Finding Her Way Home. Linda Goodnight
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out to be every bit as picturesque as the river bridge, a ball of uncertainty had knotted in her belly. Before last year, she’d never been a worrier, but now paranoia was her constant companion. Had she traveled far enough to outrun her notoriety? Would she find work? Would strangers look at her and know? Would she find someone to take the puppies that had curled into each other and gone fast asleep, their warm smell filling up the car?
As she drove onto the main thoroughfare—a long street flanked on either side by restored nineteenth-century buildings—she was drawn by a cul-de-sac at the far end where the pavement circled a small parklike area. This became her destination. On one side of the park sat a stately old, buff-stone municipal building with a dozen steps to the top. The police station couldn’t be far. Someone here could take custody of the pups.
As she parked and exited the Honda, the box of pups in her arms, she scanned the area. Out of long habit and expert training her brain clicked photos and made an assessment. Little stone pathways led into the middle of the town square to a rustic wishing well. Evergreens, neatly clipped grassy areas and park benches interspersed with long planting boxes made of more stone. From them, squatty pink flowers waved in the soft spring breeze and gave off a pleasant spicy scent.
Nice. Pretty. Like a postcard home.
She sighed. Home was no longer an option.
Up the tree-lined street people moved in and out of the vintage shops, stopping to chat now and then. Car doors slammed. Engines cranked. A blue Buick curved around the circle and parked in front of the Redemption Register, a newspaper office.
The town looked peaceful, law-abiding and safe. The tight muscles in her shoulders relaxed. She started up the sidewalk past a giant green trash receptacle.
“Grab that cartridge, G.I.” The booming male voice seemed to come out of nowhere.
Every hair on the back of Cheyenne’s neck stood at attention. She whirled and slapped at her side before remembering that her weapon no longer rode there. Frantically searching for the source of the unexpected voice, she spotted a man’s head, wearing an old army cap, as he popped up from inside the Dumpster. Another head, this one wearing a headlamp, popped up beside him. The two tossed out several items and then followed them over the side of the receptacle.
Cheyenne stared in stunned amazement, the shiver of fear turning to incredulity. Two grungy old bums Dumpster-diving right here in the middle of town? Where were the cops? Wasn’t diving in trash cans against the law in Redemption?
Her frozen stare must have caught the divers’ attention. Both studied her with open interest, neither looking the least bit guilty of committing a crime.
“Lookie here, Popbottle,” the man with the green army cap said. “We got us a newcomer.”
The Popbottle character reached up to flick off his headlamp, his long, skinny neck the likely source of his nickname. “Then I suggest we say hello and find out what’s in the box.”
The men started forward and Cheyenne unwittingly took a step back, pulse jittery, before she caught herself and stopped. She refused to be afraid of two old men. They were in broad daylight, not in a dark garage with no one near to help.
She gave them her best hard-eyed cop stare. Neither appeared the least bit intimidated.
In amazingly proper English the headlamp man said, “Hello, my dear. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ulysses E. Jones, though my compatriots refer to me as Popbottle. And this—” he made a sweeping gesture with a gloved hand “—is my business partner, G. I. Jack. How may we address you?”
Cheyenne opened and closed her mouth twice before deciding that truth was best, though the sentiment had not served her particularly well in the past year. If she stayed in this town, people would ask her name.
“Cheyenne Rhodes.” If she sounded defensive, she couldn’t help it.
Neither man so much as blinked. A huge relief, though she didn’t relax her guard.
The one called Popbottle said, “A pleasure, I’m sure, Miss Cheyenne Rhodes. Pardon my directness but you’re looking a bit flummoxed. Can we be of service?”
Only if you can turn back time, she thought bitterly.
“Me and Popbottle knows everyone in Redemption,” the other one said. “Just ask away. Who you looking for?”
Well, she might as well ask them. In her previous job, street people were often the most useful resource. “I’m trying to find the local police department or an animal control officer.”
“Animal control?” The two men edged closer, attention focused on the scratching noise coming from the cardboard box. “What you got there?”
G. I. Jack, his army jacket billowing open, leaned forward. Cheyenne prepared to be overwhelmed by body odor, but the only smell coming from the old bum was that of the French fry container she spied in his shirt pocket. The puppies noticed, too, and tried to crawl up the side of the box, whimpering.
“Lookie here, Popbottle, she’s got puppies.” Childlike delight filled the man’s voice. “Two of ’em.”
Popbottle Jones peered into the box as well, one hand holding his miner’s lamp in place.
“I found them on the side of the road outside town. Is there an animal shelter here?”
“Yep,” G. I. Jack said, brow puckered. “But you can’t take ’em there.”
“Why not?”
The old man wagged his grizzled gray head back and forth and then made a cutting motion across his throat. “Death row.”
“Oh.” Distress filled her. “Too bad, but I can’t keep them.”
She knew she sounded heartless and she really wasn’t. However, she was a realist. There were, sadly, far too many irresponsible dog owners who allowed dogs to breed and then dumped the pups. The end result was not pretty.
“Why not?” G. I. Jack drew back, his dark, weathered face insulted. “You got something against innocent little dogs? ’Tweren’t their fault someone dumped them like…” He paused, blinking as if baffled for a comparison. “Well, like stray pups.”
“I’m in the process of moving,” she said, a little too sharply. “I have no place for dogs.” And she didn’t want two old bums making 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