her feel bad about it. She had enough guilt without adding puppies to the list.
“No one’s blaming you, Miss Cheyenne,” Popbottle Jones said in a conciliatory voice. “Dilemmas such as these occur. Allow me a moment to ponder.” He tapped the edge of the box, his fingers protruding from the ends of tattered gloves. The puppies stretched up toward him, noses in the air. “Ah, yes. Take them over to Doc Bowman’s animal clinic. He’ll know what to do.”
“Yep. He’ll know.” G. I. Jack brightened, his old head bobbing again. Apparently, Popbottle Jones did the thinking and G. I. Jack did the head bobbing. “Last time Petunia ate a pair of socks, Doc fixed her right up. Didn’t he, Popbottle?”
“Indeed he did.”
Cheyenne wasn’t about to ask about Petunia or her predilection for eating socks. Relieved to have a plan of action and eager to get on her way, she asked, “Where would I find this Dr. Bowman?”
Popbottle Jones pointed toward the east. “On the edge of town, about a half mile. Just follow Hope Avenue to Mercy Street.”
It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. She puffed out a dry laugh. She was in a town called Redemption with virtuous street names like Hope and Mercy. Did these people actually believe that stuff?
As she climbed into her car, a tweak of conscience poked at her.
A long time ago, she’d believed in those things, too.
As the newcomer pulled away from the curb, Popbottle Jones rubbed his chin and watched her, knowingly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
G. I. Jack adjusted the bill of his cap, his focus also on the disappearing blue car. “Yep.”
“Miss Cheyenne Rhodes is in trouble.”
“Or runnin’.”
“That’s trouble, G.I.”
“Yep. I’ve known soldiers like that. Walking wounded.” He picked up a gunnysack of scavenged goods and hoisted the day’s finds over one shoulder.
“My thoughts exactly.” Popbottle Jones gave a wise nod and reached for his own sack. “Which means she’s come to exactly the right place.”
Chapter Two
Trace Bowman had never once regretted his decision to become a country veterinarian, but days like today stretched him to his limits. After a midnight house call to a local ranch, the clinic had been hopping with patients all day. Springtime brought puppies and calves and lambing ewes plus all manner of accidents, and as the only vet in town, he saw them all.
“Give her one of these morning and evening and bring her back to get the stitches out in about a week.” He stroked the still drowsy cat who’d had an unfortunate run-in with the radiator fan of her owner’s car. She was lucky to have come out with only a gash on her side.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to keep you here so late. You look done in.”
With a grin, he scraped a weary hand down his face and heard the scratch of unshaved beard. No doubt, he looked worse than his patients. After the midnight emergency at Herman Wagner’s farm, he’d arrived at the clinic in time for the first surgery but not in time for morning ablutions. He’d done little more than scrub up and toss on a lab coat. He probably smelled worse than his patients, too. Without his mom to look after Zoey during those all-nighters, Trace didn’t know what he would do.
“No problem, Mrs. James. That’s what I’m here for. Call me if Precious needs anything else.” His staff had left an hour ago, but that was typical. With his house located next to the clinic, he was frequently the one who left last and locked up.
After Mrs. James’s departure, he made the rounds through the clinic, pausing to grin up at the lopsided sign hanging over the reception desk. Today is the Best Day Ever. He made a point to read the message morning and night as a reminder that each day was whatever he made of it. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. No matter how weary he was or how hectic the workload, he was a blessed man.
“Thanks, Lord,” he murmured and continued his rounds.
Six dogs and three cats were spending the night, but none were critical enough to need his attention again until morning. Out in the dog-run four animals awaited adoption. He was normally successful in finding homes for the strays, mostly because he offered six months of free vet service. The way he looked at it, whatever worked. Euthanasia was not his favorite procedure.
Margo called him a sucker, but his seven-year-old daughter thought he was the biggest hero in America for taking in strays. He’d accept Zoey’s opinion any day of the week, though Margo was a good woman. He liked her. They went to the same church and shared common interests, both being active in Redemption’s civic groups. The trouble with Margo was that she’d started dropping hints lately about moving the relationship to another level, but Trace was not ready to go there. He wanted to be but he wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
From the time Zoey’s mother died, he’d prayed for the Lord to send the right woman into his life. His little girl needed a mother even more than he needed a wife. But so far, his heart refused to cooperate.
As he stuck his hands beneath the faucets and gave them one last warm, soapy scrub before heading home, he heard the front door scrape open. The noise was loud in the quiet, empty clinic, made louder by echoing concrete floors and a door that needed adjustment. A late patient, no doubt. With a sigh and a growling belly, he grabbed a paper towel and headed toward the front of the building.
A woman stood in the waiting room. Trace stopped dead in his tracks and stared, the bottom falling out of his stomach.
Hovering uncertainly in the dim, shadowy light was a young woman in faded jeans, T-shirt and fitted leather jacket. With flowing black hair and a fit, trim build, she looked enough like his late wife to make him dizzy.
He pressed a finger and thumb to eyes gritty from fatigue. On the second blink, the similarities faded. He was tired. That was all. The woman before him had the same build and coloring, but where Pamela’s face was soft and ever smiling, this woman had a solemn-eyed toughness about her.
He tossed the towels at a trash can. “Can I help you?”
Her chin went up, her shoulders square as though she was ready to fight. Her gaze darted around the shadowy clinic before coming back to challenge him. His curiosity was piqued. Why did this pretty stranger need to be defensive? Had he done something he didn’t know about?
“Are you the vet?” The question was almost an accusation. “Dr. Bowman?”
“That’s me.” Trace intentionally relaxed and offered a smile to put the tightly wound woman at ease. “You must be new to Redemption. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
She thrust the box at him. “I found these stray pups on the side of the road.”
Trace lifted an eyebrow. So much for small talk. He accepted the carton and placed it on the reception counter. Blame it on his state of exhaustion, but her attitude was not giving him much desire to cooperate.
“What do you want me to do with them?”
Some of the attitude
