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But if she was in the call room, that marshmallow they called a bed had been replaced by a…sofa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