Finding Her Way Home (Redemption River, 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

New York Times bestseller Linda Goodnight fell in love with words as a young child when her mother took her to a tiny library and let her fill a cardboard box with books. The next week she was back again, forever hooked on the beauty and power of the written word. Her other passions are her faith and her blended family. A former nurse and teacher, she lives in Oklahoma with her husband where she enjoys baking and travel. Connect with Linda at www.lindagoodnight.com

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Cheyenne Rhodes had hoped if she drove far enough she could outrun the darkness. But six hundred miles and counting had done nothing to shake the brooding anxiety that overtook her one unspeakable night a year ago. In her own garage. With a known criminal. And no help in sight.

She circled her head to loosen the knot in her shoulders and shook off the images flickering through her mind like a bad action movie. It was over. He was dead. She had to forget what had happened and start her life again. Somehow.

She shot a glance at the map opened on the seat beside her. Her destination, a small Oklahoma town, couldn' t be too much farther.

She gave a derisive snort. The town was more like a hiding place than a destination. A place far, far from Colorado. A place where her face and name would not be known, would not be plastered on the front pages of the newspaper, where no one cared what she'd done or suffered that one terrible night.

She clicked on the radio, hoping for something cheery to dispel the dark thoughts. Up ahead on the side of the road an overturned cardboard box caught her attention. Next to the box was a pair of waddling puppies. Cheyenne groaned and tried not to look.

After a second, her shoulders slumped.

"Sucker," she mouthed, knowing she wasn't heartless enough to pass them by. She pulled to the side of the empty highway and slammed out of her Honda.

The pups toddled toward her, whining softly. Cheyenne clamped down a surge of pity. Hands on her hips, she stared at them. Poor babies wouldn't last long out here on the highway.

"What am I gonna do with you? I don't even know where the nearest animal shelter is."

One of the pups climbed onto her shoe and, with his round belly and stubby legs, got stuck on high center. He set up such a fuss of wiggles and whines that the other puppy began to cry louder, too. With a groan of surrender, Cheyenne bent down and lifted the tiny dogs against her cheek. The contact with soft, wiggling puppies brought a smile and for that bit of cheer she owed them. They were mutts, but cute ones with black and white spots and upright ears that flopped forward at the tips. Fat bellies and clean coats indicated they'd been dumped recently.

Puppy dumpers were on her list of low-life scum, though nowhere near the top.

"All right, guys—if you are guys—back into the box you go. I' ll give you a lift as far as the next town and then we're done. Deal?"

She had no business taking them in. She didn't want to. But even a tough nut like her couldn't resist a crying puppy.

She crouched beside the box, put the dogs inside and glanced around to be sure no other litter mates had wandered off.

Squinting against the evening sun, she looked down the long stretch of Highway 62 to gauge her location. The pretty road passed verdant rolling hills and distant farmhouses that had grown closer together in the past few miles, a sure sign of approaching civilization. Up ahead, a lazy river flowed beneath an arched bridge, not steel and modern but apparently a throwback to earlier times and made of stone. The foliage increased there, near the river, and the western sunlight glistened on the water. It was a peaceful scene, a scene that beckoned her to explore and relax and forget.

With a huff of annoyance, she shook off the fantastical thoughts. If a change of locales would help her forget, she'd know soon enough. First the puppies.

The town must lie beyond the quaint bridge. Lifting the cardboard box, she stood. As she did, she caught sight of the highway sign just ahead. The shiny green metal beckoned Welcome to Redemption, Oklahoma. Population: 9,425.

Cheyenne squinted hard and read the sign again. She didn't remember seeing that name on the map. But then, she'd chosen her destination by chance. A jab of one finger at the map that was open on the seat beside her and "Bingo!" She'd turned off the interstate and headed down the two-lane toward nowhere. A nowhere with a name like Redemption? The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd driven across three states and wound up in a town called Redemption. Why couldn't the place be called Privacy or Peace? Those were the things she wanted most. Well, those and a good dose of amnesia.

But Redemption? No, she didn't think so. Redemption might be possible for some, but for a woman with her record, it was simply too much to ask.

By the time Cheyenne reached the small town that turned 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...