Linda Goodnight - Finding Her Way Home

“Be right there.” He handed Cheyenne Bennie’s manila folder. “Would you give this to Jeri at the desk?”

“Sure.” She took the chart to the reception area.

A middle-aged woman with dozens of neat, tiny braids covering her head and forty extra pounds, mostly on her hips, manned the desk. From what Cheyenne had observed in the short time she’d been there, Jeri Burdine was as grossly overworked as her boss. She booked appointments, escorted patients, answered the phone and collected payments, stocked shelves and generally ran the business end of the clinic.

“If you’ll show me what you want done, I’ll help,” she told Jeri. “I don’t think the doctor needs me right now.”

Jeri pushed at a pair of rectangular reading glasses. “Girl, you don’t have to ask twice. We have billing to do. Get your cute self back here and I’ll show you. There’s nothing to it but good record keeping.”

With an inward grin at the woman’s friendly chatter, Cheyenne said, “I can handle that.”

A cop kept good records or paid the price in court.

In minutes she was sliding bills into envelopes and slapping on computer-generated mailing labels. Some of the bills were seriously overdue. “Does he charge a late fee?”

“A what?” Jeri looked at her curiously. “Dr. Bowman? You gotta be kidding.”

Well, no, she wouldn’t kid about a thing like that. This was a business, not a charity. But she kept her opinion to herself.

She was piling a stack of envelopes into an outgoing mail container when the outside door burst open. Instinctively, Cheyenne jerked toward the sound, hand going to her nonexistent revolver. A woman’s frantic voice raised the hair on her arms.

“My puppy is hurt bad. Can you help?” The voice quivered as she held out the limp body of a very small Yorkshire terrier.

Cheyenne dropped the pile of envelopes and moved into action. “What happened?”

The young woman cast a furtive glance behind her. “Uh, he—uh, my husband stepped on him by accident. He didn’t mean to. Chauncy got underfoot and he’s so little. Ray would never hurt him on purpose.”

Some instinct warned Cheyenne that the woman was being less than truthful. She protested just a little too much. About that time, a hulking man came through the door. His focus went immediately toward the shaking woman.

“Emma.” The tone, instead of tender and concerned, was harsh.

The woman jumped, her eyes widened in fear. “They’re getting the doctor now, Ray.”

Her look pleaded with Cheyenne to agree.

Something was not right here. Every cop instinct inside her was screaming.

Jeri took one look at the injured animal and said to Cheyenne, “Take them on back to the exam room. I’ll get Dr. Bowman.”

As a cop Cheyenne had worked accidents, murders, shootings and just about every violent crime known to man. She’d seen unspeakable injuries up close and personal. Open wounds didn’t shake her. But the dog was basically a ball of bloody fur. Even the smell was deathly.

The woman named Emma was trembling like an earthquake. “Is he going to die?”

Probably. But Cheyenne didn’t say that.

“Quit bawling, Emma,” the man said. “If he dies I’ll get you another one.”

Yeah, as if that was going to help. Cheyenne wanted to clobber the insensitive clod.

Instead she asked, “Is your dog a regular patient of Dr. Bowman’s?”

“No.” Tears raced down Emma’s face and dripped on the dog. She was crying but doing her best not to make a sound. The effort worried Cheyenne. This was a traumatic event. Why should her husband be angry if she cried?

“No problem. What’s his name?”

“Chauncey Ray. He’s named after my husband.”

“I bought him as a special gift for her birthday. Didn’t I, Emma?”

Cheyenne managed a smile. She’d never had time for an animal and couldn’t comprehend the attachment pet owners felt for their furry friends. But she understood heartache.

The man placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder. She tensed.

Cheyenne narrowed her eyes in thought. There was a smugness about this Ray character that set her nerves on edge. She couldn’t put her finger on the problem, but her cop gut labeled him a jerk.

They met Dr. Bowman in the hallway. “What’s the emergency?”

Emma’s waterworks restarted. She shook all over, far more than the situation warranted. Her husband gave her an annoyed look and said, “The dumb dog got underfoot.” He lifted a heavy boot, almost grinning as if he was proud. “I got a pretty big foot. I told her to keep him out of the way.”

Trace gave the man a cool glance. “Put him on the table, and let me have a look.”

The woman did as she was told, small hands trembling as she gently laid the tiny dog on the paper-covered table.

Cheyenne saw then what she’d missed in the hallway. Bruises on the inside of Emma’s upper arms. Fingerprint bruises. She looked closer. The faint outline of a handprint marred the woman’s cheek. Earlier, Cheyenne had dismissed the red cheek as the result of crying. Now she had a different thought.

Her hackles rose. This oversize clod was hitting his wife. And she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’d hurt the dog intentionally.

“Is he going to die?” Emma asked again, standing back from the exam table. Her husband put an arm around her, but she did not look comforted.

“Let’s get some pain medication into him first and then we can do some X-rays to see what kind of damage we’re dealing with.” Dr. Bowman offered Emma an encouraging glance, before turning his full attention on the dog. “Think positive. Injuries are not always as bad they initially appear.”

Cheyenne, cynic that she was, figured he said that to everyone. She’d already pegged him for a male Pollyanna.

He reached behind her for a bottle and syringe. Cheyenne dipped a shoulder, uncomfortable when his forearm brushed against her.

“You’ll have to assist,” he said, plunging a needle into a rubber stopper. “Jilly’s busy with that mare’s feet.”

Cheyenne’s stomach lurched. Assist with what? She was accustomed to investigating the aftermath. Accidents never happened when a police officer was watching.

An unpleasant emptiness spread through her. She wasn’t a police officer anymore. What she had or had not done before did not apply in this scenario. She was a veterinary assistant now. She clamped down on her back molars.

Deal with it, Rhodes.

Keeping her expression bland, she muttered, “Sure. Whatever.”

“Ma’am, would you and your husband prefer to wait in the waiting area?”

Emma’s lips quivered. “Whatever you think is best.”

Her husband gripped her arm. “You heard what he said. Come on.”

With one jerky nod, Emma pivoted and left the room with her husband.

Expression grim, Trace glanced toward the door. “What’s wrong with that picture?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Do you think he hurt this dog on purpose?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“He abuses her.”

Trace glanced up, surprised. “How do you know that?”

“Observance. She has bruises on her arms and a handprint on her cheek. They’d been fighting when this happened.”

“All the more reason to think he stomped or kicked this little dog. The injuries are not consistent with merely being stepped on.”

“Can you save him?”

“Gotta try.” His intelligent eyes studied the unmoving animal. “We’ll have a better idea after the X-rays and a thorough exam. You up for this?”

Cheyenne gave one short nod. She’d handled plenty worse.

Over the next few minutes, the vet instructed her in restraining and positioning the limp little animal while he ran an X-ray machine. All the while, her mind whirled with the ramifications of the couple in the waiting room. A woman shouldn’t put up with a man like that.