Hideaway Page 8

  Cheyenne found herself intrigued by this man. Though he had a tough appearance, there was a gentleness in his voice, in the way he handled Gavin-Blaze.

  She handed off the kitten to the teenager. “Do you mind if I ask why the nickname? Why Blaze?”

  “It’s my reputation.” He eased the kitten into the cloth bag. All four of the felines protested their new environment. “Hush up, we’ll get you dinner soon.”

  “Reputation?” Cheyenne asked.

  “I accidentally set fire to a house. It’s why I’m here.”

  “Accidentally?”

  “I was building a fire in my mom’s fireplace, and it got away from me. Burned half the house.” He peered into the bag to check on his foster kittens. “I got in big trouble for that, and then there was a fire the next week at school. They tried to blame me for that, too.”

  “It didn’t work,” Dane explained to Cheyenne. “They weren’t able to pin the blame on him for that one, because he had an alibi.”

  “It worked, all right,” Gavin said. “My mother got me out of the way, didn’t she?”

  “It worked for us at the ranch.” Dane placed an arm over Blaze’s shoulders. “We’ve practically got a veterinarian living under our roof—whenever he decides to stay home.”

  Gavin grinned at him. “How else are you going to get your exercise if you don’t go chasing all over the county after me?”

  Cheyenne could sense the kid’s affection for Dane, and once again she felt ashamed for panicking and spraying him.

  “Let’s get these babies to the ranch and get out of Cheyenne’s hair,” Dane said, nudging Blaze toward the door.

  The teenager stopped in front of Cheyenne. “Sorry about tonight.”

  “Thanks, Gavin. Apology accepted.”

  “I’m Blaze.”

  “Why would you want to be?” she said. “It sounds like you’re admitting you’re guilty of the arson.”

  Cradling the burlap bag in his arms, he shrugged. “By the time the townsfolk get ahold of you tomorrow, you’ll believe them instead of me, anyway.”

  “I don’t intend for any townsfolk to get ahold of me,” she protested.

  Dane and Gavin said good-night and let themselves out the front door.

  “They’ll be good milk cats, soon as they’re big enough.” Gavin’s voice drifted through the still night air, fading as they walked toward the dock.

  When all sound died from outside except for the singing tree frogs, Cheyenne pulled the hook of the screen door into the corresponding eye in the threshold. “Racing pigs in the house…hedge apples under the house…I’ve fallen into a psych ward, lockup division.” She sank onto the sofa and wrapped herself up with the comforter, then gazed out the large front window into the brilliant moonlight that kissed the earth with silver. “But maybe a psych ward is where I belong for coming here in the first place. Ardis, what have you gotten me into?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Suppose they ain’t up yet?”

  “’Course they will be. Sun’s been up an hour.”

  The murmuring voices penetrated Cheyenne’s sleep and dragged her eyes open. For a moment she thought she was back at the hospital, snoozing in the call room after a wild shift.

  But if she was in the call room, that marshmallow they called a bed had been replaced by a…sofa

  With a groan, she rolled over on her side and threw off the comforter. Its weight wasn’t nearly as heavy as the oppression that dragged her down when she remembered. She always remembered when she first woke up. Susan…

  A sudden movement in the far corner of the room startled her, then a mouse scuttled out of sight.

  She picked up the comforter and folded it, recalling how Susan had always panicked, screaming and jumping onto the nearest piece of furniture, whenever she heard a telltale squeak or saw a small furry body racing across the room. She’d always called on big sister to come and chase it away. That had been when they were growing up, when Dad was off on a business trip and Mom was working late at the office.

  Cheyenne’s throat constricted. Would it always cripple her like this when she allowed herself to think? Would she always have to battle this horrible, gnawing guilt when she thought of Susan?

  The voices reached her from outside again.

  “Don’t let her eat the flowers!”

  “What now?” Cheyenne tossed the comforter over the sofa, combing her fingers through tangled hair. This was supposed to be Ozark wilderness, where she could hide out and not see anybody for weeks at a time. So far, if she counted the mice skittering around the living room half the night and the howl of coyotes that had awakened her sometime in the darkness, she’d had very little solitude.

  She drew the lacy curtain from the window and looked out.

  Three wizened faces peered at her over the ledge of the three-foot-tall concrete wall around the porch. One was an older woman, at least in her eighties, with pure white hair framing her face. An even older man hovered next to her. He was bald with white tufts sticking out around his pink head, and age spots covering his face. Most startling was the third face—that of a mottled brown goat.

  As Cheyenne’s lips parted in surprise the man’s smile widened in a toothless grin. He nodded sagely as she backed away from the window.

  Cheyenne took a sustaining breath and pulled the door open. Three heads bobbed as the visitors filed to the steps.

  The man smiled again, and the woman turned to look at him. She stopped, placed her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Oh, honey, you went off and forgot your teeth again. What’s she gonna think?”

  The man leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  “Your teeth! You forgot your teeth!”

  “Oh.” The man dashed his hand over his mouth, caught sight of Cheyenne watching him and gave her an embarrassed smile.

  The woman sighed and turned toward Cheyenne. “Mornin’.” Her strong, hearty voice held the warmth and spice of hot apple cider. “Heard you’d moved in here. I’m Bertie Meyer, this here’s my husband, Red and the one with the teeth is Mildred.” She pointed to the goat.

  Cheyenne blinked at Mildred. The animal blinked back.

  “Don’t worry, she don’t butt no more,” Bertie assured her. “Used to, but I broke her of it. Told her I’d trade her off for one of the ranch racing pigs.”

  Cheyenne groaned inwardly. Racing pigs and pet goats. If she had any sense, she’d load all her things back and get out of here. She could go stay with her aunt Sarah in Sikeston. Nobody would visit her there. Or she could just buy a tent, drive to the nearest park and camp out for the next few years. Come to think of it, New York City probably wasn’t as populated as Hideaway.

  She realized that her visitors were watching her expectantly. “My name’s Cheyenne Allison.” She stepped onto the porch as she glanced at the goat. Mildred?

  Red took an unsteady step up one of the concrete steps, tottered on the edge until Cheyenne was sure he would fall backward, then gained his balance and found his smile once more. “We’re Red and Bertie Meyer. What’s your name?”

  “She told you, silly goose!” Bertie shouted at her husband. “Name’s Cheyenne!”

  “Hmph. You mean she’s too shy to tell us her name?” he shouted back.

  Bertie shook her head at Cheyenne. “Don’t mind him, he’s deaf as a flowerpot. We just came over to see if you needed any help settling in. This is a good ol’ house, in spite of what some thinks. Knew this place’d sell someday. You and your husband planning to farm it?”

  “Not at this point.” Why bother to explain the whole situation?

  “Knew the Jarvises. They lived here until a couple of years ago, did a little farming.”

  While Bertie talked, Mildred stepped daintily up onto the porch and sniffed Cheyenne’s leg. She darted a glance down at the goat, who gazed up at her with an air of innocence, then took the leg of her jeans in her mouth and tugged. No one else seemed to notice.

  “Tell her about the Jarvises,
” Red instructed his wife.

  Bertie grimaced and shook her head conspiratorially at Cheyenne. “Okay, Red, I will!” She lowered her voice. “It helps to humor him. He gets mad if he thinks you’re ignoring him. Lizzie Barlow called me this morning to warn me they saw lights out here last night, and that there was probably vandals messing up the place.”

  Cheyenne tugged the hem of her jeans out of Mildred’s mouth. “Lizzie?”

  “Austin Barlow’s mother. He’s the mayor of Hideaway. Lizzie hears everything that goes on around here.” Bertie snorted. “You have to watch her. Sometimes she gets ahead of herself. Not that she likes to pass judgment on people, but…well…any ways, don’t tell her anything you don’t want the whole town to know. Would you listen to me? Now I’m doing it. Anyways, around here, everybody knows everybody else’s business. You’ll be needing a cat.”

  Mildred took another tug at Cheyenne’s jeans, and Cheyenne jerked back. “A cat?”

  “For mice, unless you want to share a bed with ’em.”

  Cheyenne nudged the goat out from between her legs.

  “Our cat’s a good mouser, and you’re in luck. We’ve got some almost grown kittens that’ll do you fine. I’ll bring one over.”

  “No, thanks, I don’t need a cat.”

  Bertie blinked up at her.

  “I mean…I’m not moved in yet.” Cheyenne hesitated, looking at the three expectant faces. “I’m only here temporarily. I won’t be staying.”

  Bertie’s shoulders drooped slightly. “Don’t you worry, those cats’ll be with us awhile. No hurry on that.” She turned to Red. “Guess we’d better be going. We got the goats to milk yet this morning, and I need to work in the garden this afternoon.” She patted Mildred’s behind and nudged her off the porch, then herded Red along behind the goat.

  Red nodded smilingly at Cheyenne again. “Nice to meet you, young lady. You come and see us real soon.” He turned to his wife as he stepped to the ground. “I bet she could use one of those kittens for the mice around here.”

  Bertie chuckled. “I bet she could, too.” She turned to Cheyenne and said, “If you need us for anything, we’re the next house on the road south from your gate.”

  As they strolled back toward the gate, Cheyenne called out, “Why don’t I drive you there?”

  “Thanks, but Mildred wouldn’t appreciate us cuttin’ her walk short,” Bertie called over her shoulder as they continued down to the rocky driveway.

  Cheyenne chided herself for her lack of hospitality. They were just two harmless senior citizens…and a goat who liked to chew on pant legs.

  She went down the steps and strolled around the yard, surveying the place that would be her home for the next few weeks…months?

  Seven cedar trees congregated at the center of a grassy knoll twenty-some yards south of the house. New leaves sprinkled bright green across the tops of the otherwise naked gray-and-brown oaks in a forest that formed a natural barrier between this property and the rest of the world, except for the shoreline. Jonquils bloomed in splashes of yellow where the woods met fields.

  The house sat on the crest of a hill that overlooked Table Rock Lake, and across the lake she saw a big red barn. The boys’ ranch, no doubt.

  Judging by the position and lack of warmth of the sun, it was probably about six or seven o’clock in the morning, but Cheyenne had no way of knowing. She had purposely left all clocks and watches back in her apartment. Someday, perhaps, she would rejoin the human race, but now she wanted to forget.

  Behind the house she found a small barn within a fenced corral, with two other outbuildings, apparently in good condition. One outbuilding was the well house, built of whitewashed blocks. The other looked like a chicken shed.

  Chickens…mousing cats…milk goats. She’d never lived on a farm, though she’d often thought it might be interesting.

  So far, she could definitely call this experience interesting.

  Before she stayed here another day, she would need some supplies. Maybe Hideaway, small as it was, would carry what she needed. She’d finish unloading the car, then take a short drive to town.

  Dane loved the smell of freshly cooked bacon, even if it was poison to arteries. He especially got a craving for it on Monday mornings, when he had a whole week of work to face. This morning, Cook had also made biscuits, fried eggs and potatoes with onions, and whipped up a batch of cream gravy that could tempt a man to sin.

  Snatching a strip of bacon from the platter on the warming tray, Dane nodded good-morning to Cook. “Where’s your kitchen help this morning?”

  “I sent him to town.” Cook grabbed an oven mitt and opened the oven door. “Our hens are getting a little carried away lately, and they were low on eggs at the store.”

  Dane paused with the bacon halfway to his mouth. He checked the schedule on the side of the refrigerator. Gavin Farmer.

  “How long ago did he leave?”

  Cook stirred the potatoes and onions, then peered at Dane over the rims of his reading glasses. “About thirty minutes ago. Something wrong?”

  “I hope not. It doesn’t take that long to go over and back.” The dock was barely a block from the store. After the hullabaloo this weekend…but searching for problems never did anybody any good. Dane crunched the bacon.

  “You know how Blaze likes to hang around and shoot the breeze with ol’ Cecil when there’s time,” Cook said. “He got the milking done early and already had the potatoes shredded when I got down here. He was just underfoot, driving me nuts. I figured—”

  “It’s okay,” Dane said. “He’ll be back anytime, I’m sure.” He strolled to the back door and peered out the window.

  “You worry about that kid too much,” Cook said, stepping up behind him.

  “And you don’t?”

  “He’s a piece of work, all right. Charmer. He got Bertie Meyer to bake him a batch of her chocolate black-walnut cookies last week, then he traded half of them to Willy to do his chores one morning so he could sleep in.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t get back soon, he’s going to be eating the rest of them for breakfast. We’re not waiting around if he’s late.”

  Brightly colored houses graced the narrow, roughly paved road into Hideaway. The peridot green of budding springtime gave the morning a crisp, fresh feel, the multitude of pink-and-white dogwood trees providing a splash of elegance to a progression of postage-stamp-size yards. Larger, more elegant brick and stone homes graced the cliff line across the lake. Other houses were set deeply into the hillsides above the road.

  As Cheyenne entered Hideaway proper, she realized that the whole community was built on a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by Table Rock Lake, with docks situated along the shore the way parking lots were situated within the vicinity of retail shops back home in Columbia. The downtown area of Hideaway, which at first appeared to be a one-block-long succession of brick-front shops, was actually an inverted town square, with shops along a four-square block that faced a street encompassing them. It seemed the inhabitants of Hideaway traveled via boat as often as they did by automobile in this town that focused itself along the shore.

  Cheyenne drove around the large square, three sides of which overlooked the lake that was glittering in the sun. A substantial community boat dock extended well out into the lake, providing slips for perhaps twenty-five vessels, and docking space for at least twenty more. A total of six boats occupied slips. A canoe was parked onshore. This place must really rock in the summertime.

  The view across the lake made her catch her breath. The morning sunlight was reflected from the cliffs in splashes of red and orange, bordered by green and inset by yellow jonquils. She knew from casual research that Table Rock Lake squiggled across this part of the state from Branson to the Missouri-Arkansas border. Somehow, the squiggles on the page didn’t do justice to the reality.

  Before she realized it, she had driven through town and found herself approaching the bed-and-breakfast Dane had mentioned to her last night
. She turned the car around in front of a bright-yellow gazebo and was headed back toward the brick-face street square when she caught a glimpse of movement from the near end of the community dock.

  Two young men stood facing each other on the grassy shore, arms stiff, bodies radiating the tension of apparent conflict. One of them had dark skin and dreadlocks. As Cheyenne drew closer, she recognized Gavin Farmer. His forehead gleamed with bright-red blood.

  She stomped on the brake and pulled to the edge of the pavement, then shoved the gearshift into park as the two young men tangled—or rather, the blond-haired kid shoved Gavin toward the dock. Gavin didn’t retaliate.

  Cheyenne got out of the car and ran down the grassy slope. “What’s going on down here? Stop it!”

  The blonde glared over his shoulder at her. “This is none of your business, get back!”

  Gavin stepped away from him. “Look, I don’t want to fight you, I just want to get to my boat and—”

  “You just want to find your next victim, but it ain’t gonna happen.” The kid rounded on him again, shoving him toward the water, an angry red suffusing his face. “How many people you gonna hurt around here before they haul you off and lock you up?” His foot shot forward and hit Gavin in the side of the knee. “It’s stoppin’, right here, right now.”

  “Look,” Cheyenne said, reaching for the bully’s arm, “this isn’t going to settle any—”

  The kid drew his arm back. Hard. The force of his movement shoved his elbow into Cheyenne’s eye socket and the pain of a thousand needles shot through her head. The sky spun to black as she felt herself hitting the ground on her back, the breath forced from her lungs.

  Shouting male voices surrounded her. “You’re a real loser, Short. You know that, don’t you? You think you can beat up on a helpless woman just because she gets in your way?”

  “I didn’t do it on pur—”

  “Get away from her!” There was a scuffle of feet. “You’re just a bully, you’re not so big and brave—”

  “I don’t set a stranger’s boat on fire, or shoot cats.”