Linda Goodnight - Finding Her Way Home

She scrubbed at her face with both hands, ashamed of her cynical attitude. Kitty hadn’t talked about voices, though her meaning was as mysterious as a voice would have been.

After a glance at the clock-radio, Cheyenne dragged herself out of bed and to the shower. Today was the first day of the rest of her life and she was determined to find a job and get on with living.

By the time she was dressed and ready to hunt down the Sugar Shack, her cell phone jingled. After checking the caller ID, she answered. “Hi, Brent.”

“Hey, sis.” Her brother’s deep voice eased an ache in her chest. “Where are you? Still sleeping in your car?”

“Believe it or not, no.” She looked around the motel room. Kitty took pains to make the units more homey than most. “I’m in a motel in Redemption, a little town in Oklahoma.”

Brent whistled. “Long way from home, sis.”

“Which is what we all agreed was best.”

“I know. Still—”

“A fresh start, new faces and time to forget.”

“You can come home anytime, Chey. Dad and I will take care of you.”

She wanted to take care of herself again, not huddle in her bedroom afraid of shadows and cruel speculation. Her dad and brother thought she should “put what happened behind her,” to “forget about it” and move on. She knew they meant well and she longed to follow their advice. She simply had not been able to do so.

“Maybe someday when things blow over.”

She reached under the pillow and moved a gun to her purse. Kitty probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing her new renter slept with a nine-millimeter Glock. Though Cheyenne never wanted to use the weapon again, she couldn’t fall asleep without that lethal assurance. Even then, sleep was fitful and filled with things she didn’t want to remember.

“You should see this place, Brent. Redemption is like a step back in time. Homey, friendly.” She told him about the Dumpster-divers and savored his warm laugh. “They were interesting, let me tell you.”

“I can imagine,” he said dryly.

“And the woman who owns the motel hosts a Bible study every night.”

Cynic that he was, Cheyenne could imagine Brent’s grimace. “Look out for weirdos.”

“She’s not like that. Really. Although she said something strange about God leading needy souls to Redemption. Or some such.”

“Told you. Weirdo.”

Cheyenne pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and grinned. “You always know how to cheer me up.”

“You’re not planning to stay there in Weirdo-ville, are you?”

“For now. I’m job-hunting today.”

“Where?”

She heard the tension in his tone.

“Not police work.” Heaviness pulled on her insides like lead weights. “I know I can’t do that anymore, Brent.”

“I’m sorry, sis,” he said softly.

“Me, too.” More than sorry, she was brokenhearted. Being a police officer had been her life’s ambition.

“How are you otherwise?”

She knew what he meant. They never discussed the incident that had changed her life. Like everyone else, Brent and her father had wanted to pretend nothing had happened to her. If they didn’t talk about it, the issue would go away. They were wrong.

The silence of friends and coworkers was one of the reasons she’d left Colorado Springs. No one but the antagonistic press wanted to discuss that night. No one wanted to admit that something terrible and life-changing had happened to strong, sensible Detective Rhodes. She looked all right on the outside, so she must be fine. Only she knew how wrong they were.

The news media reminded her on a regular basis. Even after the investigation and the grand jury, reporters and gun-law activists stayed in her face. They were the second reason she’d fled her hometown.

The other reasons went deeper and she suspected they’d followed her here.

“I’m coping.” She would never be the same and she would always wonder what she’d done to deserve such a thing happening to her, but she was determined to keep living. Dwight Hector had hurt her. He’d stolen her peace, her sense of security, her relationships, her career and a year of her life, but she would not let him destroy her.

“Good. Good.” He paused before continuing. “I guess you haven’t heard the latest news.”

“Good or bad?”

“Depends on your perspective, I guess. But it’s news I didn’t want you to hear from someone else.”

“Am I being prosecuted?”

“Chey, no. That’s over. You were cleared of all wrongdoing.”

After her being under a cloud of suspicion for a year, the final ruling still didn’t register.

“I keep expecting something else to pop up.” Like Dwight Hector, though she’d watched him die and knew he would never hurt another woman. She pushed at her hair and sighed. “I don’t know. I’m so tired of it all.”

“Let the past go, sis. Be healed and happy again. I miss you.” Her brother’s pensive voice wrapped around her with love.

“So what’s the big news?”

A moment of silence told her she wasn’t going to like his message.

Brent cleared his throat.

“Spit it out, Brent. I’m immune to bad news.”

“Right. That’s why you’re in some hick town called Redemption.”

“Redemption is not a hick town. I like—” She stopped the sentence, realizing Brent was stalling. “Tell me.”

“Paul is getting married. To Melinda.”

Her eyes fell shut as she imagined her former fiancé marrying someone else, a someone else who happened to be her friend. “Good for them. I’ll send a card.”

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it, Brent. Paul walked out on me when I needed him most. Why would I care about a man like that?”

“Right. Okay. Sure.”

She’d adored Paul Ramos, but now she felt nothing but sadness—not for Paul, but for the woman she’d become. A woman no man would want. Paul had taught her that.

A lull ensued when neither could think of anything to say and Cheyenne ended the call. She loved her only two relatives, but they had been adversely affected, too. Whether they admitted it or not, and no matter how much she hurt to know, Dad and Brent were glad to have her gone.

The Sugar Shack smelled sweet enough to give her a toothache. If the crowd gathered at round tables and along a low counter with stools was any indication, the Sugar Shack was the local meeting place, at least for breakfast. Besides the scrumptious pastries and breads filling the display cases and tinting the air with a warm, yeasty fragrance, the shop served country breakfast fare and sandwiches.

As she stood inside the door, analyzing the inhabitants, several heads turned her direction. But instead of suspicion, their expressions showed only momentary interest before they turned back to their companions or their steaming coffee cups. After looking for a seat and finding none, Cheyenne made her way toward the cash register. The chatter of friendly voices mingled with the clink of thick white mugs against matching saucers and the occasional ka-ching of the cash register. A few customers nodded a polite greeting as she walked by.

The small gesture buoyed her.

As she turned sideways to ease around one table, a voice called out, “Miss Cheyenne.”

She glanced down into the whiskery face of G. I. Jack.

“Did Doc Bowman take the puppies?”

The grizzled old bum had an undeniable sweetness about him. She smiled. “He did.”

The man pushed at the extra chair between himself and Popbottle Jones. “You’ll not find another empty. Sit down and we’ll treat you to breakfast. Won’t we, Popbottle?”

His Dumpster partner hoisted a cup in her honor. “Indeed we will.”