Linda Goodnight - Finding Her Way Home

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

The knowledge burned inside her. She hated feeling impotent.

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

“Doc? You in here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even you?”

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

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