’s—”

“One more time.”

The X-ray tech brought in the trauma X-ray series and mounted them on the view box.

It showed multiple left rib fractures with a massive collection of blood in the left chest cavity. Multiple pelvic fractures with a ground glass appearance on the X ray.

No, Susan. No!

“Get me a chest-tube setup. And wrap a sheet around her pelvis and tighten it as much as you can.”

Rick looked up from his compressions, though he continued in perfect rhythm. “You want me to stop doing compressions when you put in the chest tube?”

“Yes, but no longer than absolutely necessary. Get somebody fresh to spell you.”

“Let me do the chest tube,” Jim said, “then I’ll take over for Rick.”

“Check for fine V fib,” Cheyenne said as he placed the tube. Susan, baby, work with me. Don’t you dare die on me!

The monitor remained an agonal rhythm, but it now appeared more asystole.

Flatline.

No! She would not let that happen!

“Where’s that surgeon? I need him now.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Allison, but he’s already been called to University Hospital for disaster code,” Deanna said.

“Then it’s up to us,” Cheyenne said. “Get me a thoracotomy tray.”

Jim looked at her in surprise. “Cheyenne, are you sure about this?”

“Push the epinephrine, Ardis,” Cheyenne said, ignoring him. The thought of opening Susan’s chest and massaging her heart was unthinkable. But it was her sister’s only chance.

“Ardis! Epi. Now.”

“Dr. Allison,” Jim said.

“I’ve got to try it,” she said softly. “This is my sister.”

He gave a shocked, “Oh, dear God no,” then, “Rick, take over back here.” Jim came around the bed to Cheyenne, placed a hand on each shoulder and tried to draw her away from the bed.

She resisted. “I’m still the doctor in charge, Jim. You can’t take me off this case.”

“I’m your director, Cheyenne, and your friend. Listen to me for a moment.”

She looked up at him. “Did you hear me? It’s my sister!”

“I know, but what if it weren’t? What would you do?”

She turned again to Susan’s side.

“She’s a blunt trauma victim, right?”

“That’s right, Dr. Brillhart,” said the paramedic.

“Pulseless for more than twenty minutes?”

“Twenty-five,” Rick said.

“Cheyenne,” Jim said gently. “You need to let her go.”

“I can’t do that. Ardis, push the epinephrine again.”

“You’ve done all you can,” Jim said.

No! I’m still in charge! “I haven’t called this code yet.”

“Cheyenne.” Jim leaned closer. He placed a hand over hers.

She jerked away. “Ardis, why are you waiting? Push the epi! Any word on the second blood gas?”

“Dr. Allison,” Jim said, this time with authority. “You have to call it. She’s gone. She wouldn’t want to come back, even if she could. There’s too much damage.”

Cheyenne felt the dizziness strike once more with blinding swiftness. She couldn’t bear it.

“I can’t call it,” she whispered.

“I’ll do it, then,” Jim said.

“No!”

Silence descended except for the sounds of the monitor, Rick’s labored breathing and the efforts that kept this hopelessly damaged body functioning.

Let her go? She’s already gone.

Cheyenne looked at her watch, then reached for Susan’s hand, covered in blood.

Everyone waited.

I’m so sorry, my baby sister.

“Time of…” Cheyenne swallowed, took a breath of air, which was strong with the scent of blood. “Time of…death, 18:14.”

Rick stopped compressions. The respiratory tech stopped bagging. Ardis set her equipment down and rushed around the bed to Cheyenne’s side.

As Cheyenne felt herself falling, felt hands catching her, she willed herself to descend into death with her sister.

Chapter Four

Dane found Cook in the pantry, sorting through institutional cans of tomato soup.

“Barbecue tonight?” he asked the bony old ranch hand.

“If I can find the molasses,” Cook said over his shoulder.

“If we’re out, I’ll make a run to town.” The boys loved that recipe. “Cook, did Blaze get into the medicine chest?”

The older man turned and frowned at him. “Why would he do that?”

“He had an injury out in the barn lot. Gordy got after us.”

“That blamed ol’ cow’s going to get somebody kilt someday. Since when did you start calling him Blaze?”

Oops. “Since three seconds ago. I’d better go see about him.”

Dane took the stairs and saw a spot of blood on the railing. He went to the closed door of the bedroom Gavin and Willy shared. When he pushed it open he saw Gavin in the center of the room, holding the end of a syringe against the bare flesh of his stomach.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a bleeder.” The boy wiped a smudge of blood from his arm.

“What’s in the syringe?”

“A coagulant to stop the flow.” He rewrapped the syringe and set it on the top of his dresser.

“Nobody told me,” Dane said.

“Not a lot of people know.”

“How could you keep something like that a secret?”

“You don’t believe me?” Again, that expression of irritable impatience, thick brows lowered over eyes narrowed with disappointment.

“I didn’t say that.”

Gavin sat on the chest in front of the window that overlooked the barn. “About two years ago my old doctor died, and nobody took his place. The guy was in his eighties, only had a few patients. My prescription for this stuff’s always refillable, so I didn’t go to a new doc for a while. When I did, he never said anything about sending him my old records. I guess they kind of got lost.”

“That’s dangerous, Blaze. You need to take responsibility for your own health care now. What would happen if you ran out—”

“What’d you call me?”

Oh, no. He’d done it again.

“You called me Blaze.”

“Happy birthday. Why didn’t your mother tell the social worker about your condition?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“I can’t believe she wouldn’t—”

“There you go again.” Blaze shook his head and gestured toward the bed. “You want to sit down and let me tell you a few facts of life?”

“I want to know where Clint can get a copy of your medical records.”

Blaze unwrapped a paper towel from around his wrist. “See? The stuff’s already working. No big deal.”

“It’s a big deal when we don’t know—”

“Thing is, I didn’t figure they’d let me come to the ranch if they knew I was a bleeder. You know, working with the animals can be a little tricky sometimes. But I’ve got this—” his voice wavered “—this need to be around….” He swallowed and studied the wound on his wrist.

“It’s okay,” Dane said. “I think I understand. You probably worked with your father a lot in his practice.”

“All the time.”

“You lived in Rolla?”

“Edge of town. Saw my mother maybe three times after the divorce was final, and maybe six times before that. Until Dad died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“About what? That my own mother doesn’t want me? Not your fault. You ever put any ice on that thigh?”

“I will.”

“Sure. You gonna kick me out?”

“You got any other secrets you need to tell me?”

“I’m not an arsonist.”

“That’s no secret.”

“I don’t think I’ll make it at school.”

Dane eased himself onto the bed at last, groaning at the increased soreness of his leg. “Why not?”

“Don’t read too well.”

“You need glasses?”

“I’ve got good vision, I just can’t catch on to reading.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“How’re you going to do that?”

“Has anybody ever suggested you might have a learning disability?”

“All my life.”

“Your father could have helped you—”

“Don’t you say anything about my father,” Blaze snapped. “He got dumped by the same woman who dumped me. He did the best he could, but he was busy.”

“Maybe you need to learn a different way to process information.”

“I process just fine—I just can’t read the letters.”

“Backward? Maybe if we played with that a little.”

“Maybe you should just use me here on the ranch to take care of the animals. Maybe that’s all I need to do. I could just be a ranch hand here on the place.”

“I didn’t bring you here to work. I brought you here to take care of you. That means you get an education.”

Blaze hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You’d better believe I will.”

Hothouse flowers saturated the atmosphere, nauseating Cheyenne as she slid into the pew beside her mother. Organ music threaded through the gloom of the church, trickling over her like black oil, punctuated by her mother’s quiet sobs. She felt oppressed by the crowd in this auditorium, though she knew the outpouring of kindness by so many should give her comfort.

But nothing could give her comfort. Some evil entity had gut-kicked her, and it amazed her that she was still breathing.

Kirk sat across the auditorium, wiping his face with a white handkerchief. In a haze of pain this past weekend, Cheyenne had tried twice to contact him. No response. Her parents had called his number three times yesterday. No answer. No matter what had transpired before now, he must be hurting horribly.

Cheyenne’s fingernails sank into the flesh of her hand. Could he be hurting worse than she was? She had lived with the nightmare of seeing her beloved baby sister—her only sibling—wheeled into the ER mangled and bloody. She had plunged her hands into the blood, had fought desperately for Susan’s life. She had lost.

If not for the overwhelming support of extended family—aunts, uncles, cousins—Cheyenne wouldn’t be able to handle this day, or her parents’ grief. Or her own.

Mom hadn’t stopped crying since she and Dad arrived yesterday. Dad looked closer to seventy than fifty-six.

A young minister sat on the stage behind the podium, fidgeting with his tie.

Someone touched Cheyenne on the shoulder. She looked up to see Ardis Dunaway standing in the aisle, her dark eyes peering through bifocals with deep compassion.

“How’re you holding up, hon?”

Cheyenne nodded. She still wanted to die. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done to help these past few days.”

“Don’t you even worry about that.”

Not only had this dear friend taken care of her when she collapsed the day of Susan’s death, but Ardis and Jim had been the ones to call Kirk in and tell him about Susan—a task Cheyenne would traditionally have undertaken.

Ardis leaned closer. “Have you spoken to Kirk at all?”

“He won’t communicate.”

“And so we still don’t know why she was driving under the influence—”

“Please.” Cheyenne felt the stab of fresh pain. “Does it matter, anyway? She’s dead, and no amount of fact finding will bring her back. The wreck wasn’t her fault, according to the police report. That’s all I need to—”

“I’m sorry, honey, of course you’re right.” Ardis squeezed her shoulder, then indicated the crowded church. “Look, I know you don’t believe in all this, but I hope it comforts you to know that Susan was very well loved.”

“My sister found…comfort here, apparently,” Cheyenne said.

“She’s receiving more comfort now than she ever received here on earth.”

Cheyenne nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. She respected Ardis’s faith even though she didn’t share it.

Ardis squeezed Cheyenne’s shoulder and returned to her seat several rows back.

The organ music drifted to silence. The deep baritone voice of a soloist echoed through the auditorium—waxing poetic about gardens and dew and talking with the Son of God.

Cheyenne focused her attention on the closed casket and the picture of her laughing sister, whose life hadn’t been lived long enough for her to ever be complete.

At the cemetery, the funeral director escorted Cheyenne beneath the canopy to the seat next to her brother-in-law.

He edged away from her, his firm features set.

She endured the minister’s attempt at consolation as he eulogized her sister.

He meant well, but he didn’t know Susan the way she did.

She took her mother’s hand and held tight, forcing away the memories of Friday. Almost every night, she dreamed of the blood. She dreamed of Susan’s battered body. She relived that horrible time over and over in her head.

The pastor finished his eulogy and said a prayer, then reached for Kirk’s hand. “She was a precious soul,” he said softly. “We’ll miss her so much, but I know it’ll be nothing compared to what you’re going through.”

Kirk’s tears looked real, the pain on his face unrehearsed. It reflected Cheyenne’s own loss.

For one unguarded moment, she felt the kinship. As the pastor stepped away, Cheyenne touched Kirk’s arm. “We’re both going to miss her,” she whispered.

He jerked away, turning on her with the swiftness of a striking snake. “How are you going to live with yourself, knowing you killed your own sister?”

The viciousness of his words, his voice, sent a sting of shock through her. “How can you say that? I did everything I could to—”

“Save it for the jury.” He turned his broad back to her and stood.

Cheyenne stood at the foot of the casket, barely heeding the voices that surrounded her as she watched Kirk shaking the hand of the funeral director. He waved and nodded to others, like a gracious party host.

He looked aside and caught her watching him. His expression hardened.

She stepped backward and stumbled.

“Cheyenne? Are you okay?” Uncle Chester caught her by the elbow.

She felt a wash of dizziness. “I’m not sure.”

Mom rushed to her side. “Chey? What’s wrong? Are you sick again?”

“No, I…I’ll be okay.” How could he blame her? She’d done all she could do. She would gladly die herself, if only it would bring Susan back.

But nothing would bring Susan back—and Cheyenne didn’t know how she’d be able to bear it.

Chapter Five

Susan’s face floated into Cheyenne’s vision, interrupting a perfect in-house nap. The dark brown eyes were lit with humor, the classically high cheekbones glowed with health.

“I want to see you again, Chey.” Her soft voice floated through the darkness. “Make sure to come—”

With a cry, Cheyenne plunged from the dream, startled awake by its vividness.

She gasped, tugging the comforter around her shoulders. “Susan!”

The telephone beside the twin-size bed beeped at her.

“Leave me alone.” She turned away from the sound, covering her ears, desperate to catch another glimpse of the dream, to hear that sweet voice again.

Another beep, and the speaker came alive. “Dr. Allison? Hello?” A male voice. Tom, the R.N. on duty.

She turned and snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Dr. Allison, I’m sorry to wake you. Are you okay?”

No. She cleared her throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got a patient with chest pain.”

“I’ll be there.” She disconnected and looked at the bedside clock. Six-thirty on Saturday, April 2. Exactly a month since…

How many dreams did that make now, thirty or so?

How much longer could she function this way? She felt the sting of tears as she reached for her stethoscope. “Oh…Susan.”

She quick-stepped to the ER and found Tom waiting for her at the central desk.

“Vitals?” she asked.

“Arlene’s in the room doing the patient assessment.”

Cheyenne selected a T-sheet and placed it on a clipboard on her way to the cardiac room. She stopped in the doorway and caught the faint scent of body odor.

The patient had black hair…olive skin…dark eyes…

Cheyenne’s clipboard clattered to the floor.

Arlene looked up from the monitor. “Doctor, are you okay?”

Stop this! It isn’t Susan.

“Doctor?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Cheyenne picked up the clipboard and looked at the patient again. Not Susan. Of course it wasn’t Susan. Get a grip!

“H-Hello, I’m Dr. Allison.”

The patient watched her closely, and Cheyenne realized Arlene was still staring at her from the other side of the room.

“Arlene, is something wrong?” she asked.

The nurse shook her head slowly.

Cheyenne questioned the patient, did an exam and ordered a drug screen, all the time aware that the nurse continued to watch her a little too closely. It rankled.

While she waited for the test results to come back, Cheyenne sat down at her workstation and struggled with the memories. As she often did, she planned to drive to the cemetery with a bouquet of flowers from the grocery store.

And then she would sleep through the day. After that, she had vacation for two weeks, which she desperately needed.

She checked her mail slot in the E.R. callroom. There were the typical copies of old lab reports and hospital memos, a request for her to stop by her director’s office before she left on vacation.

No problem, she could do that. Jim had a shift today. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had plans to do anything but sleep. With the physician shortage in the past few weeks, she’d worked several extra shifts in March, half of them nights. It kept her occupied, but it also kept her tired, especially combined with the insomnia caused by her frequent nightmares.

Jim walked past her desk. “You ready to talk to me in a few minutes?”

“Let me finish up a patient and I’ll be there.” He was obviously serious about something. Might as well see what it was.

Dane heard the familiar crunch of gravel announce the arrival of a macho engine. Opening the barn door, he saw the big red pickup floating in a cloud of dust, and the mayor of Hideaway behind the steering wheel.

This was not the best possible morning for Austin’s kind of company, but then, Dane couldn’t think of a time when he would welcome this man. Too much ugly history came between them.

With a final glance at Willy and Blaze hovering over the cows in the milking room, Dane strolled from the barn and ambled up the incline toward the house, catching a whiff of dust in his nostrils. They could use a good rain. In fact, he wouldn’t mind if the sky chose this time for a cloudburst.

Austin Barlow lit from his truck like some cowboy hero alighting from his trusty steed. Minus the hat, for once. At forty-two, Austin had a full head of auburn hair with barely a streak of white, while at thirty-eight, Dane knew his silver-blond hair was already more silver than blond. His beard had even more snow in it. His father had been the same way.

“Morning, Austin.” Dane reached out a hand, bracing himself for the man’s exaggerated grip. He didn’t wince when his knuckles squeezed against each other. “Breakfast will be ready in about thirty minutes. It’s our Saturday special—”

“No time for that today, Gideon, we’ve got other things to worry about.” The man loomed a little too close and tall, a sure bet he had conflict on his mind.

Dane suppressed a groan. At six feet even, he was barely an inch shorter than the mayor, but he’d never learned to intimidate quite so well. “Time for a cup of coffee?”

“I need to know where your boys were last night.”

Not this again. “All snug in the house as soon as the milking was done.”

“You know that for sure? You have padlocks on all your outside windows?”

Don’t react. “I have squeaky floorboards, and I’m a light sleeper. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Austin?”

The mayor kicked at a rock with the pointed toe of his boot and gestured across the lake toward the town of Hideaway. “Someone set a boat afire on the new dock last night.”

Dane sniffed the air. He’d caught the scent earlier, but several neighbors heated with wood stoves and fireplaces, so he’d thought nothing of it. “Was anybody hurt?”

Austin shook his head. “Edith Potts called the county sheriff this morning—she found her cat lying on the front porch, shot through the side.”

That was even more disturbing. In spite of Austin’s suspicions, the fire could have been an accident. The cat could not.

“Know anybody who’d do those things?” Austin’s gaze combed the outskirts of the ranch.

“Not a soul.”

“What about that new boy you got last month? Black kid with that stupid mop-head hairdo. What do you know about—”

“I know where Gavin was last night, Austin. Don’t try to drag my kids into—”

“Didn’t I hear somebody calling him Blaze? I hear he’s not doing too well in school.”

“He’s just settling in.” Temper, Dane. Control the temper or suffer the consequences. “I’ve told you before, my kids aren’t delinquents.” They were just unwanted teenagers who’d fallen between the cracks in the social system.

“Yeah? How long were you in the hospital when your kid Bruce Wickman ran over you with the tractor?”

“That was seven years ago,” Dane said curtly. “He was here by mistake.” Bruce was still a touchy subject between them. One of several.

“How do you know your little Blaze isn’t a mistake?”

From the corner of his sight, Dane saw “little Blaze” walking up the hill with Willy—all five feet ten inches of brawn. Time to get rid of this joker before tempers flared or feelings got hurt.

“Austin,” Dane said, forcing an edge to his tone, keeping his voice low, “I appreciate your coming out to check on us, but your fears are unfounded. Why don’t you wait until the sheriff checks out the source of the fire before you start pointing fingers in our direction again?”

“Don’t blow me off like—”

“It seems I remember you were the most outspoken against the new boat dock. If the sheriff knew that, he might be more likely to check you out.”

“You know I wouldn’t—”

“And didn’t you and Edith Potts have some heated words a few weeks back about her property line?” Most of the time Austin Barlow was easy to handle. He hated bad press.

“Hi, Mr. Barlow,” Willy called.

Austin turned and looked the boys over, nodded, then turned back to Dane.

“Thanks for coming by, Mayor.” Dane opened the truck door and stepped back. “Sorry you can’t stay for breakfast.”

Dr. Jim Brillhart was seated behind his minuscule desk in the director’s office by the time Cheyenne arrived.

She slumped into the empty chair across from his desk. “So, what’s up, Jim?”

He hesitated for a full second before unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. He stepped around the desk. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Ardis brought some doughnuts. I know you like the chocolate-iced ones.”

Cheyenne studied his expression. “No, thanks. I’m not really hungry right now.” Something was making Jim edgy. “Is everything okay?”

He closed the door and returned to his chair, folding himself beneath the desk once more. “I noticed you’re scheduled for two weeks of vacation. Going anywhere special?”

Please don’t tell me you need me to work. “I hadn’t made any plans. Why?”

“I was just checking your records, and you have an anniversary date coming up next month.”

That had to be it. He wanted her to work. “Yes, and I haven’t had a vacation for a year.”

“Exactly.” He tapped the tip of a pen on the desk, watching the movement of his hand.

“Is there some trouble covering the shifts?” It wasn’t as if she had something special planned.

He stopped tapping. “I don’t need you to work.” He straightened and scooted forward, still looking at the pen. “In fact, if you haven’t used up the four weeks before your anniversary date, you’ll lose what you don’t take, according to company policy.”

“I was afraid of that, but I just couldn’t find the time….”

“I have a proposition for you. I would like you to take all four weeks, starting now. In addition, I’d like you to take additional leave time.”

“Additional?” She tried to read his expression. “Why?”

He met her gaze, held it, sighed. “You need it.”

“I’m doing fine. I don’t—”

“I heard about your episode this morning. It’s obvious to me and to the staff that you’re still struggling with your sister’s death.” His words tumbled over one another. It was well-known to the staff that their director hated confrontation.

“I dropped a clipboard, for Pete’s sake. Big deal.”

“Arlene said you were shaking visibly.”

Cheyenne made an ostentatious show of looking at her watch. “It’s been barely forty-five minutes since that happened. Arlene sure didn’t waste any time.”

“And the fact that this annoys you tells me you’re still being affected by grief over Susan’s death, because I know you, Chey. You don’t get rattled that easily.” His chair squeaked as he leaned forward to place his elbows on his desk. “Face the facts. You had a devastating experience, and you haven’t been given the time to deal with it. I’m giving it to you now.” He held up an April schedule. “I’ve already removed your name.”

Cheyenne stiffened. “Over a silly little incident this morning? You can’t be serious.”

“That kind of thing has happened more than once in the past month.”

“Three times. Yes, Jim, I know that. I’ve had some trouble sleeping, but don’t you think that’s normal after a loss like mine?”

“Sure. It’s perfectly understandable after what you went through, and you need time to deal with the loss. You’re one of our best doctors, Chey, and your emotional health is important to everyone here, including your future patients. You know how quickly ER docs burn out.”

“Save the lecture, I’ve heard it all before.” This was crazy. How could he do this to her? “Are you telling me I can be replaced that quickly? We’re already working a doc short.”

“Another Missouri ER is closing near Saint Louis. The physicians there will be out of a job in two weeks.”

“Why is it closing?”

“The hospital couldn’t afford the increase in their insurance rates. Three of their docs are looking for temporary work, and I plan to grab them up and use them as much as possible. That’ll give all of us a break. The rest of us will hold out until they come on board.”

“Jim, I don’t need that much time off.”

He gestured to a stack of files on the far right corner of his desk. “Your quality control reviews have not been impressive lately.”

That hurt. She hadn’t seen the reports for this past month. “I’ve worked fifty percent more shifts than last month, Jim. All of us are a little tired.”

“I saw your patient this morning,” he said. His voice was soft, sorrowful.

“Which one?”

“The one with the chest pain. Crosby. The one who looked like Susan.”

“But I did everything appropriately. I did a cardiac workup and EKG and she was fine.”

“Chey, did you even consider a pulmonary embolis?”

“No, why would I? She was young—”

“She had multiple risk factors. She was a smoker, she took birth control pills.”

“Yes, but—”

“She was wearing an air stirrup splint.” He dropped the pen onto the desk and leaned back, as if he wanted to cross his legs but didn’t have room beneath the dinky desk. “She’d been practically immobilized for three days with a badly sprained ankle. I did a D-dimer test on her.”

Cheyenne’s thoughts froze. “The result?”

“Positive.”

She gave herself time to recover from the blow. “The woman was having a pulmonary embolis?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry, Jim. I—I told you I’m not sleeping well.” The woman could have died! If Jim hadn’t seen that ankle brace…

“You’re not focusing, Cheyenne. That isn’t like you. Your tragedy is way too fresh. For your own good and the patient’s, I have to consider you an impaired physician and take the necessary steps to help you.”

“Impaired! Jim, I’m not an alcoholic, and I don’t have a drug—”

“The problem is, the last place a physician’s struggle ever shows up is at work. You must be going through some nasty stuff at home.”

She nodded, her mind still reeling with shock.

“It took you three weeks to recover from your flu. You worked sick during that time. I want you to take some sick leave.”

“But I’m not—”

“End of discussion. I’m sorry. Why don’t you go see your parents? Florida should be nice this time of year.”

Cheyenne slumped in her chair. “They wouldn’t know what to do with me.” She heard the plaintive sound of her own voice. “Okay, I’ll take off. The whole four weeks.”

“Eight, with an option for more the minute you request it, but give us enough notice to line our people up. And remember, we’ll have third year residents available in July.”

“July?” He was trying to get rid of her. “No, Jim. You can’t do—”

He held up a hand. “You don’t understand what I’m doing yet. Trust, me, Chey, I’ve been there. It took me twelve months to recover from burnout eight years ago. It nearly ruined my marriage and destroyed my family. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

She blinked. This was news. He had three beautiful children, and the youngest was eight.

“But I don’t have a family,” she said softly. Most of her friends worked right here in this department. What was she going to do with herself for two months? What about her nightmares, with no work to distract her from their impact?

She forced herself to stand and walk to the door, hoping she didn’t look as stunned as she felt.

“Chey?”

She turned around, hoping he’d changed his mind.

“You might want to try some grief counseling. I’m speaking to you as a friend, not your boss. We all know how losing Susan—”

“Save it, Jim, you don’t have a clue.” She knew she sounded ungracious, but something in her had snapped, Jim couldn’t imagine her life as a single ER physician, whose schedule was never the same, who could seldom arrange for her own time off to coincide with that of her friends—even less could he understand her grief.

What was she going to do now? How could this day possibly get any worse?

She picked up the next envelope on the mail stack at her work space. She opened it, forgot to breathe.

This was a request for the release of Susan Warden’s medical records to Hodgkin and Long, a legal firm. The request was signed by Kirk Warden.

Cheyenne covered her face with her hands.

Her former brother-in-law had meant his threat at Susan’s funeral. He believed she was instrumental in the death of her own sister.

Was she?

Chapter Six

The smoky aroma of sausage and onions permeated the ranch kitchen and mingled with the chatter of the boys around the extensive breakfast table. Cook knew how to make Saturdays special with a big spread of food.

Dane ate quietly, watching and listening. If Willy and Blaze had any idea what Austin’s visit was about, they didn’t let on as they joked and laughed with the rest.

No way could any of them have sneaked off the property in the wee morning hours. Dane would have known.

Wouldn’t he?

He had good kids. Austin Barlow enjoyed reminding him of that solitary incident when a problem child had slipped through the screening process for the ranch, but nothing like it had happened since.

Seventeen-year-old Jinx leaned toward Dane, his red hair sticking out in fifteen directions. “So what’d he want?”

Dane sipped his coffee. “What did who want?”

“Couldn’t’ve been good,” Willy said from the other end of the table. “The mayor never drives all the way out here just to visit. Notice he didn’t just take his boat across, like the others do. He drove all the way around.”

Dane speared another sausage link as the platter passed by. “Our local vandal is up to more of his activities.”

Jinx put down his fork. Willy rested his elbows on the table. One by one the boys fell silent.

“How would Austin know it’s a him?” Cook demanded. “Could be a her.”

“Anyway,” Dane said, “a boat burned at the new dock. The fire apparently started sometime last night or early this morning.”

Surprise registered on all faces. Tyler and James glanced across the table at Blaze.

“You have a local vandal?” Blaze asked. “Like this is a normal thing?”

“It’s happened before. Dane got his tires slashed last year, and now it seems to be escalating,” Cook said. “We’re right uptown with the big boys. Anybody get hurt, Dane?”

“Austin said no.”

Cook grabbed the empty pancake platter and carried it to the stove for a refill. “Not sure I believe anything that blowhard would say,” he muttered, breaking a house rule against name-calling. Long strands of gray hair fell loose over his right ear, baring his shiny scalp. “You’re the one who pushed so hard to get that dock approved, Dane. So why’d he come running to you soon as something happened?”

“Don’t know.”

“He expect you to know something about the vandalism? Or may he just wanted to gloat a little. He never wanted that dock. Whose boat is it? Belong to anybody we know?”

“He didn’t say.”

“He thinks one of us did it,” Willy said.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Jinx blinked sleepily, his bright-red hair reflecting itself in the freckles that covered his face like an uneven tan. He’d been up late last night playing chess with Cook after chores and homework.

Jinx, the “big brother” of the family, would be graduating from high school with honors in a few weeks. He took it personally when someone criticized his foster brothers.

“Austin ought to know better,” Cook said.

“He wants to blame us,” Jinx said.

Willy tugged one of Blaze’s dreadlocks. “Bet he thinks it’s you, Dr. Doolittle.”

Blaze leaned away and shoveled potatoes onto his fork. “Blaze is my name, blazing’s my game.”

“This isn’t something to joke about,” Dane warned. “And there’s more. Mrs. Potts found her cat shot dead on her front porch this morning.”

The kids stopped eating. Blaze displayed an unappealing glimpse of his breakfast.

“Close your mouth, please, Blaze,” Dane said.

Blaze swallowed. “Somebody killed her cat?”

“That’s what the mayor said.”

A storm gathered in Blaze’s eyes.

“Bet it was Danny Short,” Willy said. “He’d do it. Danny’s such a jerk.”

“Watch the names,” Dane warned.

“He’s always picking on the littler kids at school,” Jinx said. “And just about everybody’s littler than he is. He calls Blaze a—”

“He don’t call me anything I haven’t been called before,” Blaze said. “Let him talk.”

“If Dr. Doolittle didn’t wear pigtails, Danny wouldn’t pick on him,” Willy said.

“They’re not pigtails, and he’d do it anyway,” Blaze said. “All he sees is my color.”

“Austin has no real reason to blame any of us,” Dane said. “We’ll just have to stay squeaky-clean.”

“I don’t know how we can get any squeakier,” Jinx grumbled.

Blaze pushed his plate back. “I need to go check on Starface. She was limping this morning.”

Dane nodded and watched him leave.

As soon as the mudroom door closed, Willy said, “Blaze wouldn’t do anything like that, Dane.”

“I know.”

“Guess somebody started the fire, though. And somebody killed that lady’s cat.”

Dane nodded. He hoped they caught the culprit quickly, because until the town had someone else to blame, his kids would take the brunt of it.

“I’d like to see Barlow try to prove anything,” Cook muttered.

Dane picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. “Maybe we should do a little sleuthing ourselves.”

By the time Cheyenne finished reading the final page of Susan’s medical record her whole body trembled and she felt sick to her stomach. Leaning away from the call-room desk, she rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms over her head.

“Hey, there, pal,” came a comforting voice from the corridor. Ardis hovered in the open doorway, looking fresh and well rested in her green scrubs. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair looked damp.

“Hey.” Cheyenne gestured for her to come in. “Raining?”

“Haven’t you heard the thunder? What’s up?” Ardis entered the untidy room and perched on the side of the unmade bed. “You should’ve been gone hours ago.”

Cheyenne held up the legal request for medical records.

Ardis tilted her head backward so she could read the print through her bifocals. Her lips moved silently, then her eyebrows lowered. “You’re kidding.”

Cheyenne shook her head.

“Your brother-in-law hired an attorney? He’s going to sue?”

“Maybe they’re going after the people who hit Susan,” Cheyenne said. “I don’t know.”

“When they read the report, they won’t come after you, that’s for sure. You did everything right. You did far more than most—”

“What I did was prescribe a controlled substance for her. She wasn’t supposed to be driving.”

“I’m the one who administered the drug, and I heard you tell her not to drive. You told her more than once, and so did I.”

Cheyenne returned the request form to the desk. “But she was under the influence of a tranquilizer when we told her.”

“She also received her discharge sheet, which she signed. It clearly stated that she was not to drive under the influence.”

“Again,” Cheyenne said, “she signed that sheet after you administered the IV dose. And I didn’t document as completely as I ordinarily would have, because she was my sister. I had…other things on my mind.”

“I don’t know what she was doing behind that wheel, but she—”

“Ardis, you’re a Christian. Would you tell me how someone who claims to be a good servant of God could defraud the government and a spouse?”

A soft whisper of air escaped Ardis’s lips as they parted. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Okay, that had sounded pretty stupid. “I’m sorry.” Cheyenne closed the folder that held the medical records. “Forget I said anything.”

“You’re talking about your brother-in-law?”

It was tempting to spill what she knew—that Susan’s initial visit the day of her death had been because of Kirk.

“Fraud, huh?” Ardis murmured.

“It’s…probably not something we should even be discussing.”

“Okay, you’re right. If the unthinkable does happen, and Kirk decides to slap a suit on you, then I could be forced to tell what I know on the witness stand. So don’t tell me anything.”

“Fine.”

“But let me tell you something.” Ardis leaned forward and touched Cheyenne’s hand. “Don’t let Kirk’s behavior affect your impression of Christ.”

“I don’t have any impression of—”

“People attend church for different reasons. Some are earnestly seeking God, even if they haven’t found Him yet. Others are making business contacts, improving social skills, looking for entertainment or warm fuzzies. Church attendance doesn’t necessarily make nicer people with high moral standards.”

“Good sermon, Ardis.”

“I haven’t even warmed up.”

Cheyenne forced a smile.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been relieved of duty.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Cheyenne turned in her chair and studied Ardis’s face. Obviously, this wasn’t news.

“Medical leave isn’t the same thing,” Ardis said.

Cheyenne straightened. “You knew about this?”

“Kind of hard to miss the schedule change for two months. Dr. Brillhart explained it to me.”

Cheyenne felt as if she’d been slapped. “Jim told you? Who else did he tell, the whole ER staff?”

“Calm down, I think he just told me.”

“You think? How do you—”

“Would you relax for a minute?” Ardis reached into the pocket of her scrubs. “Jim had a reason to tell me. In the first place, he knew we were friends, but he also knew I had just the thing you need right now.” She pulled out a key on a plastic ring shaped like a daisy.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve told you about our place on Table Rock Lake, haven’t I?”

“Barely.”

“It’s a farm near the Missouri-Arkansas border. It’s on sixty-five acres, about a mile drive from this tiny town called Hideaway. Closer by boat. Isn’t that the perfect place to spend some downtime?”

“On a farm? Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Ardis swung the key back and forth. “Just take it and listen to me, Chey. The place is in the middle of nowhere. It belonged to my husband’s aunt before she died. We were down there last year, but we haven’t had a chance to get back. It needs a woman’s touch, but I know you helped Susan some when she was starting her business.”

“I know how to paint under supervision. That’s it.” But Cheyenne took the key.

“There’s some basic furniture,” Ardis continued, “and I could call and have the electricity turned on if you want. I’m not promising it would be connected over the weekend, but definitely by Monday. It’s on well water, and the pump works. The heat is electric. There’s no telephone, no television.”

“You’re saying I should leave Columbia.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Ardis sat back, eyes hiding behind lenses that reflected the overhead light. “You’ve buried yourself here too long, even before the accident. What with the nightmares, you need a complete change of scene. Hideaway would be quite a change.”

Cheyenne couldn’t believe she was actually considering it.

“You’re in a rut here,” Ardis continued. “And the rut keeps getting deeper, especially now. Down at our place, there’s a dock on the water just right for fishing. You could get involved in some of the community activities, or you could hole up and read, listen to audio books, take a trip or two into Branson. The drive’s about forty minutes over winding roads. You could be in Springfield in about an hour and a half, maybe less if they’ve got the new road completed.”

Cheyenne studied the faded green-and-yellow plastic key chain, turned it over in her hand. “This place is close to town?”

“If you want to call Hideaway a town. There’s a general store open all year long, and I heard they’ve got a nice new boat dock, which should bring in some tourist trade. There’s a mechanic and a café, a school and a beautiful little bed-and-breakfast down by the water.” Ardis paused, fingers linked around her knees. “What do you think?”

The thought appealed. Very much. Cheyenne had to admit that the name “Hideaway” drew her. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to hide away.

Dane found Blaze sitting on the front porch steps, tossing pebbles over the wooden railing.

Blaze looked up at him. “Somebody’s wicked around here.”

Dane sat beside him. “That kind of thing has happened before.”

“They killed an animal before?”

“No. They’ve broken into the general store, damaged a few vegetables, knocked some boxes off the shelves.”

“When did that happen?”

“Couple years ago.”

“Anything else?”

“A tire slashed on our pickup, a hole in the canoe, maybe a year ago.”

“You make somebody mad?”

“Maybe a few people,” Dane said.

“Just because you had this ranch with all us delinquents?”

“You aren’t delinquents.”

“The mayor thinks so.”

“How did you guess?”

“Not hard, once you learn to read the signs. You know, like trying to get your ranch hands in trouble.”

“Speaking of reading, has yours progressed lately?” Dane asked.

Blaze tossed another pebble, shaking his head. “We’re learning about the minerals and stuff in science right now. I can look at a rock across the room and tell the teacher all about its composition, but that don’t work. He wants me to write it down.”

Dane selected one of the pebbles Blaze had accumulated for tossing, held it up to the sunlight. “This one’s calcite.”

Blaze picked up two others. “This here’s dolomite, and this one’s chert.”

Dane nodded.

“You show me a globe of the world, and I’ll tell you pretty much every country.”

“Then why are you flunking geography?”

Blaze tossed another pebble and didn’t reply.

“I know a retired teacher over in Cape Fair who worked with children with learning disabilities.”

Silence again.

“I’d like you to meet with him,” Dane said.

“You don’t think my dad tried all that, over and over again?”

Dane leaned back against the railing, frustrated.

Blaze shook his head. “It’s like my brain puts up this invisible armor every time I try.”

“Then we need to find a way past that armor.”

“So the mayor thinks I blazed the boat and killed the cat?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“You changed it first. We were talking about the fire, remember? About how the mayor thinks I did it. I think he called me the black kid with the stupid mop-head hairdo.”

Dane winced. There was nothing wrong with Blaze’s hearing. “I think you made a poor choice for a nickname.”

“You know what’s weird? Ramsay Barlow and I are buddies at school. I guess his daddy don’t like it.”

“You let me handle his daddy.”

Cheyenne wrote a final check, signed it, then slid it into the envelope addressed to the local rescue mission. It was her pet project—and the reason she still lived on the third floor of an apartment building without an elevator, still drove a four-year-old Lumina sedan.

All her bills were paid up for the next three months. The mission would be supplied with food. She had ample money in her debit card account.

Everything would be okay.

Then why did she feel so frightened?

She picked up the telephone and hit speed dial. She got a recording.

“Hello, Mom and Dad? It’s Chey. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be at my apartment for a few weeks.” Could she do this? Just take off? “I’ll call you later with a contact number, in case you need me for anything. I love you.”

As she hung up, she saw that her hand was shaking.

Maybe she did need this time off.

The nightmares had haunted her sleep for so long, she had trouble closing her eyes at night. She seldom even slept here anymore, preferring the cramped quarters of the call room, with the overhead speakers blaring every so often, just to remind her she wasn’t alone.

Strange that this apartment triggered the dreams more often than the actual place where Susan had died. But Susan’s signature was stamped all over this place—her special, decorative touches, her color schemes with those just right shades, the deep violet-blue of tanzanite, alexandrite, rose quartz. Susan’s favorite colors. And Susan had stenciled the wisteria around Cheyenne’s living room doorway.

Cheyenne pulled a suitcase from the closet in the spare bedroom. Ardis was right. It was time to escape the memories before they took over completely.

Chapter Seven

On Sunday night Dane Gideon wandered through the upstairs hallway of his sprawling house. He overheard Tyler and Jinx arguing about synonyms versus antonyms through the closed door of the bedroom they shared at the end of the hallway. Tyler had a test tomorrow, and Jinx was helping him study.

Dane knocked softly. “Keep it down in there, guys. Willy and Jason have to get up early to milk.”

He heard a boyish chuckle, then silence. Good, the atmosphere around here was calming a little. The boys had been upset all weekend about the vandalism Friday night, and especially about the fact that some of the townsfolk showed signs of blaming Blaze for the whole thing.

Dane saw light coming from beneath the door of the room Willy and Blaze shared. He knocked. No answer. He opened and peered inside. Willy lay sacked out on the top bunk with all his clothes on. Blaze’s bed was as pristine as when he’d made it this morning.

Dane switched off the light and closed the door, then went downstairs to check the kitchen.

Empty.

He peered out the window toward the barn. No lights glowed, but that didn’t mean much. Blaze could be sitting there in the dark, talking to a cow or a chicken. The kid had an interesting emotional link with the animals. It was as if humans had let him down, and now he preferred the company of other species.

Dane sometimes felt the same way. Not that he ever resorted to talking to the cows except when it pertained to their milk production. He would never sit in the barn and spill his guts to Gordy.

Blaze was different. The chaos that often seemed to reign in this house—with so many male teenagers clamoring for attention—obviously stressed the kid at times. Up until his father’s death, Gavin Farmer had lived quietly, assisting his dad in the veterinary practice, avoiding extracurricular activities at school. Dane knew he craved solitude.

Switching on the outside floods, Dane picked up a flashlight from the end of the cabinet. If Blaze was in the barn, fine, but he tended to wander from the property. Once, Dane had found him on the island in the middle of the lake, fishing from the cliffs with Red Meyer, an eighty-five-year-old neighbor across the lake who was like a grandfather to the boys. Another time he’d been out on the highway, trying to rescue a dog that had been hit by a car.

Two weeks ago Cook had found Blaze inside the vacant house across the lake. The kid had sworn to Cook that he’d heard crying sounds inside. He had no explanation about what he was doing there in the first place, however. At this ranch, three strikes and the ranch hand was out the door. Blaze had been warned once already.

Kicking Blaze off the ranch was not something Dane wanted to do.

Cheyenne swerved to miss a jagged chunk of rock and hit yet another pothole the size of the Grand Canyon, the latest in a series on this road of Ozark gravel. Her head pounded from the tightness that had crept through all the muscles of her body on her drive from Columbia.

It was a four-hour trip, but she felt as if she had driven halfway across the world, from the bustle of Missouri’s premier university town to the backwaters of the borderland between Missouri and Arkansas—this part of the Ozarks was a whole ’nother country.

“I’m crazy,” she whispered.

Maybe so, but if she stayed in Columbia, she could lose her mind for sure.

Dense forest closed around the road on both sides, blocking out the moonlight. The darkness mocked her. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

In the weeks since Susan’s death, Cheyenne had tried desperately to sidestep emotion. She’d been aware of a deadly canyon somewhere inside her mind, where she stumbled at vulnerable times. Then she felt devoured by the pain.

She knew better than to go there tonight.

Right now she was wishing she’d known better than to come here tonight, especially since there’d be no electricity until tomorrow. But this afternoon, pacing through the beautiful prison walls of memory in her apartment, she could take no more. Better a sleepless night in an old house in the wilderness than another sleepless night surrounded by images of the depth of her loss. And in the morning, perhaps the beauty of the countryside in April would keep her mind away from the dark canyon.

But morning was still hours away. Tree frogs shouted “cree-cree-cree” from the thickets alongside the road, so loud they nearly drowned out the sound of the car’s engine. Now the forest huddled in clumps, the tallest trees converging over the top of the road.

The eeriness of the night intensified Cheyenne’s sense of isolation.

A gate loomed ahead, shiny aluminum panels fastened with a rusty chain and padlock. Ardis had described it perfectly.

Cheyenne turned onto the grassy track and stopped at the gate. She pulled the key chain from the bottom of her purse and opened the door.

The interior light flashed on. Something rustled in the brush barely three feet from her. She slammed the door and locked it.

A raccoon shuffled across the road in the beam of headlights.

Cheyenne slumped against the steering wheel. “It’s okay,” she whispered to herself. “This is still just Missouri. No wolves, no grizzlies, no anacondas.” The biggest danger to humans in this area of the world was other humans. And she hadn’t seen another human being in the past thirty minutes.

Everything would be okay.

“Blaze?” Dane called from the doorway of the milking room. The barn was empty. Dane saw Starface out in the lot, heard the rustle of another animal somewhere in the darkness. Probably Gordy.

They had purchased two sows last week, both heavy with piglets, due to come any day. The flashlight revealed the door to their abode securely fastened.

Stepping to the fence, Dane leaned his elbows against the top rail. “Are you out here, Blaze?”

No answer. He turned off the light for a moment.

A break in the trees revealed a reflection of moonlight against the surface of the lake. There was a soft, rhythmic splash, followed by a silent ripple in the glow of the moon.

Without turning on the flashlight, Dane strolled down to the private dock. The small canoe was gone. He sighed and stepped onto the wooden planks. Time to intervene before something happened that he and Blaze would both regret.

A coyote cried in the distance. Cheyenne shivered.

The wooden gate swung back on its metal hinges with a screech of complaint. She wouldn’t close it again tonight. Why bother? There wasn’t any livestock on this acreage. Judging by the thick growth of trees, there wouldn’t be much room for cattle.

She got back into the car. Now to find the house and settle in for a night without electricity. She pressed on the accelerator. The car surged forward, hesitating, jerking, as if it echoed her own thoughts. The road grew rougher, rockier, forcing her to slow to a crawl.

The shadow of an animal darted across the far reaches of the headlight beams. It stopped to gaze toward the car for just a moment, its eyes glowing red, then disappeared into the deep foliage. A dog? Another raccoon?

Or maybe the darkness of her dreams was coming to life at last. She wouldn’t be surprised.

She completed a curve in the road, and her headlights reflected against the pale sides of a building—her home for the next couple of months. She stopped and stared at the house in the headlight beams. The paint was dingy gray, dried and peeling. It looked as if no one had lived here in ten years.

Dead weeds covered the yard and wooden porch. So this was what Ardis had meant when she said the house needed “a woman’s touch.” All the sensible women Cheyenne knew would hire a dozer to level the place.

She pulled up to the edge of the yard, where the fence had collapsed, and turned off the engine as she scanned the place with distaste. Sixty-five acres with a solid, two bedroom house. Now that she thought about it, Ardis hadn’t said anything about a bathroom or a kitchen, or even a living room. What else had she failed to mention?

Cheyenne pulled a flashlight out of the glove compartment. This place surely couldn’t be so depressing in the light of day.

The frogs, which had momentarily stopped their singing at Cheyenne’s arrival, took up their chorus again as she crept across the yard and up the chipped concrete steps of the front porch. The door unlocked easily. She pushed it open. The rusty hinges caught and held. She pushed harder, and it gave way with a loud creak.

A scuttling sound came from somewhere inside. That would be mice, or perhaps rats? Maybe squirrels.

Nothing to be afraid of. She aimed her flashlight beam through the room and saw a floral sofa in blue and white. Stepping across the threshold, she caught the faint scent of a dirty kitty litter box. Yuck.

Cheyenne shuddered as she edged into the center of the fifteen-by-fifteen room and saw cobwebs hanging in multiple layers from the ceiling, barely discernible in the dimness. Cheyenne had always prided herself in her bravery in the face of barking dogs, invading mice, and even her own hostile brother-in-law. She could handle a few spiderwebs.

She walked through the door at the far right corner of the living room to the kitchen, complete with a sink, stove and refrigerator. Modern faucets gleamed. At least this section of the house was in better repair than Ardis had remembered.

Cheyenne inspected the cabinets on her way to the west side of the kitchen, then entered an open doorway beside the refrigerator to find a small bedroom. The beam of her light picked out the wrinkled folds of a burlap bag in the far southwestern corner. She pushed open the door to her right, saw the sink, claw-foot tub, commode. She nodded with satisfaction. It wasn’t until she saw the curtains over the sink billow inward with the breeze that she realized the window was open.

The floorboards creaked loudly underfoot as she stepped to the window. The pane slid down easily, but there was no latch. “Great,” she muttered. No telling how long it had been that way.

As she turned away, she thought she caught a flash of light from the corner of her vision. She frowned and returned to the window. In the backyard, barely outlined by the quarter moon, was a small shed. Past that about a hundred and fifty feet was the barn Ardis had told her about. No light.

Maybe what she’d seen had been distant headlights from a nearby, unseen road.

A small chest of drawers had been placed against the door that Cheyenne presumed led to the other, larger bedroom, but she didn’t feel like heaving the chest out of the way tonight. She retraced her steps to the living room and was about to push open the closed door adjacent to the entryway when she heard a muffled thump from the back of the house.

She froze in place.

She heard another creak of floorboards—from the bathroom. She stopped and stared at the threshold ahead of her, then swallowed. Her hands trembled, making the flashlight beam flicker against the far wall as she fought for control over her imagination.

No mouse had made that sound. She hadn’t imagined it.

She aimed the light at the kitchen doorway.

“Willy, that you?” came a deep male voice, accompanied by the sound of footsteps, the scritch of shoes on old linoleum. “I told you to get to bed. If Dane knows you came over here, he’s gonna kill me for sure.” A large man stepped through the doorway. “Get that flashlight off before someone sees it.”

Cheyenne caught her breath and stumbled backward.

His clothes were dark, and his skin so black he would have merged into shadow except for a huge smile, with teeth all over the place. He squinted in the light. Dreadlocks sproinged from his head in every direction.

“Quit teasing me, Willy. How’d you get in here? I don’t want to get you in…trouble…too.” He took a step forward. The teeth disappeared. “Willy?”

Cheyenne shuffled backward, collided with the half-open door, dropped her light with a clatter of plastic on wood.

Chapter Eight

“Well, that was stupid. You okay?” The deep voice cracked through sudden darkness as footsteps drew closer.

Cheyenne stopped breathing. Had she stumbled into illegal drug activity? The smell of a dirty litter box…meth lab?

“Stay back! I’ve got a gun.” She reached into the right pocket of her jacket and pulled out the tiny pistol. He didn’t have to know what it contained.

The footsteps stopped. “A gun! Who are you?” The voice came again, deep, but hoarse with the defining echo of adolescence.

Her heart thumped a dance against her ribs as she fought panic. “I don’t think that’s the question right now, since you’re the one trespassing.” Her voice sounded shaky in her own ears.

She crouched, feeling along the wooden floorboards with her hands. Could she pull the trigger on a teenager? “What are you doing in this house?” She should have run when she’d had the chance. Why had she hesitated? Stupid, stupid!

No reply. No movement. Only loud breathing that sounded more terror-stricken than her own. He could be a meth addict who was tweaking—desperate for another fix, and willing to go through anyone to find it. She’d had a few of those as patients in the ER.

Her fingers came into contact with the flashlight. She grabbed it and straightened, switched on the light and aimed the beam upward so it would diffuse throughout the room—less threatening, she hoped, if he truly was tweaking. She saw his silhouette and held the pistol high, so he would be sure to see it.

Straight dark brows rose over wide-open eyes. The young man whose shoulders nearly filled the doorway wore a black sweatshirt and dark-blue jeans that looked new. His work boots that were stained with mud.

This was crazy. He could be a killer. Why had she come out here at night?

If she didn’t continue the bluff, he could reach her in three strides. If she tried to run, she risked being shot in the back if he had a gun. She needed to gently ease out the front door, get to the car and test the capacity of the car’s acceleration.

“That a…real gun?” he asked, voice hoarse with obvious tension.

“You want a demonstration?” She tried to instill a threatening tone to her voice. It sounded phony to her.

He held his hands out to his sides, shaking his head. “No, I don’t need anything like that. How’d you know I was here?”

“I’ll ask the questions! Tell me who you are and what you’re doing in this house.” She was pushing it, she knew, but so far she had him fooled. How she would manage to get him out, she didn’t know.

He glanced out the front window, as if searching for her car—or maybe looking for his buddies? Who was Willy?

Somehow, the kid didn’t seem like a tweaker. In fact, he didn’t seem dangerous at all, and he had obvious respect for the teensy weapon in her hand. Good. It needed to stay that way. “Answer me!”

His attention refocused on the pistol. “I’m Gavin Farmer, and I live across the lake at the boys’ ranch. I’m not doing anything bad over here, honest. I’m sorry, I thought nobody lived here.” His gaze swept past her, out the window again. “You’re alone?”

“I’m never alone.” She fingered the small pistol of pepper mace. “And I plan to live here for a while. As I said, you’re trespassing.” It had been a long time since she’d knocked a man to his knees, but she still knew the moves, even for a big, tough kid. Still, something about him didn’t seem tough.

“They said this place wouldn’t ever sell, that it was tied up in some dead woman’s estate,” the kid said. “Austin Barlow send you here?”

“No.”

“The sheriff, then. He send you?”

“Do I look like a deputy?” she asked.

“I don’t know many deputies.” There was some familiar emotion in his voice, in his movement. It wasn’t anger so much as resentment. Despair, even.

“I’m not under arrest, then?” he asked.

She studied the shadows of his face for a moment. “Why would you think you were under arrest?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re still holding that gun.”

“I think I’ll hold it a little longer, if you don’t mind. Are you cooking meth in this house?”

His eyes widened. “Meth! You mean drugs? No way!”

Her instincts said he was telling the truth, though she didn’t know how far she could trust her instincts these days. She lowered the mace slightly, and heard him release a quiet sigh.

“Ardis Dunaway sent me here,” she said.

“Don’t know him.”

“Obviously not,” Cheyenne said dryly. “You climbed through the bathroom window?”

He nodded. “It wasn’t latched.”

“Just because a door isn’t locked doesn’t mean you have a right to trespass on someone else’s property. Who’s Austin Barlow?”

He lowered his hands to his sides. “The mayor of Hideaway, population a thousand plus some change.”

“Who’s Willy?”

“Another ranch boy like me.”

Okay, things were beginning to make a little more sense. Not a lot, but some.

“So what are you doing here?” Cheyenne asked. “And why would the mayor call the sheriff on you?”

“Because he doesn’t like my hair and he doesn’t like my nickname, and he likes to blame the ranch boys for everything that goes wrong around here.”

“In that case, don’t you think it’s time you got back to the ranch?” she asked.

“You going to tell Dane about this?”

“I don’t even know Dane.” She waited for him to make for the door, but he just stood there in the middle of the living room. Something about this kid intrigued her—and he was definitely stalling for some reason. Were the police actually looking for him? “You never told me what you were doing in my house.”

“Thought you said it was Ardis Dunaway’s house.”

He had a good memory for names. “It is, and I’m going to sleep here tonight, so if you don’t mind—”

“No electricity.”

“Good. I like to camp out.”

“You won’t like the ghosts.”

“Right.” Ghosts?

“And you’ll have to use the old outhouse, because without electricity there’s no water.”

“That’ll be my problem, won’t it? Go home.”

Still he hesitated.

Her internal tension meter kicked back up a notch. Why wouldn’t he leave?

He glanced at the pistol she still held in her hand. “That a twenty-five caliber?”

“No.”

He nodded and gazed around the room.

“Is there something else you need to tell me?” she asked.

“This place has cockroaches.”

Lovely. “Do you plan to do something about that?”

“No, but ol’ Bertie Meyer says all you have to do is throw a few hedge apples under the house and the bugs’ll leave.”

“Who’s Bertie Meyer?”

“Your nearest neighbor. She and Red are eighty-something and going strong.”

“What’s a hedge apple?”

He frowned at her. “You sure you want to stay here? You got a lot to learn about farm life.”

“I didn’t say I was a farmer.”

“You’re moving in here? All alone? You just came out here to live all by yourself?”

She glared at him. Her hand automatically tightened around the pistol. What was his game?

“All I’m saying is, don’t you need some help carrying your things in?”

“No.”

Without turning her back to him, she reached for the front door and shoved it open wide. She hadn’t completed the task when she heard the slap of shoe leather on concrete behind her on the porch. The long spring on the screen door twanged as it opened.

“Blaze, I guess you know you’re dead.”

Cheyenne pivoted with her flashlight and her pistol as a hulking, short-haired Santa Claus in denim filled the doorway like a mafioso hit man.

He looked at the gun, then looked past Cheyenne toward the kid and lunged forward.

“No!” the kid shouted. “No, don’t shoot! He’s—”

Her scream and the contents of her pistol blasted at the same time as she scrambled away from him. The man fell backward onto the porch with a cry of agony. Cheyenne caught the rebound effect of the spray in her face. It burned like fire, blinding her.

“Dane! No!” The kid shoved past Cheyenne. “You shot him? I can’t believe you shot him!”

Chapter Nine

“I didn’t shoot him, I sprayed him.”

“This is Dane!” Blaze’s voice barely reached through the curtain of fire that scorched Dane’s face and eyes. “This is the director of the ranch, how could you do that?”

“I’m sorry, we can—”

“He wasn’t hurting anybody, he was just coming to find me and take me home. Dane, it’s okay, we’re going to get you help. Just hold on!”

Dane groaned a response, writhing in agony on the concrete.

“Help me get him to water,” the woman said. “Quickly! It’s pepper mace. If we can get to water, we can dilute the pain. Where’s the nearest—”

“Get away, I’ll take care of him myself! You just get back.” Gentle hands urged Dane to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you to the lake, it’s just down the hill. I can’t believe that crazy woman did this to you.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said again. “I didn’t know—”

“I said get back, just leave him alone! Haven’t you done enough? It’s okay, Dane, we’re going to take care of it right now,” came the tender voice Blaze used with injured or frightened animals. “Just walk with me. No, not you, lady. You just stay right here and keep that gun in its holster.”

“I need the water too, if you don’t mind,” the woman snapped. “I caught the spray in my face. It isn’t as if I do this kind of thing every day. I didn’t know it attacked everything in a five-foot—ouch!”

“Watch that hole,” Blaze said.

“Thanks.”

The cloud of pain stalked Dane as he allowed himself to be guided across the yard. His groans persisted as if as if he had no control over his voice. When they finally reached the lake, Blaze told him to kneel, then splashed the frigid water into his face.

The relief was sweeter than anything Dane had ever felt in his life. He bent forward and plunged his whole head beneath the lake’s surface, held his breath until his lungs threatened to burst, then emerged only long enough to inhale, then plunge again.

Several moments later, after the burn began to subside, he realized Blaze had gone silent. The only sound he heard was splashing.

“Blaze?”

The splashing stopped. “He left,” came the mellow feminine voice of his attacker. “Are you okay?”

“Much better. You?”

“I’m fine, but you took the brunt of it.” She didn’t sound like a mad mace sprayer. She sounded like a reasonable human being.

He dashed the water from his hair and beard with his hands and glanced up at her shadow in the darkness. “Wow. I can’t believe the difference a lakeful of water can make.”

“It’s pretty dramatic.” She switched on her flashlight, illuminating her drenched face, hair, red flannel jacket. “Come on, let’s get to the house before we freeze. Your ranch hand already excused himself.”

“You mean he went back to the ranch?”

“No, up to the house, I think. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time.”

“I can’t believe he just took off like that. It isn’t like him.” Dane pulled out his own flashlight and joined her.

“You must have been underwater when he said he was leaving. He’s pretty upset with me.”

“He has a lot to learn about women.”

“Oh, really.” There was an edgy pause as they walked side by side up the steep slope of the yard, shoes crackling the overgrown grass. “I take it you’ve been maced before.”

Ah, yes, that mellow voice sharpened nicely. In spite of his recent shock, he felt his lips twitch with a smile that was probably unwise at the moment. “What I meant was that he needs to understand that any woman in her right mind would have done the same thing, accosted by two strange men out in the middle of nowhere.”

There was another pause as she glanced sideways at him, as if to determine his sincerity. “Good save.”

“Thank you.” The smile would not behave. He knew it was a reaction to the relief he’d just experienced, but he’d learned long ago to look for the humor in any situation. He could enjoy a slapstick comedy routine on occasion—and this was definitely that. “I apologize for frightening you, and when I hunt Blaze down, I’ll beat an apology out of him, too.”

Too late, he realized how that must sound. He felt her disquieted gaze. “Figure of speech,” he said. “I don’t beat my boys.”

“You called him Blaze?”

“It’s his nickname, and believe me, it isn’t a slur. He chose the name himself.” He glanced at her. She had an expressive face that revealed her continued concern. Dark eyes that seemed warm, intelligent. She was only three or four inches shorter than his six-foot frame, with straight black hair, now heavy with lake water, that fell in layers across her neck and forehead.

She took the porch steps with athletic grace, then turned to him. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this.”

He stepped into the beam of her flashlight. “I know it’s a little late for the amenities, but I’m Dane Gideon. I run the boys’ ranch across the lake.”

“So I gathered from Gavin. I’m Cheyenne Allison. A friend of mine inherited this place, and I’m on…I’ll be staying here for a while. Does Gavin have a habit of wandering away from the ranch in the middle of the night?”

“On occasion. He’s accustomed to more solitude than he gets with us. I’d like to keep him at the ranch more consistently, but I’ve decided to use my own discretion about discipline with this kid, instead of going strictly by the rules. Until now, Blaze hasn’t let me down.” He opened the screen door and held it for her.

She hesitated, thoughtful eyes focusing intently on him.

Right. She was less confident about the situation than she appeared. “Actually, I don’t need to go inside,” he said. “I just need to collect Blaze and take him home. I’m not sure what it is about this place that draws him, except that it’s peaceful here. Its previous inhabitants were very kind people, and they took good care of the house.” Why was he chattering all of a sudden? Perhaps it was the superastute gaze of those dark eyes.

“Come on in,” she said at last, stepping over the threshold. “Gavin doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to go back to the ranch. Do you know anything about Austin Barlow calling the sheriff about him?”

As she passed, Dane caught a faint scent of vanilla. “I don’t think Austin would do that. He has no reason to.”

Blaze wasn’t in the living room.

“Maybe he bolted again,” she said.

“He wouldn’t,” Dane replied. What was Blaze up to? He glanced around the room. “Obviously you don’t have electricity yet. Did you just get here?”

She nodded, looking around the barely furnished room—complete with cobwebs—with an expression of dismay.

“You know, there’s a cozy bed-and-breakfast about a mile from here, on the lakeshore,” Dane said. “I’d be glad to call Shatzi and see if there’s a room available for the remainder of the night.” He would negotiate a good price for her—it was the least he could do after terrorizing her tonight. “There’s usually a vacancy this time of year. That way you could have a nice hot breakfast before you come back out here to finish unloading your car and put everything in order.” He was talking too much again.

She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. The owner will have the power turned on first thing in the morning—she just didn’t expect me to arrive so early.” She raised her voice. “Gavin, are you in here?”

They heard a thump and a mutter of unintelligible words through the door at the western end of the room.

Dane opened the door and stepped through. “Blaze? We need to go home now, son.” He aimed the beam of his light around the plain, paneled bedroom, which contained a twin-size bed and small dresser in the southwest corner. There was a brown mess of stains in the center of the bare mattress. Something stank.

A grunt drew his light to the closet, where a denim-covered derriere presented itself to them. “Blaze.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, you want to let me in on the little mystery?” Dane asked. He felt the victim of tonight’s onslaught step up behind him. He turned to her. “I’m sorry about all this, really. Crazy as it seems, Blaze usually has a reason for behaving the way he…does. Blaze, we see your photogenic side, now would you show us your face and try hard to explain why you’re hiding in a closet in a stranger’s house?”

“Not hiding,” Blaze muttered. “Seeking. Come here, little darling.”

Dane could almost feel Cheyenne Allison’s alarm. She must think he ran a ranch filled with lunatics.

“Aha!” Blaze said. “There you are, you little fighter. Come here, let me take you to some milk. I bet you’re starved half to death. Where’s the rest of your family?”

Dane cleared his throat. “Blaze.”

“Ah, gotcha!” Blaze backed out of the closet, cuddling four mewling balls of golden kitten fluff beneath his chin. “Finally found them. You know the cat that was executed Saturday? I’m pretty sure these are her babies.”

Cheyenne caught her breath. “Somebody executed a cat?”

“We have a repeat offender who likes to vandalize the community every so often, “Dane explained. “Blaze, how did you—”

“I was hoping I could do this without getting in trouble.” Blaze nuzzled one of the kittens, then wrinkled his nose. “Phew, you stink. Didn’t Mama teach you how to use the kitty litter?”

“Blaze.”

“Okay, okay, but you’re not going to write me up over this, are you?”

“I’m not sure I—”

“I heard them crying the first time I came over here a couple weeks ago.” Blaze untangled one kitten from two of his dreadlocks and squatted to place them all on the floor. “I couldn’t tell what the sound was, and before I could find out, Cook caught me and made me go home, then ratted me out to you.”

“But of course you had to come back and investigate,” Dane said.

“Not for a few days, and that was when I saw Mrs. Potts’s cat coming in through the window. I only did it then because—”

“I know, you were afraid there was some animal trapped in here.” Dane strolled over to the bed and studied the stains. “Apparently, she gave birth to them in the bed.” He glanced at Cheyenne. “Sorry. It’s a mess.”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.”

“The babies have been without food at least since Friday night sometime,” Blaze said. “We need to get them fed. Can we keep them in the house tonight?”

“Nope. Barn.”

“Oh, come on, Dane, they don’t need to be alone tonight.”

“They won’t be alone. You know the rule about animals in the house.”

“But we kept the racing pigs in there last week.”

“That’s different. Cook isn’t allergic to pigs.”

Still grumbling, Blaze went to the other room. “Fine, I’ll just get the bag and close the bathroom window.”

Cheyenne picked up one of the kittens that had wandered from its siblings. The kid was right, these kittens needed to be fed soon.

She looked up and studied Dane Gideon’s face more carefully in the dim glow from their flashlights. The hair wasn’t Santa Claus white, it was more silver-blond, and carefully trimmed. Dane’s silhouette was craggy, with intense green eyes, slightly prominent nose and firm chin outlined by the short silver-blond beard.

Gavin’s words finally sank in, and Cheyenne frowned when he reentered the room with the bag. “Racing pigs?”

Dane and Gavin looked at her as if she should know exactly what they were talking about.

“You race pigs?” Had she just stumbled onto the SciFi cable channel?

“Sure, Dane told me they do it at the September festival every year,” Gavin said. “We brought ours into the house when the old sow got cantankerous and started hurting them.”

“And you kept them in the house?”

“Lady, don’t you know nothing about farm life?”

“Apparently not.”

“Blaze,” Dane warned. “You’re in enough trouble already. Count your blessings that I’ve decided not to write you up about tonight. Now let’s leave Cheyenne in peace.”

Cheyenne found herself intrigued by this man. Though he had a tough appearance, there was a gentleness in his voice, in the way he handled Gavin-Blaze.

She handed off the kitten to the teenager. “Do you mind if I ask why the nickname? Why Blaze?”

“It’s my reputation.” He eased the kitten into the cloth bag. All four of the felines protested their new environment. “Hush up, we’ll get you dinner soon.”

“Reputation?” Cheyenne asked.

“I accidentally set fire to a house. It’s why I’m here.”

“Accidentally?”

“I was building a fire in my mom’s fireplace, and it got away from me. Burned half the house.” He peered into the bag to check on his foster kittens. “I got in big trouble for that, and then there was a fire the next week at school. They tried to blame me for that, too.”

“It didn’t work,” Dane explained to Cheyenne. “They weren’t able to pin the blame on him for that one, because he had an alibi.”

“It worked, all right,” Gavin said. “My mother got me out of the way, didn’t she?”

“It worked for us at the ranch.” Dane placed an arm over Blaze’s shoulders. “We’ve practically got a veterinarian living under our roof—whenever he decides to stay home.”

Gavin grinned at him. “How else are you going to get your exercise if you don’t go chasing all over the county after me?”

Cheyenne could sense the kid’s affection for Dane, and once again she felt ashamed for panicking and spraying him.

“Let’s get these babies to the ranch and get out of Cheyenne’s hair,” Dane said, nudging Blaze toward the door.

The teenager stopped in front of Cheyenne. “Sorry about tonight.”

“Thanks, Gavin. Apology accepted.”

“I’m Blaze.”

“Why would you want to be?” she said. “It sounds like you’re admitting you’re guilty of the arson.”

Cradling the burlap bag in his arms, he shrugged. “By the time the townsfolk get ahold of you tomorrow, you’ll believe them instead of me, anyway.”

“I don’t intend for any townsfolk to get ahold of me,” she protested.

Dane and Gavin said good-night and let themselves out the front door.

“They’ll be good milk cats, soon as they’re big enough.” Gavin’s voice drifted through the still night air, fading as they walked toward the dock.

When all sound died from outside except for the singing tree frogs, Cheyenne pulled the hook of the screen door into the corresponding eye in the threshold. “Racing pigs in the house…hedge apples under the house…I’ve fallen into a psych ward, lockup division.” She sank onto the sofa and wrapped herself up with the comforter, then gazed out the large front window into the brilliant moonlight that kissed the earth with silver. “But maybe a psych ward is where I belong for coming here in the first place. Ardis, what have you gotten me into?”

Chapter Ten

“Suppose they ain’t up yet?”

“’Course they will be. Sun’s been up an hour.”

The murmuring voices penetrated Cheyenne’s sleep and dragged her eyes open. For a moment she thought she was back at the hospital, snoozing in the call room after a wild shift.

But if she was in the call room, that marshmallow they called a bed had been replaced by a…sofa

With a groan, she rolled over on her side and threw off the comforter. Its weight wasn’t nearly as heavy as the oppression that dragged her down when she remembered. She always remembered when she first woke up. Susan…

A sudden movement in the far corner of the room startled her, then a mouse scuttled out of sight.

She picked up the comforter and folded it, recalling how Susan had always panicked, screaming and jumping onto the nearest piece of furniture, whenever she heard a telltale squeak or saw a small furry body racing across the room. She’d always called on big sister to come and chase it away. That had been when they were growing up, when Dad was off on a business trip and Mom was working late at the office.

Cheyenne’s throat constricted. Would it always cripple her like this when she allowed herself to think? Would she always have to battle this horrible, gnawing guilt when she thought of Susan?

The voices reached her from outside again.

“Don’t let her eat the flowers!”

“What now?” Cheyenne tossed the comforter over the sofa, combing her fingers through tangled hair. This was supposed to be Ozark wilderness, where she could hide out and not see anybody for weeks at a time. So far, if she counted the mice skittering around the living room half the night and the howl of coyotes that had awakened her sometime in the darkness, she’d had very little solitude.

She drew the lacy curtain from the window and looked out.

Three wizened faces peered at her over the ledge of the three-foot-tall concrete wall around the porch. One was an older woman, at least in her eighties, with pure white hair framing her face. An even older man hovered next to her. He was bald with white tufts sticking out around his pink head, and age spots covering his face. Most startling was the third face—that of a mottled brown goat.

As Cheyenne’s lips parted in surprise the man’s smile widened in a toothless grin. He nodded sagely as she backed away from the window.

Cheyenne took a sustaining breath and pulled the door open. Three heads bobbed as the visitors filed to the steps.

The man smiled again, and the woman turned to look at him. She stopped, placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Oh, honey, you went off and forgot your teeth again. What’s she gonna think?”

The man leaned forward. “What’s that?”

“Your teeth! You forgot your teeth!”

“Oh.” The man dashed his hand over his mouth, caught sight of Cheyenne watching him and gave her an embarrassed smile.

The woman sighed and turned toward Cheyenne. “Mornin’.” Her strong, hearty voice held the warmth and spice of hot apple cider. “Heard you’d moved in here. I’m Bertie Meyer, this here’s my husband, Red and the one with the teeth is Mildred.” She pointed to the goat.

Cheyenne blinked at Mildred. The animal blinked back.

“Don’t worry, she don’t butt no more,” Bertie assured her. “Used to, but I broke her of it. Told her I’d trade her off for one of the ranch racing pigs.”

Cheyenne groaned inwardly. Racing pigs and pet goats. If she had any sense, she’d load all her things back and get out of here. She could go stay with her aunt Sarah in Sikeston. Nobody would visit her there. Or she could just buy a tent, drive to the nearest park and camp out for the next few years. Come to think of it, New York City probably wasn’t as populated as Hideaway.

She realized that her visitors were watching her expectantly. “My name’s Cheyenne Allison.” She stepped onto the porch as she glanced at the goat. Mildred?

Red took an unsteady step up one of the concrete steps, tottered on the edge until Cheyenne was sure he would fall backward, then gained his balance and found his smile once more. “We’re Red and Bertie Meyer. What’s your name?”

“She told you, silly goose!” Bertie shouted at her husband. “Name’s Cheyenne!”

“Hmph. You mean she’s too shy to tell us her name?” he shouted back.

Bertie shook her head at Cheyenne. “Don’t mind him, he’s deaf as a flowerpot. We just came over to see if you needed any help settling in. This is a good ol’ house, in spite of what some thinks. Knew this place’d sell someday. You and your husband planning to farm it?”

“Not at this point.” Why bother to explain the whole situation?

“Knew the Jarvises. They lived here until a couple of years ago, did a little farming.”

While Bertie talked, Mildred stepped daintily up onto the porch and sniffed Cheyenne’s leg. She darted a glance down at the goat, who gazed up at her with an air of innocence, then took the leg of her jeans in her mouth and tugged. No one else seemed to notice.

“Tell her about the Jarvises,” Red instructed his wife.

Bertie grimaced and shook her head conspiratorially at Cheyenne. “Okay, Red, I will!” She lowered her voice. “It helps to humor him. He gets mad if he thinks you’re ignoring him. Lizzie Barlow called me this morning to warn me they saw lights out here last night, and that there was probably vandals messing up the place.”

Cheyenne tugged the hem of her jeans out of Mildred’s mouth. “Lizzie?”

“Austin Barlow’s mother. He’s the mayor of Hideaway. Lizzie hears everything that goes on around here.” Bertie snorted. “You have to watch her. Sometimes she gets ahead of herself. Not that she likes to pass judgment on people, but…well…any ways, don’t tell her anything you don’t want the whole town to know. Would you listen to me? Now I’m doing it. Anyways, around here, everybody knows everybody else’s business. You’ll be needing a cat.”

Mildred took another tug at Cheyenne’s jeans, and Cheyenne jerked back. “A cat?”

“For mice, unless you want to share a bed with ’em.”

Cheyenne nudged the goat out from between her legs.

“Our cat’s a good mouser, and you’re in luck. We’ve got some almost grown kittens that’ll do you fine. I’ll bring one over.”

“No, thanks, I don’t need a cat.”

Bertie blinked up at her.

“I mean…I’m not moved in yet.” Cheyenne hesitated, looking at the three expectant faces. “I’m only here temporarily. I won’t be staying.”

Bertie’s shoulders drooped slightly. “Don’t you worry, those cats’ll be with us awhile. No hurry on that.” She turned to Red. “Guess we’d better be going. We got the goats to milk yet this morning, and I need to work in the garden this afternoon.” She patted Mildred’s behind and nudged her off the porch, then herded Red along behind the goat.

Red nodded smilingly at Cheyenne again. “Nice to meet you, young lady. You come and see us real soon.” He turned to his wife as he stepped to the ground. “I bet she could use one of those kittens for the mice around here.”

Bertie chuckled. “I bet she could, too.” She turned to Cheyenne and said, “If you need us for anything, we’re the next house on the road south from your gate.”

As they strolled back toward the gate, Cheyenne called out, “Why don’t I drive you there?”

“Thanks, but Mildred wouldn’t appreciate us cuttin’ her walk short,” Bertie called over her shoulder as they continued down to the rocky driveway.

Cheyenne chided herself for her lack of hospitality. They were just two harmless senior citizens…and a goat who liked to chew on pant legs.

She went down the steps and strolled around the yard, surveying the place that would be her home for the next few weeks…months?

Seven cedar trees congregated at the center of a grassy knoll twenty-some yards south of the house. New leaves sprinkled bright green across the tops of the otherwise naked gray-and-brown oaks in a forest that formed a natural barrier between this property and the rest of the world, except for the shoreline. Jonquils bloomed in splashes of yellow where the woods met fields.

The house sat on the crest of a hill that overlooked Table Rock Lake, and across the lake she saw a big red barn. The boys’ ranch, no doubt.

Judging by the position and lack of warmth of the sun, it was probably about six or seven o’clock in the morning, but Cheyenne had no way of knowing. She had purposely left all clocks and watches back in her apartment. Someday, perhaps, she would rejoin the human race, but now she wanted to forget.

Behind the house she found a small barn within a fenced corral, with two other outbuildings, apparently in good condition. One outbuilding was the well house, built of whitewashed blocks. The other looked like a chicken shed.

Chickens…mousing cats…milk goats. She’d never lived on a farm, though she’d often thought it might be interesting.

So far, she could definitely call this experience interesting.

Before she stayed here another day, she would need some supplies. Maybe Hideaway, small as it was, would carry what she needed. She’d finish unloading the car, then take a short drive to town.

Dane loved the smell of freshly cooked bacon, even if it was poison to arteries. He especially got a craving for it on Monday mornings, when he had a whole week of work to face. This morning, Cook had also made biscuits, fried eggs and potatoes with onions, and whipped up a batch of cream gravy that could tempt a man to sin.

Snatching a strip of bacon from the platter on the warming tray, Dane nodded good-morning to Cook. “Where’s your kitchen help this morning?”

“I sent him to town.” Cook grabbed an oven mitt and opened the oven door. “Our hens are getting a little carried away lately, and they were low on eggs at the store.”

Dane paused with the bacon halfway to his mouth. He checked the schedule on the side of the refrigerator. Gavin Farmer.

“How long ago did he leave?”

Cook stirred the potatoes and onions, then peered at Dane over the rims of his reading glasses. “About thirty minutes ago. Something wrong?”

“I hope not. It doesn’t take that long to go over and back.” The dock was barely a block from the store. After the hullabaloo this weekend…but searching for problems never did anybody any good. Dane crunched the bacon.

“You know how Blaze likes to hang around and shoot the breeze with ol’ Cecil when there’s time,” Cook said. “He got the milking done early and already had the potatoes shredded when I got down here. He was just underfoot, driving me nuts. I figured—”

“It’s okay,” Dane said. “He’ll be back anytime, I’m sure.” He strolled to the back door and peered out the window.

“You worry about that kid too much,” Cook said, stepping up behind him.

“And you don’t?”

“He’s a piece of work, all right. Charmer. He got Bertie Meyer to bake him a batch of her chocolate black-walnut cookies last week, then he traded half of them to Willy to do his chores one morning so he could sleep in.”

“Well, if he doesn’t get back soon, he’s going to be eating the rest of them for breakfast. We’re not waiting around if he’s late.”

Brightly colored houses graced the narrow, roughly paved road into Hideaway. The peridot green of budding springtime gave the morning a crisp, fresh feel, the multitude of pink-and-white dogwood trees providing a splash of elegance to a progression of postage-stamp-size yards. Larger, more elegant brick and stone homes graced the cliff line across the lake. Other houses were set deeply into the hillsides above the road.

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