Hideaway. Hannah Alexander
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of her scrubs. “Jim had a reason to tell me. In the first place, he knew we were friends, but he also knew I had just the thing you need right now.” She pulled out a key on a plastic ring shaped like a daisy.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve told you about our place on Table Rock Lake, haven’t I?”
“Barely.”
“It’s a farm near the Missouri-Arkansas border. It’s on sixty-five acres, about a mile drive from this tiny town called Hideaway. Closer by boat. Isn’t that the perfect place to spend some downtime?”
“On a farm? Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Ardis swung the key back and forth. “Just take it and listen to me, Chey. The place is in the middle of nowhere. It belonged to my husband’s aunt before she died. We were down there last year, but we haven’t had a chance to get back. It needs a woman’s touch, but I know you helped Susan some when she was starting her business.”
“I know how to paint under supervision. That’s it.” But Cheyenne took the key.
“There’s some basic furniture,” Ardis continued, “and I could call and have the electricity turned on if you want. I’m not promising it would be connected over the weekend, but definitely by Monday. It’s on well water, and the pump works. The heat is electric. There’s no telephone, no television.”
“You’re saying I should leave Columbia.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” Ardis sat back, eyes hiding behind lenses that reflected the overhead light. “You’ve buried yourself here too long, even before the accident. What with the nightmares, you need a complete change of scene. Hideaway would be quite a change.”
Cheyenne couldn’t believe she was actually considering it.
“You’re in a rut here,” Ardis continued. “And the rut keeps getting deeper, especially now. Down at our place, there’s a dock on the water just right for fishing. You could get involved in some of the community activities, or you could hole up and read, listen to audio books, take a trip or two into Branson. The drive’s about forty minutes over winding roads. You could be in Springfield in about an hour and a half, maybe less if they’ve got the new road completed.”
Cheyenne studied the faded green-and-yellow plastic key chain, turned it over in her hand. “This place is close to town?”
“If you want to call Hideaway a town. There’s a general store open all year long, and I heard they’ve got a nice new boat dock, which should bring in some tourist trade. There’s a mechanic and a café, a school and a beautiful little bed-and-breakfast down by the water.” Ardis paused, fingers linked around her knees. “What do you think?”
The thought appealed. Very much. Cheyenne had to admit that the name “Hideaway” drew her. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to hide away.
Dane found Blaze sitting on the front porch steps, tossing pebbles over the wooden railing.
Blaze looked up at him. “Somebody’s wicked around here.”
Dane sat beside him. “That kind of thing has happened before.”
“They killed an animal before?”
“No. They’ve broken into the general store, damaged a few vegetables, knocked some boxes off the shelves.”
“When did that happen?”
“Couple years ago.”
“Anything else?”
“A tire slashed on our pickup, a hole in the canoe, maybe a year ago.”
“You make somebody mad?”
“Maybe a few people,” Dane said.
“Just because you had this ranch with all us delinquents?”
“You aren’t delinquents.”
“The mayor thinks so.”
“How did you guess?”
“Not hard, once you learn to read the signs. You know, like trying to get your ranch hands in trouble.”
“Speaking of reading, has yours progressed lately?” Dane asked.
Blaze tossed another pebble, shaking his head. “We’re learning about the minerals and stuff in science right now. I can look at a rock across the room and tell the teacher all about its composition, but that don’t work. He wants me to write it down.”
Dane selected one of the pebbles Blaze had accumulated for tossing, held it up to the sunlight. “This one’s calcite.”
Blaze picked up two others. “This here’s dolomite, and this one’s chert.”
Dane nodded.
“You show me a globe of the world, and I’ll tell you pretty much every country.”
“Then why are you flunking geography?”
Blaze tossed another pebble and didn’t reply.
“I know a retired teacher over in Cape Fair who worked with children with learning disabilities.”
Silence again.
“I’d like you to meet with him,” Dane said.
“You don’t think my dad tried all that, over and over again?”
Dane leaned back against the railing, frustrated.
Blaze shook his head. “It’s like my brain puts up this invisible armor every time I try.”
“Then we need to find a way past that armor.”
“So the mayor thinks I blazed the boat and killed the cat?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You changed it first. We were talking about the fire, remember? About how the mayor thinks I did it. I think he called me the black kid with the stupid mop-head hairdo.”
Dane winced. There was nothing wrong with Blaze’s hearing. “I think you made a poor choice for a nickname.”
“You know what’s weird? Ramsay Barlow and I are buddies at school. I guess his daddy don’t like it.”
“You let me handle his daddy.”
Cheyenne wrote a final check, signed it, then slid it into the envelope addressed to the local rescue mission. It was her pet project—and the reason she still lived on the third floor of an apartment building without an elevator, still drove a four-year-old Lumina sedan.
All her bills were paid up for the next three months. The mission would be supplied with food. She had ample money in her debit card account.
Everything would be okay.
Then why did she feel so frightened?
She picked up the telephone and hit speed dial. She got a recording.
“Hello, Mom and Dad? It’s Chey. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be at my apartment for a few weeks.” Could she do this? Just take off? “I’ll call you later with a contact number, in case you need me for anything. I love you.”
As she hung up, she saw that her hand was shaking.
Maybe she did need this time off.
The nightmares had haunted her sleep for so long, she had trouble closing her eyes at night. She seldom even slept here anymore, preferring the cramped quarters of the call room, with the overhead speakers blaring every so often, just to remind her she wasn’t alone.
Strange that this apartment triggered the dreams more often than the actual place where Susan had died. But Susan’s signature was stamped all over this place—her special, decorative touches, her color schemes