Hideaway

by Hannah Alexander

  They arrived at the public dock and parked in one of the few remaining available slips. A crowd had already congregated along the broad lawn that edged the lake, and cars lined the street on both sides. Dane and Willy came walking down from the general store.

  Cheyenne watched Dane approach with mingled emotions of excitement and apprehension. After his first telephone call to her, he had begun to phone regularly, and she had anticipated those conversations, especially at the end of a busy day. It was Dane who had convinced her to apply for a part-time position in the emergency department at Dogwood Springs, where she could pull a few shifts a month to stay afloat financially until her practice in Hideaway picked up. He had even suggested she keep her car parked at the ranch, which would save her a great deal of driving time to and from work, since Dogwood Springs was south of the lake.

  It was also Dane who had found a few generous souls to replace the donations the rescue mission in Columbia were losing with Cheyenne’s pay cut.

  Between her calls to Bertie, and her daily e-mail messages to and from Blaze and the increasingly deep conversations she and Dane shared at the end of their days, Cheyenne had felt more than ever that she was coming home.

  But now, as Dane approached the boat beside Willy—who had let his hair grow longer over the summer—Cheyenne felt suddenly shy. Had those intimate telephone conversations meant more to her than they had to Dane? Did he—as she had once accused him—see her as just another one of his responsibilities, taking the newcomer under his wing so she wouldn’t feel ostracized?

  She caught Dane watching her and smiled. He looked as apprehensive as she felt. She doubted, however, that his thoughts turned to her as often as her thoughts had begun to turn to him. She doubted he dreamed about her at night, or looked forward to their next conversation with as much anticipation.

  She allowed him to help her from the boat while Willy stepped into the boat to unload Bertie’s cache of goodies.

  Cheyenne wrapped her arms around Dane’s neck. “It’s so good to see you!”

  He caught her up against him and held her tightly. His arms were as strong as she remembered, the feel of his short beard against her cheek felt just right. “Did you see the groceries?”

  “I saw them,” she said. “Thank you.” When she arrived last night, the refrigerator had been filled with produce, fresh milk from the ranch, eggs and her favorite bread from the general store. “How did you get into the house?”

  “Bathroom window still needs fixing.”

  She looked up into his smiling forest-green eyes, and knew this was the thoughtful, compassionate man she would want to spend her life with.

  “Okay, you two, make room for the working men,” came another familiar voice, and Cheyenne turned around just in time to see Blaze moving in for his hug.

  “Now,” Blaze said, releasing her, “time for all that smoochy stuff later. We’ve got to get Bertie’s things to her booth. People are already asking about her.”

  Dane, Blaze and Willy carried all of Bertie’s freight to one of the small stalls that had been built at the perimeter of the church lawn for the locals to display their baked items and crafts, from crocheted doilies to walnut people to carved chunks of wood.

  “You bring all the boys over already?” Bertie asked as they carried the last load into the little booth she had reserved in the shade.

  Dane nodded. “Blaze has loaned his whole litter of racing pigs out to the boys, and they’ll be out in back, putting the animals through their paces and talking with the other racers.”

  More visitors arrived via boat, and Dane was called to help set up more booths. Bertie led Cheyenne into the church basement, where the food had been laid out on long tables.

  “Good, nobody else brought black-walnut pie,” Bertie announced as she laid her offering on the table with the rest. “I see they’ve got a lot of breads this year—apple bread, zucchini bread, apricot bread, beer bread. Mmm, just smell that fresh-baked aroma.”

  Cheyenne breathed deeply of the warm, sweet, yeasty smelling air, and walked among the crowd, eyeing the pies—apple, cherry, raspberry, blackberry. In spite of her cheesecake breakfast this morning, she gave in to temptation once more and bought a wedge of raspberry pie.

  “Why, I do believe you’re eating some of my baked goods,” came a friendly voice from behind, and Cheyenne turned to see Richard Cook smiling at her. “How is it?”

  Cheyenne took her first bite of the tart, juicy wedge, and closed her eyes with pleasure. “Delicious.”

  Several women worked behind a makeshift counter, putting out hot rolls, coleslaw, baked beans and barbecued pork.

  Cook took her arm. “You’d be surprised how many people will want their barbecue for breakfast.”

  “So you’re saying that not only do you race pigs here, you barbecue them and eat them, too?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Only the slow ones.”

  Cheyenne decided she wasn’t much of a pork eater, anyway.

  “I hope you won’t miss the races,” Cook said. “Blaze is excited about them, even though he tries not to show it. He asked me if I thought you’d be there to watch.”

  “I will be.”

  “I tell you what, Cheyenne,” he said as he escorted her to a tent beneath two oak trees, “you’re a popular lady around this place. If Blaze isn’t talking about you, Dane is, or Bertie. Half the town’s been calling to see when you’re setting up your office. I don’t think you’ll have any problem keeping busy.”

  In this tent, a local artist painted clown faces on the children. Even white-haired ladies lined up to have tattoos painted on their age-wrinkled faces.

  “They’re setting up the music on the stage,” Cook said. “Bluegrass, I hope, like they play every year.”

  The musical family of singers made themselves comfortable at the bandstand in the center of the broad lawn east of the square. The musicians plucked their banjos and guitars experimentally.

  “I think I’ll tickle the boys and get one of those tattoos,” Cook said. “Want to come?”

  “I’ll wait a few minutes. I think I’ll just mingle.”

  He nodded and headed toward the artist booth.

  “Cheyenne Allison?”

  She turned to see Austin Barlow threading through the crowd toward her, wearing a bright-red shirt and a white hat, with new jeans and high-heeled boots. His son walked beside him, but imitation of his father only went so far. The Western wear was not for him. His wavy auburn hair glinted gold in the sun.

  Austin’s political-campaign smile was in place, but he also seemed genuinely happy to see her. “Our new town doctor.” He reached for her hand and pumped it up and down. “Good to see you, Cheyenne. We’ve missed you since you’ve been gone. Are you here for good?”

  “That’s right, I’m all moved in.” She turned to Ramsay. “I heard you had an entry in the pig races today.”

  “Sure do. I plan on taking the grand prize, but I’ve got some good competition.”

  “You’ll be there for the debate, I trust,” Austin asked her. “Speaking of competition, Dane Gideon seems to have a lot more influence in this town than I do lately. I hear he’s the one who talked you into coming back.”

  “Oh, really? You heard that?”

  “Not that I’m complaining. I’m just glad you’ll be back. What do you say we celebrate your decision and take in that show next week that we never got to take before you left?”

  Cheyenne knew her sudden dismay was obvious in her expression.

  “Or not.” Austin covered the awkwardness with a quick laugh. “A guy can’t be blamed for wanting to spend time with the prettiest lady in the county. Well, I see the musicians waving at me from the stage, so I’d better get.” He tipped his hat to Cheyenne, and strode toward the center of the activity.

  Ramsay turned and walked away without looking at Cheyenne again.

  “Okay, I need to talk to you.”

  Dane turned from the cash register he’d been tending for
the past thirty minutes to see Blaze standing behind him, hands shoved into the pockets of his baggy khakis, face and bare arms glistening with perspiration.

  “I hope I’m wrong, but I can’t afford to take the chance,” Blaze said.

  “Don’t you have a race in about ten minutes?” Dane asked, waving to catch Cecil’s attention at the front door of the general store—which he had kept open today by special request. Business was booming.

  “I can talk fast if you can listen fast. Then you can tell me I’m crazy, and I can get back to the racetrack in time to keep Austin from disqualifying me.”

  Dane turned the register over to Cecil and turned the Closed sign outward on the door, then moved the hands of the false clock face to show when they would reopen. He followed Blaze out the door and down the sidewalk, past the vacant, brick-front building that would soon be set up for patients.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Blaze.”

  “Okay, it’s like this—I hope I’m wrong. I’ve even been praying I’m wrong, but what if Ramsay Barlow’s the vandal?”

  Dane stopped walking. Ramsay was one person Dane would have deemed to be beyond suspicion. Not only had he always reflected a sensitive spirit, but it seemed he barely left his father’s side long enough to get into mischief. “You’re not kidding?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, first of all, he had to have opportunity to do those things, and he did. Remember when the barn burned? Austin came alone. Ramsay wasn’t with him.”

  “Maybe Austin didn’t want him in any danger,” Dane said.

  “Maybe, but if you’re going to take the time to argue with me, I’m going to miss the races.”

  “Okay, I’ll shut up.”

  “I’ve got to walk, I can’t just stand here.” And so they walked up the street, away from the crowd. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized every time something happened, it was to someone who had recently crossed Austin. Remember? He didn’t want the public dock, and so a boat at that dock was destroyed.”

  “But if that’s the case, then logically, he would have vandalized something of mine even before the barn,” Dane said.

  “You’re arguing with me again, but now that you mention it, he did. Remember Cook told me about your tires being slashed last year? It just comes in spurts. Anyway, Austin had an argument with Mrs. Potts about something during a church business meeting—everybody was talking about it—and then her cat turned up shot. Then you decided to run for mayor against Austin, and the barn burned. It seems like anybody who crosses Austin suffers for it.”

  “Then why not blame Austin?”

  “Because he couldn’t have been the person I saw running from the barn that night. The shadow wasn’t big enough, and besides, Austin arrived too soon afterward. He wouldn’t have had time to paddle a canoe back to town and drive the long away around in his truck.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. He could if he’d had it planned just right.”

  “Okay, but that isn’t Austin’s style. He’d have his son write an editorial in the paper blasting whoever crossed him, but he wouldn’t slash someone’s tires. Can you see Austin doing that?”

  “I can’t see Ramsay doing it, either,” Dane said.

  “I’ve always thought there was something a little off about Ramsay’s bond with his dad. It’s almost like he doesn’t have a mind of his own, and so when his father decided I was worthless, even though Ramsay and I had started to become pretty good friends, he stopped having much to do with me outside of school. And then there’s the thing about Red.”

  “What about him?”

  “We never found out who took him to that island. I know they said he died of natural causes, but he hit his head, too. About end of the school year, we had everything caught up in our English class, and so the teacher made us write a short story, then choose a partner and let them read our story. We got credit for it. Ramsay chose me to be his partner, and he let me just tell my story, then he gave me his to read. He didn’t know I could read quite a bit by then.”

  “Please don’t tell me it was a confession.”

  “Nope, it was about a little boy accidentally killing his mother.”

  Dane stopped walking.

  “Come on, you’re standing in the middle of the street,” Blaze said.

  “Ramsay wrote a story about his mother’s death?”

  “I didn’t say that, but it sure did make me think. It talked all about how he knocked his mother down, and she hit her head and died. Then came all this weird stuff about how it was supposed to happen, and he’d been chosen, like one of those death angels.”

  Dane felt a chill grow within him.

  “And then Red died, and no one seemed to know how he got where he was. Did you know Ramsay took off the day Red disappeared, and didn’t come home until the next day?”

  “How do you know that?” The police had not yet discovered who had taken Red to the island.

  “I overheard Austin’s mother tell somebody about it in the store the day before the funeral. Said Ramsay spent the night with friends in Kimberling City, and so he didn’t know what was going on here. But we both saw him at the ranch. In fact, he must have left about the same time Red did, close as I could figure. Probably, he was the one who took Red home. When I tried to talk to Ramsay about it at the funeral, that’s when he got all mad and everything. I figure Red might’ve talked Ramsay into stopping at the island, and you know how unsteady Red was on his feet. He probably fell and hit his head. Ramsay freaked and ran away. Ramsay does that when things get too tense. He can’t seem to handle it.”

  Dane was beginning to feel sick.

  The races intrigued and amused Cheyenne. She giggled unrepentantly when the pigs squealed and kicked against the little racing ribbons they were required to wear.

  Austin, as mayor and official spokesman for the events, announced the race with as much flair as any professional sportscaster.

  The piglets settled down to business the moment they saw their trainers scatter Oreo cookies at the end of the racetracks. When the rifle was shot and the gates opened, twenty little piglets lunged forward in a joyous flurry of flopping ears in their scramble to beat each other to the food.

  Bystanders cheered their favorites, and Cheyenne shouted with the rest of them when Blaze’s animal won the first heat, and another ranch pig came in second.

  Austin seemed to lose some of his good humor when Blaze’s pig qualified for the race for grand prize. Once or twice, his voice faltered over the announcements, and his eyes darted from Blaze to Ramsay, whose pig had also qualified. If Cheyenne hadn’t known how seriously Blaze was taking this, and how much it affected him, she would have thought it ridiculous to be so serious about a pig race.

  For the final race, the referee entered the racing ring as the squeal of pigs grew louder. The handlers—Danny Short, Blaze and Ramsay—tied the ribbons onto their pigs’ backs and held them steady. Austin grew silent as the referee raised his arm, tensed, then shot the rifle into the air.

  The handlers released their racers, shouting encouragement as the little pigs, silently intent, dashed around the ring toward their prize.

  The crowd screamed and cheered and whistled as the pigs neared the finish line. Danny Short’s animal rammed his stub nose into the fence and backed off. The other two pigs pulled ahead, nose to nose. With only seconds to go, Blaze’s entry burst forward and surged over the finish line, claiming the grand prize for the day.

  The crowd erupted with cheers. The other handlers rushed over to congratulate Blaze. All but Ramsay. Austin took his son aside, talking urgently. Ramsay finally went up to Blaze and shook his hand.

  “Blast it all,” Bertie muttered beside Cheyenne. “I forgot my cheeses at the house. I fixed them up special because so many’d been asking me about them. I can’t believe I did that. And here I’ve got to get back to my booth. People are buying those castles like they was made of gold.�
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  “I’ll go get the cheese for you,” Cheyenne said.

  “No, I can’t let you do that,” Bertie said. “The boat’s blocked in tight. You’d have to walk, and it’s too hot.”

  “I’ll take the shortcut along the shore, then get my car and bring the cheeses back.”

  “It’s tough going along the shore, with those cliffs.”

  “Get back to your booth, Bertie. I’ll bring your cheeses.” Cheyenne needed a break from the press of the crowd, anyway.

  As the pig race audience dispersed to other attractions on the grounds, Cheyenne strolled down to the shore toward home, eyeing the cliffs dubiously. She had never taken this route before, and she could see why. The cliffs and underbrush were not conducive to a leisurely exercise trail. She had reached her first thicket, and was almost ready to turn around and take the road, after all, when a boat pulled up beside her.

  “Going home already?” It was Ramsay Barlow in his father’s bass boat.

  “Not this way, I’m not,” she said.

  “Want a lift?”

  She smiled at him. She was going to love living here.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dane stood beside the bandstand waiting to join Austin on the stage for the much advertised—and much dreaded—public debate. The musicians finished the final bars of their song, and Austin reached down at a control on his belt that regulated the tiny microphone clipped to the collar of his red Western shirt.

  “Okay, folks, this is the hour we’ve all been waiting for,” he said.

  “Speak for yourself, Austin!” someone called from the audience. “We want more music!”

  The crowd laughed, and Austin chuckled with them, though his face reddened with the effort. “Since it’s an election year for our town, this seemed to be a good time for me to have a friendly discussion with my opponent, and include you all in the process. “Dane, why don’t you come on—”

  “Dane!” This time the interruption came from the other side of the audience, and Blaze wove his way through the crowd, waving his hand above his head. “Dane!” He broke through, breathless. “Dane, Cheyenne’s out on the lake with Ramsay.”