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  “I had a lot of things I wanted to do around the house and was in the mood to get supplies today.”

  “Anything the boys and I can help you with?” he asked. “For instance, the painting? I also noticed when we were there the other night that the shutters need nailing.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I enjoy painting and such.”

  “You won’t enjoy it if you take on the whole job yourself. Besides, we owe you for trespassing on your place.”

  “I’ll survive. How are the kittens doing?”

  “Coming along fine.” Dane reached for a gallon of paint. “They’re thriving on some milky concoction Blaze mixes for them.”

  “He seems to love animals.”

  “His father was a vet, and it was very much a full-time project for the two of them.”

  “His father isn’t around now?”

  “He died last year.”

  “And his mother?”

  Dane shook his head. “Estranged.” He held the paint can up for her to see. “This is the bestselling color here, creamy off-white with just the barest suggestion of burgundy.”

  She looked at the can, then at him. “You know a lot about this stuff. Do you work here?”

  “You might say that.”

  As they discussed the paint selections, Dane watched her more closely, trying to pick up on the things she didn’t say. He’d worked with enough hurting teenagers to develop an instinct about people in emotional trouble. Something about Cheyenne reminded him of Blaze when he’d first arrived.

  Of course, Cheyenne was a woman, and Dane’s history with women was laughable.

  No, not laughable. It was tragic.

  She walked with him to the front counter, where a wizened old man in horn-rimmed glasses sat nodding behind a cash register.

  “Wake up, Cecil. Time to earn your keep,” Dane teased gently.

  The man started awake, teetered on his seat, then straightened. “Oh, sorry ’bout that. Been a slow day.” He glanced at Cheyenne’s cart full of food and supplies, then peered at her. “You sure you want all that stuff? There’s a better selection down in Kimberling City. ’Course, you’d have to drive all the way there and back.”

  “Cecil, would you stop trying to talk us out of a sale and just ring her up?” Dane winked broadly at her. “If there’s a worm in a basketful of apples, Cecil will tell you about it, try to talk you out of buying the apple, then dig the worm out and show it to you.”

  She smiled.

  At last!

  Cecil rang up the items, checking each price carefully. After Cheyenne paid, Dane helped her carry everything out to the car—glad he had stayed to talk with her and tell her more about the community.

  He had just finished loading the last of her purchases in the trunk when a red pickup truck pulled in beside them. Dane glanced at the driver, saw the cowboy hat and tried hard to keep a straight face. Trust Austin Barlow’s radar to tell him when an eligible female came within range. He lingered in town every evening during the summer months, when the tourists were thick. Some habits were apparently hard to break.

  Austin sat behind the steering wheel watching them for a couple of seconds, obviously intrigued by Dane’s companion. He tipped his stupid cowboy hat and nodded to Cheyenne.

  “Afternoon, Gideon,” he said as he got out of the truck.

  Dane nodded. “Hello, Austin. Cheyenne Allison, meet the mayor of our town, Austin Barlow. Cheyenne’s the Meyers’ new neighbor.” And you look like a hungry hound dog, Austin. Keep your tongue in your mouth.

  The front door of the store opened, and Cecil stuck out his head. “Dane? You need to check this cash register. It’s talking to me again.”

  Dane excused himself and left. Cheyenne Allison had proved when she arrived last week that she was capable of taking care of herself.

  As he entered the store, Dane resisted the urge to imagine Austin facing down the barrel of Cheyenne’s mace shooter.

  Cheyenne eyed Austin Barlow’s dark-brown felt cowboy hat and red-checked Western shirt. She supposed the mayor of a lakeside village that catered to summer tourists had to maintain a certain image…but Will Rogers? The last time she’d seen a man in a cowboy hat, she’d been at a rodeo. Of course, what did she know—she’d practically lived in the hospital for much of her adult life.

  She opened her door and got into the car. “Nice to meet you, Mayor.”

  “Please call me Austin, everyone in town does. And it’s very nice to meet you.” He had a handsome voice to match his strong, perfectly even features. “So you’ve moved to the old Jarvis place. Funny, I didn’t remember anything coming through.”

  “Coming through?”

  “I’m a real estate broker. I handle a lot of the farm sales around here. Last time I called the Dunaways, they told me the place wasn’t for sale.”

  “It isn’t, I’m just staying there for a few weeks.” Not that it was any of his business.

  “Staying out there all alone?”

  “Nope.”

  He looked disappointed. “Well, that’s good, because—”

  “Bertie gave me a kitten last week. He’s good company.”

  He nodded and pulled a card from the front pocket of his stylized shirt. “If anything comes up there’s my number.” He smiled. The gently weathered lines of his face made him even more attractive, with that firm chin, those blue eyes. “You don’t have to wait until you decide to buy. I make a good tour guide, lived here all my life. Seen practically every Branson show, and it would be my pleasure to take you to one.” His eyes narrowed, and he stepped to her window. “Say, where’d you get that shiner?”

  She raised her hand to her left eye. “I had a brief encounter with a local bully,” she replied as she started her motor.

  “Local! Any idea who? Where’d it happen?”

  “Down by the dock.” She gestured behind her. “Kid was beating up on Gavin Farmer last week. I went down to break it up, and my face interfered with Danny Short’s elbow.”

  “Short.” Austin shook his head. “You’re right, ma’am, he’s a bully. I’ll have a little talk with his father and make sure nothing like that—”

  “No, please, not on my account. And I’m sure I’ll be fine on the farm. Dane Gideon has offered to let his boys help me out with some repairs.”

  The mayor’s smile lost some of its brightness. “I wish you wouldn’t do that, ma’am. May I call you Cheyenne?”

  She nodded.

  “The less you have to do with those people, the safer you’ll be.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He leaned closer. “I know that sounds a little abrupt, especially coming from a stranger. Dane’s a good-hearted man, there’s no denying that. He’s good at running a farm, and he seems to have a Midas touch when it comes to making money—that’s why this general store’s doing so well.”

  “This store is his?”

  “Sure, didn’t he tell you?”

  She shook her head.

  He nodded. “Sounds like Gideon. But he doesn’t know diddly-squat about how to raise a teenager. How could he? He’s got none of his own. He’s too lax with discipline, if you ask me.”

  She hadn’t, but she decided not to pass judgment too quickly. After all, what did she know about anyone here? “Thanks, Mayor, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Remember, it’s Austin.”

  She reached for the gearshift.

  “You getting a telephone put in out there at the farm?” he asked.

  “Not if I can help it.” She gestured to the purse-size carrier on the seat beside her. “Just this car phone.”

  “Well, if you run into any kind of trouble—ranch boys or otherwise—use that car phone there and call me.”

  “Thanks, I’ll—”

  “I mean it, now. Woman out on the farm alone like that needs some contact with the outside world, and old Red means well, but he and Bertie wouldn’t be much help in a pinch. You be sure and call me if you need anything, hear?”<
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  “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” She waved and backed onto the street.

  “And don’t forget about my Branson offer,” he called to her as she drove away.

  The man was persistent, she had to say that for him.

  She gave her image a glance in the mirror, grinned, then shook her head. The guy must be desperate.

  Still, it was kind of fun.

  Her grin faded as she drove out of town. Why was the mayor of Hideaway so concerned about Dane Gideon’s boys? Was she truly in danger?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The hospital tile felt cold against Cheyenne’s side. She opened her eyes to see her sister’s bloody face only inches from her own.

  A hand came up and touched Cheyenne’s hair. Susan’s eyes opened.

  Cheyenne screamed and jerked awake to find Blue nuzzling her forehead. The curtains drifted across her face with a cold breeze through the open bedroom window.

  She caught her breath, wiping the perspiration from her face. For a few seconds, the horror lingered, shooting her six weeks backward in time. Again.

  Blue nudged Cheyenne’s chin, his purr vibrating against her neck. Muted morning light gave the room a rosy glow, and the horror retreated for another day. Most likely, she would awaken tomorrow the same way. The only difference between this place and her apartment in Columbia was the absence of city sounds outside her window—no horns honking or garbage trucks chugging by.

  She gazed around the room. Normal. Everything was normal. Her racing heart slowed its rhythm. It was Sunday morning. She’d been here nearly two weeks now, and she almost felt as if this place was hers, especially after she’d cleaned and painted and hammered on something nearly every day.

  She was pulling on her jeans and sweatshirt when she heard the sound of male voices coming from the direction of the lake. Running her fingers through her tangled hair, Cheyenne peered out the west window of her bedroom and saw Blaze and another boy coming uphill from the dock.

  Vaguely, she recalled the mayor’s warning last Monday about the ranch boys, but she dismissed it as she watched Blaze joking and laughing with his companion. Somehow, he didn’t strike her as a dangerous person, especially considering what he’d been doing here the night she arrived and frightened him nearly to death.

  She stepped onto the porch when the boys came through the front gate.

  “You have a lawn mower on this place?” Blaze called as he and his friend waded through the ankle-deep grass toward her. “If not, I could bring one over from the ranch. If you don’t get this stuff cut down before long, the snakes and ticks’ll get pretty chummy with you.”

  “Thanks, I think there’s a mower out in the barn.” Her attention automatically focused on the scalp wound she had treated two weeks ago. Although his braids didn’t quite match, Blaze looked good otherwise.

  He held up two large, thick paper bags. “Got a present for you.”

  “Please don’t tell me there are kittens in those bags.”

  “Nope, Bertie told me you had Blue.” His dark-brown eyes glowed with mischief as he set the bundles gently on the porch. He jerked his head toward his companion. “Cheyenne, this is Ramsay Barlow. Guess you’ve met his dad.” He turned to Ramsay. “This is the newcomer everybody’s been gossiping about in town.”

  “How are they gossiping?” Cheyenne asked. The teenager looked vaguely familiar. He was about an inch taller than Blaze, with short auburn hair and blue eyes.

  He held his hand out. “Don’t mind Blaze, he’s always trying to start trouble.” He had a firm grip, a familiar voice. “It’s just that everybody knows a single lady moved into the area.”

  “You’re Austin Barlow’s son?” she asked.

  “That’s me.” He had a dimple on the left side of his chin when he smiled, like his dad.

  “How do you like that?” Blaze readjusted the lip of one of the bags. “Me running around with the mayor’s son. If my mama could see me now.” There was a faint edge in his voice. “Just don’t go telling Austin, okay?” Blaze said. “He’s not too crazy about us over at the ranch. I don’t want to get Ramsay in trouble.” Again, that edge.

  “Ramsay, I met your father last week,” Cheyenne said. “He seems like a nice man.”

  Ramsay nodded and looked away.

  “So I don’t understand his problem with the ranch.”

  Ramsay shifted uncomfortably.

  Okay, there was definitely some undercurrent of tension between Austin Barlow and the ranch boys.

  Cheyenne leaned toward Blaze and looked more closely at the wound she had “sutured” the day of the fight. The hair had been trimmed from above the scar. “How’s it healing?” she asked.

  “Not the best, but it’ll be fine. Got your farm started.” He gestured to the bags.

  “My farm?”

  “You wanted a hen and chicks, didn’t you? Bertie said last week you’d like to see what it was like to live on a real farm, and she told you to start small, with a hen and some chicks.”

  “She told you that?” Cheyenne recalled a casual reference to the possibility one day when Bertie and Red came over to visit, but she hadn’t been serious.

  Blue sniffed at the bags.

  “This is them,” Blaze said. “You’ve got an old chicken coop out back. I checked it out when I was looking for the kittens.”

  “You mean the night I maced Dane?”

  There was a surprised cackle of laughter from Ramsay. “What? You sprayed Dane?”

  “It wasn’t funny when it happened,” Blaze said. He picked up the bags. “You want them in the chicken coop, don’t you?”

  “Uh…Blaze, you do realize I don’t plan to—”

  “I’m going to hang out down at the dock,” Ramsay interrupted.

  “See you in a few, and don’t wander too far. Your church starts in an hour.” Blaze carried the bags around the side of the house toward the outbuildings in back. “Just remember not to let the hen out of the pen unless you want to corral her,” he told Cheyenne.

  Cheyenne rushed to catch up with him. “But I don’t have anything to feed them. I wasn’t expecting—”

  “No problem, I brought enough feed to last you a week.”

  She gave up the argument. “Why don’t I hear anything? Shouldn’t they be clucking or something?”

  He turned and quirked a thick eyebrow at her. “You really don’t know much about farming, do you?”

  “Well, excuse me for being a city girl.”

  “All you’ve got to do is put chickens in a dark place, and they’ll usually be quiet.”

  “Okay, fine. What’s the gossip you were talking about? I’ve hardly even spoken to anyone since I arrived.”

  “That’s what they’re gossiping about. Somebody told Willy you’re running a meth operation.”

  “Why would anyone say—”

  “Don’t blame me, I’m just repeating what I hear. That’s the biggest problem around these parts. You’ve got to get out and mingle with the natives more often, let them know you’re harmless.”

  “I did that once. It got me a black eye.”

  Blaze reached the chicken coop and opened the rough wooden door. “Yeah, I hear you there. Still, you can’t just give up and hide out.” He stepped into the darkness ahead of her and pulled a flashlight out of his back pocket. “There’s nothing to taking care of chickens.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t need more than a little scoop or so of feed once a day—you’ll be able to tell if she’s eating it all or not. Keep fresh water in the coop. She’ll take care of the rest, and I’ll be over to keep an eye on things, make sure you aren’t killing her.” He set his bags inside. “Before you know it, unless Blue eats ’em, you’ll have a whole coop full of banties. You’ll be selling your eggs to the general store.” He grinned, and she realized it was not a grin of mischief but of excitement.

  She didn’t have the heart to remind Blaze she wouldn’t be around that long. She stepped through the do
or after him and watched as he inspected the coop, found a likely spot for the nest and gently opened the first sack to expose a cluster of five small brown eggs.

  She stared at them. “That’s it? I thought you had chicks.”

  “They’ll hatch soon enough.” He placed them in the nest site, then opened the other sack and pulled out a small, suddenly squawking black hen.

  The hen clucked with alarm, circled the coop several times and finally settled on the newly placed nest, fluttering her wings over the cluster.

  Blaze gestured for Cheyenne to climb out of the coop, then followed and closed the door securely. “You’ve got your beginnings of a farm.” He stepped to the side of the coop, where chicken wire formed a roomy enclosure. “See that door? After the hen has a few minutes to settle down, release the hinge and open the door so she can come outside and scratch in the dirt.”

  “Thanks,” Cheyenne said. “Now all I need is a cow, pig, goats, maybe a horse….”

  “Can’t have my racing pigs.”

  “Oh, come on, Blaze, be a sport,” she said dryly. “That’s all I need to make my life complete. What will I—”

  “Shh, listen!” Blaze went to the door and peered out. “Hear that? A goat. Red and Bertie must be paying you a visit.” He looked at his watch. “They’d better hurry if they plan to make church this morning. Probably coming to invite you.”

  If so, they were wasting a trip. What had suddenly happened to her peaceful solitude?

  As they left the coop, Cheyenne heard Mildred’s characteristic alto bleat and saw her two elderly owners strolling up to the porch, one on either side of the mottled brown milking goat. Bertie carried an oblong cake pan. Red carried a brown paper bag.

  Cheyenne glanced at it cautiously. Another paper bag. What kind of animal did this one have in it?

  “Don’t you have a lawn mower?” Bertie called when she saw Cheyenne and Blaze. “If you don’t start cutting the grass, you’ll have ticks and snakes knocking at your door.”

  “Told you,” Blaze murmured.