Bums, no.”
“But they were Dumpster-diving.”
His mouth curved. She wasn’t the first to misjudge the two old dudes. “Don’t say that to them. They call their vocation recycling, taking care of the environment, going green.”
Her full bottom lip twitched and Trace felt an unexpected jolt of satisfaction. She’d be a knockout if she eased up and smiled more.
“Where I come from, Dumpster-diving is illegal.”
Trace gave her his best smile, wanting inexplicably to warm up this frosty lady. “And where exactly do you come from?”
Any hint of friendless faded so fast Trace thought he’d imagined it. “What about the puppies? Can you take them?”
Trace reached into the box and withdrew a fat, wiggling body, trying to decide exactly why this woman intrigued him. It was pretty obvious she didn’t like either men or vets or both. Or maybe she didn’t like anyone at all. A little nudge on the inside told him to play nice. Like G. I. Jack and Popbottle Jones, there could be more to his visitor than met the eye.
“Why don’t you keep them?”
As if annoyed even more by the question, the woman fisted her hands on her hips. “As you noticed, I’m new in town. I have nowhere to take them even if I were inclined to do so.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Not in the least.”
“You don’t like animals?”
“Everyone likes puppies.”
Well, he felt better knowing that. “Where are you planning to stay?”
She took a step back as if the question was too personal. “I don’t know yet. Will the puppies be all right here?”
He could see her genuine concern and again, he felt better. Trace prided himself on his ability to read people and he suspected Miss Hard-as-nails had a marshmallow interior she didn’t want anyone to see. And that intrigued him more. What had happened to this pretty lady to make her so defensive?
“There’s only one motel in town. Widow Wainright’s place. Nothing fancy but clean and quiet and not too pricey. Tell her I sent you. Kitty will fix you up.”
Dark eyes narrowed as if analyzing his motive. “Where would I find this place? If I was interested.”
Oh, she was interested all right. Interested but cautious. The question was, why?
“Over on Charity Lane about five or six blocks off Main.”
An incredulous expression crossed her face. “Charity Lane? Mercy Street. Hope Avenue. Redemption. What is this place? The twilight zone?”
Absently stroking the soft puppy, Trace laughed. “Nothing quite as exciting as that. According to town history, Redemption was founded during the Land Run of 1889 by a gunslinger turned preacher. He started Redemption for souls like him—people who wanted to change their ways and start fresh. The street names are his way of reminding us that everything we need is found in God’s redeeming love.”
His visitor stared at him with a troubled look and Trace thought for a minute he’d said too much. Margo claimed he sounded like a preacher at times and maybe he did. But as he studied the woman standing in his waiting room, he suspected something else. She’d reacted to the town names oddly because they were exactly why she was here. Like so many of the souls who arrived in Redemption, the tough cookie before him was in need.
“I’ll take care of the puppies,” he said softly.
Her stance relaxed the slightest bit. “Thanks.”
“You can come visit them anytime.”
“Oh, no, I—” She shrugged. “Maybe I will. Do you think you can find homes for them? I wouldn’t want them to be—you know.”
Hard shell on the outside, soft as puppy fur on the inside. “Puppies are pretty easy to re-home.”
“Good.” She gave a curt nod and turned as if to leave.
“Wait.” He didn’t know why but he wasn’t ready for her to go.
She glanced over one shoulder before slowly pivoting, expression guarded.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
She hesitated a second before saying, “Cheyenne Rhodes.”
He offered his hand. “Well, Cheyenne Rhodes, welcome to Redemption. I hope you’ll like our little town.”
The guarded expression lingered as she slipped her hand into his. “I hope so, too.”
Trace tried not to react to her skin against his, but her feminine hand was far softer than her expression and far more slender than his work-roughened one. “If I can help you with anything else—”
She pulled her hand away, cynicism firmly back in place. “Only if you know where I can find a job.”
So Tough Girl was sticking around. Nice. “What kind of work do you do?”
Again, her hesitation piqued his curiosity.
“Anything for now.”
“I can always use another hand here in the clinic.” Which was true, though why he’d want to hire an unfriendly helper with a chip on her shoulder was more than he wanted to think about.
She shook her head. Loose black hair swished against the shiny maroon leather of her jacket. “I don’t think so.”
Was it the job that didn’t suit her—or him? “Just a thought. I frequently hire temporaries to help out the full-time staffers. The clinic keeps us all busy.”
“How many?”
“Employees?” At her nod, he said, “Three, right now. So what do you say? Pay’s lousy, working conditions stink—literally—but the staff is friendly, the boss is a great guy, and you can play with the pups anytime.”
She surprised him with a soft laugh. “Bribery.”
He arched an eyebrow, teasing. “I’m a desperate man.”
She tilted her head and studied him, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “Somehow I doubt that. You don’t look the desperate type.”
But he had been once, a truth that made it easy to recognize a fellow desperado.
He pointed a puppy at her. “Be here at nine in the morning and I’ll put you to work. You can bring the doughnuts.”
Dark eyebrows surged upward. “Doughnuts?”
“From the Sugar Shack.”
“Let me guess,” she said wryly. “It’s located on Grace Boulevard.”
Trace
