Hideaway

by Hannah Alexander

  “And sending me a stewing hen and those delicious eggs?” From the corner of her eye she saw him glance at her.

  “You don’t like to talk about yourself, do you?” he asked.

  She held her hand over the side of the boat and felt the cold spray on her skin. “I’m on a long vacation—leave of absence, forced on me by my director.” Had she suddenly developed verbal diarrhea? Being compelled to take leave was humiliating enough, but to recite the whole mess to the first inquisitive stranger—

  “Vacation from where?” he asked.

  “My job.”

  A short silence. “You don’t have to tell me what that is, of course.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She knew she was making too big a deal about this, but her privacy had long ago become a matter of principle. Why did everybody have to know everybody’s personal business?

  “But if you don’t, someone else will.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve made a habit of not telling people what I do for a living because they tend to prejudge.” And especially now, she’d just as soon forget everything.

  “Oh.” Heavy silence. “That’s fine. There’s no shame in making an honest living.”

  “I’m not ashamed of what I do.” This was ridiculous. “I’m a physician. I work in an emergency department in Columbia.”

  He gave a low whistle. “A doctor. Why are you hesitant about telling people your profession?”

  “I guess because I’m a private person.”

  “Shy?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “It’s difficult to remain shy when you’re forced to examine two or three naked strangers every shift.”

  “I guess it would be. I have a friend who is a surgeon in Springfield. He never tells anyone what he does for a living because he was once sued for pitching a ball during a softball game at a company barbecue.”

  Ick. Lawsuits. Another uncomfortable subject. “How could he be sued for that?”

  “A woman wandered out onto the field while the ball was still in play. She was struck by the ball and injured.”

  “And since he was presumed to have deep pockets, he was sued.” It figured.

  “My friend told me he mentally places people into one of three categories when he meets them,” Dane said. “Some people automatically take for granted he’s a rich doctor who thinks he’s God, and they resent him. He never bothers to tell them about his five adopted children, or the money he gives for college scholarships every year. He’s sponsoring one of my boys.”

  “Other people go overboard in the opposite direction,” Cheyenne said. “Being worshiped is just as uncomfortable.”

  “But there’s that third category, where future friends are waiting. Speaking of the future, if you happen to know any physicians who are interested in a very solo practice, there’s a great opportunity in Hideaway. We’re also looking for a pharmacist and a nurse. For a tiny town, we have a lot of retirees who could use a pharmacy nearby, and for that we need a doctor.”

  “That sounds like a good plan. Is Austin Barlow the one doing that?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve become an irritant to Austin on that issue right now.”

  “You mean he doesn’t want a doctor in town?” she asked, studying him.

  His perceptive green eyes returned the inspection as he shook his head, his silvery-blond hair tufting out in the wind. “I think he’s just resentful because it was my idea.”

  “How long has he been mayor?” she asked.

  “A full term. He’s running for reelection this year.”

  “Is anyone running against him?”

  “Just me.”

  She approved. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t be here that long. Now she understood why she’d sensed the tension between the two men the other day, and why Austin had been quick to warn her about the dangers of the ranch. Her opinion of the man dropped a notch.

  Dane didn’t take the time to chat when they encountered Jonathan Bruner at the dock, but promised him a steak dinner in the near future.

  He was becoming more and more impressed by Dr. Cheyenne Allison as he got to know her better, although he reminded himself that she was only a temporary resident. Still, it struck him as a little too coincidental that she just happened to show up in the community in time to treat her first two patients….

  Oops. Stop it, Dane. God will answer those prayers in His time, not yours.

  “So tell me why Austin Barlow is so antagonistic toward you,” she requested as they sped beneath the bridge toward home.

  “You mean other than the fact I’m running against him for mayor? He blames me, indirectly, for the death of his wife.”

  For several seconds, the only sound he heard was the powerful purr of the Mystique’s motor.

  “How?” she asked.

  He negotiated a narrow spot between two bass boats. “Seven years ago, one of my boys, Bruce, had more problems than I realized—he slipped through the screening system for the ranch, and I didn’t pick up on the problem for several weeks. Back at that time, Austin’s wife, Linea, came out to cook for us on weekends as a ministry of the church, and Bruce developed a crush on her. She confided in me about it, and I advised her to stop coming for a while. Our problem boy found out about it and flew into a rage. He ran over me with a tractor out in the field when we were hauling hay.”

  “I’d say he was dangerous.”

  “I ended up in the hospital. The same day, Ramsay found his mother dead from a head injury.”

  There was a gasp. “Bruce?”

  “Nobody could ever prove how it happened, but Austin blamed Bruce and, consequently, me, for her death.”

  “So he’s bitter.”

  “Very.”

  “Do you think Bruce killed Linea?”

  “No.”

  “If Bruce was capable of running you over with a tractor, why don’t you think he would have hurt Linea?”

  “Because with me, he was in one of his rages. It was a blind attack, and he hadn’t yet learned how to handle anger. Bruce’s rages didn’t last long, and it wouldn’t have been sustained long enough for him to cross the lake, attack Linea at home, then return home to be available for the sheriff to take him into custody. It couldn’t have happened.”

  “Then what did?”

  “I’ve prayed for years to know the answer to that question. My boys have suffered from community suspicion ever since.”

  “What happened to Bruce?”

  “He was removed from the ranch.”

  “Did he go to jail? Juvenile detention?”

  “Last I heard, he’d joined the Coast Guard.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I didn’t press charges, and he was cleared of any other involvement. Linea’s death was determined to be an accident. I tried to get Bruce into counseling, but he turned eighteen soon after the incident.”

  “If he was cleared, why did Austin continue to blame him?”

  “Austin doesn’t have a high opinion of the law enforcement around here. I think for a long time he felt the need to blame someone, and it just became a habit for him.”

  “And so now Blaze is being scapegoated over something that happened seven years ago. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  They rounded a bend, and the first tiny island near home came into view. “A lot about life seems unfair. I’m trying to learn patience to wait for the final outcome.”

  Cheyenne discovered a whole new vantage point of Hideaway as Dane pulled up to the Meyers’ dock and helped her ashore. Sheltered as she was in the cove, she hadn’t seen the number of boats that belonged to the locals. Hideaway was definitely a water-based community.

  Since she hadn’t realized Dane would bring her directly here via boat, she’d left her first-aid kit at home, and she sent him to retrieve it.

  Bertie was waiting at the back door when Cheyenne walked up the neatly mowed lawn to the house. A few strands of gray hair fell into board-straight rebellion across h
er worry-lined forehead, as if she hadn’t been able to find time to comb them, and couldn’t have cared less.

  “I thought you said you was driving into town this morning.” Bertie held the door open and ushered Cheyenne into the house.

  “I didn’t say I was driving.”

  “Have you had anything besides that black-walnut cake for breakfast?”

  Cheyenne was trying hard to forget about the cake. “That was plenty for me, Bertie. Is Red taking it easy?”

  “Sure is. He tried to go out and milk this morning, and I told him if he tried to go back out that door, I was going to lock him up in the smokehouse.”

  “Good.” Cheyenne opened the package containing the Augmentin antibiotic. “This is potent stuff, and I think it’ll work, but you need to make sure he takes it as regularly as possible—twice a day, starting right now. As soon as Dane returns with my medical kit, I’ll check that leg again and make sure nothing has changed.”

  “Changed? You ain’t even been gone an hour, what could’ve changed? Besides, I’ve made him yank his pants off and climb in bed, and I took his shoes and put them in the barn.”

  When Dane returned, Cheyenne checked Red, gave Bertie further instructions on the medication and promised to check back the next day. Dane was right, this town needed a doctor—preferably one who made house calls.

  After Dane made sure Red was going to be okay, he went to the barn to do the milking for Bertie, while Bertie and Cheyenne left Red in bed on the honor system and walked together out the back door.

  “I guess you know you’re an answer to prayer for us,” Bertie said.

  Cheyenne didn’t reply. Talk like that always made her uncomfortable.

  “Not just our prayers, either,” Bertie continued as they strolled into the beautiful spring morning. “Look what you did for Blaze, what with him bleeding all over hisself and everybody else. Any other time, he might’ve bled half out before—”

  “Blaze would have been fine. He had medication to treat himself.”

  “And no telling what would’ve happened to Red if you hadn’t been around this morning. Did you ever think of living out in a small town like this? Away from all the traffic and madness of the city?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought about it, but it would be difficult to do.”

  “Why’s that? You got family up there in Columbia?”

  Cheyenne closed her eyes against a flash of pain, devastating in its suddenness.

  “Oh, honey, don’t tell me you’re going through a divorce. I’m sorry I said anything. My best friend, Edith Potts, always tells me I ask too many questions, but it ain’t because I like to spread gossip or—”

  “It’s okay, Bertie. I’m not going through a divorce, I’ve never been married. My sister was killed in an automobile accident recently, and I’ve had to take some time off from work to recover.”

  Bertie led the way to the front porch, and the two women sat on the porch swing.

  “It’s hard to lose a loved one.” Bertie said. She was silent for a moment. “Red and I lost a son, back years ago.”

  “How many years?” Cheyenne asked gently.

  “Forty. He was only seven. A mule kicked him in the head one morning when we were getting ready to plow. We tried to get him to a doctor, but he died before we reached town.”

  “Oh, Bertie, I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded. “Took a long time for that to heal, especially when we couldn’t have any more little ones. We couldn’t just wish it all away and ignore the pain. Life don’t work like that.” She eyed Cheyenne. “Can’t run away from it, neither, but I guess you already found that out. You gotta carry on.”

  Cheyenne was carrying on. Wasn’t she? “Did you ever have dreams about him? Your son, I mean.”

  “Red did. They weren’t bad dreams, but they really got to him. Still, I wished I could’ve dreamed about him. You know, it might not make much sense to some folks around here, but that ranch of Dane’s did something for us, even after all those years of living without kids. Seemed to us those boys needed some love, and it also seemed Dane was asking us to help give it.”

  “When did he take over the boys’ ranch?”

  Bertie snorted. “What d’you mean, take it over? He started it. That Dane’s a smart man, I’ll tell you. He’s the one started the general store, borrowing money from his folks up in Springfield to fix the old place up. Made a killing in the summertime, when vacationers overran the place. Austin Barlow sold the old farm to Dane for a good price. Dane had enough money to pay his folks back for the store just after one summer, then started catering to the locals for winter trade. Got a lot of it, too, because it’s such a far drive to any other town. And he kept his prices reasonable. He had a pretty young wife at the time, too, and he was willing to spend some money on her.”

  “Dane was married?”

  “That’s right. Everybody could tell he adored Etta, but when they got here, they’d been married five years, with no kids. They started taking in foster boys, but things didn’t work out. I could tell she was down in the mouth about something. When she left, Dane blamed himself.”

  “Didn’t he go after her?”

  “Sure he did. But she didn’t come back with him. He even offered to leave Hideaway and move back to the city. She made it clear it was him she didn’t want. Broke his heart.”

  Poor Dane. And poor Austin. Was there anyone in Hideaway who hadn’t suffered some kind of tragedy?

  “Don’t feel sorry for Dane, though. He fell in love with the place and the kids as soon as they got here. He’s done a great job. Only one boy went bad, but Dane’s heard about it ever since.” Bertie glanced toward the sun. “Guess I need to be fixing some lunch. You hungry?”

  “No, I need to be leaving, Bertie, unless you want me to help with the…uh…milking.” Please, no.

  Bertie got up quickly. “Dane can handle that fine. Now, Cheyenne, I know you say you can’t take money for all this, but that antibiotic had to cost you something. I need to pay you back.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve already done so much for me.”

  “Well, I tell you what, there’s one thing more I can do for you.” Bertie went into the house, allowing the screen door to slap shut behind her. A few seconds later, she came back out carrying a pie covered in tinfoil. “Here you go, Dr. Allison. It’s all yours. My very own, prizewinning black-walnut pie.”

  Cheyenne hoped her face displayed a delight she was most definitely not feeling.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cheyenne awoke the next Friday morning to the sound of distant thunder and the feel of a rough tongue on her toes, which were sticking out from under her comforter.

  “Stop it, Blue. Let me sleep.” She turned over, trying to keep her eyes closed, but morning light filtered in through the window, and thunder reached her ears once more. She’d have to feed the hen now if she wanted to beat the rain.

  She tossed the covers back, climbed sleepily out of bed and fumbled for her jeans.

  An eerie moan halted her. She pivoted to look at Blue, who was staring at the window with narrowed eyes. She followed the kitten’s line of vision and saw a face staring at her from the front porch.

  A goat.

  She rushed to pull on her jeans and tugged down the hem of her nightshirt. The appearance of a goat usually heralded the arrival of Red or Bertie, but this time no one appeared. The goat wasn’t Mildred, it was a buck.

  Cheyenne pattered barefoot through the living room and jerked the door open. There stood the goat, looking up as if he expected her to invite him in.

  “Off the porch,” she said as she stepped out. She shivered when her feet touched the cold concrete.

  The screen door slapped shut behind her.

  “Go on, go back home,” she said, shooing at the buck with her hands.

  The sound of bleating reached her ears from past the north end of the porch. She had just turned to investigate when the blurred shape of her first visitor rushed toward her, but
ting her in the side so hard she stumbled against the wooden column to the left of the steps.

  She gaped at the brown-and-tan goat and took note of the sharp horns, his nervously twitching tail. “Get out!”

  The buck lowered his head again. Before he could make another lunge at her, she jumped to the top of the three-foot-high concrete porch ledge.

  The goat’s horns snapped against the concrete, barely six inches beneath her feet.

  A soft bleat drew her attention to the yard. Five female goats stood munching contentedly on the blooming forsythia.

  “Stop that!” Cheyenne cried. She bent forward, trying to wave them away.

  Too late, she heard the clatter of hooves and received a sharp, painful nudge in her posterior. She went flying over the edge, face first into the mud at the feet of the trespassers. Five curious goat faces peered at her, then lost interest and returned to the forsythia.

  The buck on the porch leaped onto the ledge for which he had battled, bleating in triumph.

  Five more of the little varmints munched on the honeysuckle in the corner of the yard.

  “Get out of here, you little monsters!” Waving her arms wildly in the air, Cheyenne shrieked, running from one group to the next, slapping them sharply in the sides. “You’re ruining the whole yard!”

  Running amid the now panicking, bleating animals, she stumbled into a hidden hole in the grass and twisted her left ankle. The pain shot up her leg.

  The buck advanced toward her, head lowered. She leaped to her feet and hobbled toward the porch, wincing as a band of white heat surrounded her ankle.

  Blue jumped to the center of the screen of the door, digging into the screen with his claws from inside the house.

  “Move, Blue! Get out of the way!” She grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door wouldn’t open.

  With a sinking heart, she realized the hook latch had fastened when the door slammed behind her. The buck clattered up the steps and butted her viciously in the thigh before she could move. She staggered against the house as pain radiated through her side.

  “Get away from me!” She hobbled to the end of the porch and climbed to the ledge.