Hideaway. Hannah Alexander
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sleep on the sofa tonight.”
“The babies have been without food at least since Friday night sometime,” Blaze said. “We need to get them fed. Can we keep them in the house tonight?”
“Nope. Barn.”
“Oh, come on, Dane, they don’t need to be alone tonight.”
“They won’t be alone. You know the rule about animals in the house.”
“But we kept the racing pigs in there last week.”
“That’s different. Cook isn’t allergic to pigs.”
Still grumbling, Blaze went to the other room. “Fine, I’ll just get the bag and close the bathroom window.”
Cheyenne picked up one of the kittens that had wandered from its siblings. The kid was right, these kittens needed to be fed soon.
She looked up and studied Dane Gideon’s face more carefully in the dim glow from their flashlights. The hair wasn’t Santa Claus white, it was more silver-blond, and carefully trimmed. Dane’s silhouette was craggy, with intense green eyes, slightly prominent nose and firm chin outlined by the short silver-blond beard.
Gavin’s words finally sank in, and Cheyenne frowned when he reentered the room with the bag. “Racing pigs?”
Dane and Gavin looked at her as if she should know exactly what they were talking about.
“You race pigs?” Had she just stumbled onto the SciFi cable channel?
“Sure, Dane told me they do it at the September festival every year,” Gavin said. “We brought ours into the house when the old sow got cantankerous and started hurting them.”
“And you kept them in the house?”
“Lady, don’t you know nothing about farm life?”
“Apparently not.”
“Blaze,” Dane warned. “You’re in enough trouble already. Count your blessings that I’ve decided not to write you up about tonight. Now let’s leave Cheyenne in peace.”
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.