Finding Her Way Home. Linda Goodnight

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.

      “Wear this.” Trace tossed her an apron that weighed a ton.

      “What’s in this thing? Bricks?” She draped the gray apron around her neck.

      “Close. Lead. Keeps you from being exposed to radiation.” He disappeared behind a short wall. The hum and thump of the machine filled the room. Trace reappeared to reposition the animal again. “A couple more.”

      Cheyenne kept her hands where he instructed while he finished the procedure.

      “All done. Hang the apron inside here and then stay with Chauncey while I process these.”

      He disappeared again and Cheyenne stared down at the sedated dog. He was a mess. Blood coated his golden brown coat. Cheyenne was pretty sure the white protrusion on his leg was a bone.

      She shivered and tried to think of something else.

      Noises came from behind her. Thumps and thuds. Buzzes and bells. And then the vet was back again, standing next to her. His focus was on the patient, but Cheyenne edged away from him and the peculiar sizzle of nerve endings he caused. She didn’t know whether she liked or hated the feeling, but liking it wasn’t an option.

      “Other than the mangled leg, I don’t see anything life-threatening.”

      She flicked him a glance. “Seriously?”

      “I’ll need to keep him overnight to rule out internal injuries, but he doesn’t seem to be as bad as I first thought. I wasn’t kidding when I said sometimes the worst-looking injuries end up not being so bad after all.”

      “That’s true. I’ve seen people I didn’t think would survive but they did.”

      He swiveled toward her, expression curious. “You have?”

      Cheyenne mentally kicked herself. She hadn’t intended to discuss her former life with anyone in Redemption. Let the past lie buried. If it would.

      Avoiding the doctor’s intensely blue eyes, she fiddled with the crinkly paper beneath the Yorkie. “I just meant—you know, on the road and stuff.”

      Dr. Bowman didn’t respond, but she could feel him looking at her, curious. At least she thought she could. Lately, her emotions didn’t always line up with reality. She knew this but she couldn’t always control it.

      Lack of control made her mad. Life in general made her mad. The feelings thrashing and banging around inside every time Trace Bowman came close made her mad.

      But then, she’d been mad for the past year. Had she really expected things to improve just because a town was called Redemption?

      Trace shook droplets of water from his hands and reached for a paper towel. The surgery on the Yorkie’s leg had taken longer than he’d hoped, so Jeri had sent waiting patients home until tomorrow. A half dozen of the sickest had chosen to wait, but the injured dog was resting peacefully, still sedated, in a soft enclosure.

      The pet owners had left, although the man had been blunt about not running up a huge vet bill. “Put him to sleep. I’ll get her another.”

      Trace usually liked everyone. He couldn’t say that about this guy. “That won’t be necessary. We can work something out.”

      “I’ll hold you to that, Doc.” And with that warning he had ushered his wife from the clinic.

      Some people.

      With a weary sigh, he shot a look at his new assistant. She was an enigma. Not very friendly, either, but he’d known that when he hired her.

      Even though the capable Jilly had returned, once the surgery was set up and ready he’d called Cheyenne in to help, too. Some perverse part of him must admire a tough woman with a chip on her shoulder.

      Troubled. He could see it in the tense set of her shoulders and jaw. He could hear it in her terse answers. And he could read it in her soulful glares and the way she overprotected her three feet of personal space.

      The question was why? And what exactly did the Lord expect him to do about Cheyenne Rhodes?

      “Pretty